~~

And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the queen;

For the shepherd lads on every side, will come from far away,

For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year;

To-morrow'll be, of all the year, the maddest, merriest day,

For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May.

All the valley, mother, will be fresh and green, and still,

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,

The rivulet in the flowery dale, will merrily glance and play,

For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May.

The night winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow grass,

And the happy stars above them, seem to brighten as they pass;

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day,

For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May.

IT'S LITTLE FOR GLORY I CARE.

IT's little for glory I care;
Sure ambition is only a fable;
I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor,
With lashings of drink on the table
I like to lie down in the sun,

And drame when my faytures is
scorching,

That when I'm too ould for more fun, Why, I'll marry a wife with a for

tune.

And, in winter, with bacon and eggs, And a place at the turf-fire basking, Sip my punch, as I roasted my legs, Oh! the devil a more I'd be asking. For I haven't a janius for work

It was never the gift of the Brady'sBut I'd make a most illigant Turk,

For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies.

CAMP SONG.

WHEN the battle is o'er and the sounds of fight

Have closed with the closing day, How happy, around the watch-fire's light,

To chat the long hours away;
To chat the long hours away, my boy,
And talk of the days to come,

Or a better still, and a purer joy,
To think of our far off home.

How many a cheek will then grow pale

'That never felt a tear!

And many a stalwart heart will quail, That never quailed in fear!

And the breast that, like some mighty rock

Amid the foaming sea,

Bore high against the battle's shock,
Now heaves like infancy.

And those who knew each other not,
Their hands together steal,

Each think of some long hallowed spot And all like brother's feel:

Such holy thoughts to all are given ;
The lowliest has his part;

The love of home, like love of heaven,
Is woven in our heart.

WOMAN'S HEART.

A YOUTHFUL knight, whose hopes were bent

On glory's bright career,

Arranged himself and forth he went,
A dauntless cavalier;

Against each foe, upon each field,
He bore a gallant part,

But there was one who would not yield,
Yes, one who would not yield,
But there was one who would not yield,
And that was woman's heart.

The noble youth still undismayed,
Determined not to flee,

Though if the truth be told, afraid,
That he might vanquished be;
Ah, never be it said, he cried,
I bore a recreant's part,

And fighting still for what he sighed,
He captured woman's heart.

THE PICQUETS ARE FAST RETREAT. ING, BOYS.

AIR.-The Young May Moon.

THE picquets are fast retreating, boys, The last tattoo is beating, boys;

So let every man

Finish his can,

And drink to our next merry meeting, boys!

The colonel so gayly prancing, boys! Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys!

When he sings out so large,
"Fix bayonets and charge,'

He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys!

Let Mounseer look ever so big, my boys,

Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys; When we play Garryowen,

He'd rather go home:

For somehow, he's no taste for a jig, my boys.