Then says I to old Father O'Mazy, dear, "Don't my weddings and funerals plase ye, dear?" "Oh!" says he, "you blackguard, betwixt church and churchyard,

Sure, you never will let me be aisy, dear."

Oh, ladies, I live but to plase ye, dear,
I'm the hero of Ballinacrazy, dear;
I'll marry you all, lean, fat, short, and tall,
One after the other to plase ye, dear.

POSITIVES AND COMPARATIVES.

JOHN LABERN.]

[Tune-"Drops of Brandy."

As I sat at my desk, t'other night,
Having nothing to do in a hurry-
I snuff'd my old rush of a light,

And improved upon Lindley Murray.
Grammar a fine science is,

It beats all your Cock Robin narratives—
Here's my own idea-(will it friz ?)
Of Positives and Comparatives.

Fol de rol, &c.

Having taken a searching review
Into all things-the first I reveal y'r
Is-a good tater's mealy, 'tis true,
But I know a girl that's A-me-lia.
Very poor folks' milk is skim,

But a very fast vessel's a skimmer

Old maids are uncommonly prim,

But a child's spelling book is a Primer.

Fol de rol, &c.

Seven whole days make a week,

But a man on a sick bed is weaker

A little bay, too, is a creek—

But a new leather shoe is a creaker.

Lightning we know comes it flash,
But a driver of donkeys is flasher-
A man that would hang himself's rash-
But a slice off the gammon's a rasher.
Fol de rol, &c.

A person that's active is smart,

But a cane or a birch rod's a smarter

A little fruit pie is a tart,

But a termagant wife is a Tartar.

At forty in years a man's ripe,

But an apple that's rotten is riper

A bandanna is but a wipe,

But a serpent, in course, is a wiper.

Fol de rol, &c.

At sea we oft hear of a storm,

But a scolding old woman's a stormerAt one hundred degrees, mind, it's warm, But a saucepan's considered a warmer. A bunion or corn makes one halt,

But bad news you'll own makes one alterA bloater is oftentimes salt,

But is not a psalm book a psalter?

A featherbed is very down,

Fol de rol, &c.

But a drunkard is often a downerA chestnut horse must be a brown, But a baker's oven's a browner.

A sailor's drink mostly is rum,

But a large glass is reckoned a rummer— Fourteen pounds weight is a stun (stone), But Joe Banks is reckoned a stunner. Fol de rol, &c.

A modest girl is very shy,

But a county, you know, is a shire-

A person that's thirsty is dry,

But a jack towel's surely a dryer.

A knock at the door is a rap,

But a Chesterfield coat is a wrapper-
A thin piece of leather's a strap,

But Madame P * * * * * 's a strapper.
Fol de rol, &c.

A coquette is inconstant and flighty,
But aeronauts must be flightier-
St. Paul's is a structure most mighty,
But an old rotten Stilton is miteyer.
For a wind up, I beg to acquaint,

I'll give you one more-it's a quainter-
An object scarce visible's faint,

But a girl in a fit is a fainter.

Fol de rol, &c.

THE YORKSHIRE HORSE-DEALERS.

From "Yorkshire Ballads."]

[Tune-" Derry Down."

BANE ta Claapam town-end lived an oud Yorkshire

tike,

Who i' dealing i' horseflesh had ne'er met his like; "Twor his pride that i' aw the hard bargains he'd hit, He'd bit a girt monny, but nivver been bit.

This oud Tommy Towers (bi that naam he wor knaan)

Hed an oud carrion tit that wor sheer skin an' baan;
Ta hev killed him for t' curs wad hev bin quite as well,
But 'twor Tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat,
Thowt ta diddle oud Tommy wad be a girt treat;
Hee'd a horse, too, 'twor war than oud Tommy's, ye

see,

For t'neet afore that hee'd thowt proper to dee!

Thinks Abey, t'oud codger 'll nivver smoak t' trick,
I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,
An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen ta trap,
"Twill be a fine feather i' Aberram cap!

Soa to Toomy he goas, an' the question he pops : "Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?

What wilt gi' me ta boot, for mine's t' better horse still ?"

“Nout,” says Tommy; "I'll swop ivven hands, an' ye will!"

Abey preached a lang time about summat ta boot,
Insistin' that his war the liveliest brute;

But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,
Till Abey shook hands, and sed, "Well, Tommy,
done !"

"O! Tommy," sed Abey, "I'ze sorry for thee, I thowt thou'd a hadden mair white i' thy ee; Good luck's wi' thy bargin, for my horse is deead." "Hey!" says Tommy, my lad, soa is min, an' it's

fleead!"

66

So Tommy got t' better of t' bargin, a vast,

An' cam' off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last; For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mitch ta choose,

Yet Tommy war richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.

THE KING OF ARRAGON.

FREDERICK REYNOLDS.]

[Tune-" Alley Croaker."

A SPANISH monarch once there was, of potentates the

paragon,

His court was famed for etiquette, and he was king of Arragon;

He dearly loved each Spanish rule that ceremony boasted,

And what he doted most on next, was Spanish chestnuts roasted.

Oh, the king of Arragon much ceremony boasted! Oh, the king of Arragon loved Spanish chestnuts roasted!

As round his chair his courtiers stood, all scented, sweet, and musky,

Said he, "Put chestnuts in my fire, although they make me husky."

Which being done-on politics while he was ruminating, Out stole white-wand, gold-stick, black-rod, and all the lords-in-waiting.

In this the court of Arragon small ceremony boasted, But, oh the king of Arragon, how he loved chestnuts roasted.

When left alone, then thought the King, "Too near the fire they've set me,

I must not rise to ring the bell, for etiquette won't let me : Lord Chamberlain will soon return, or else the fire will melt me,

And if the chestnuts chance to bounce, oh, d-it! how they'll pelt me!"

Oh! the king of Arragon much ceremony boasted; Oh! the king of Arragon, how he loved chestnuts roasted!

He pondered much, and then a nap his humour vastly suited,

When "pop" a chestnut from the fire his majesty saluted.

"Good manners in these chestnuts here," quoth he, "I cannot cry up;

It don't look much like etiquette, to bung their monarch's eye up."

Oh! the king of Arragon, &c. The fire grew like a furnace hot, when back the lords

paraded;

The king sat sweltering in a swoon, by chestnuts cannonaded;

"Lord Chamberlain," then quoth the king of Arragon, recovering,

"When chestnuts next are roasted here, mind not to roast your sovereign."

Oh! the king of Arragon, &c.