At midnight waking,

And thro' silence breaking,

Some bells would seem a solemn sound to tell; A song of nations,

In the deep vibrations,

Sending the echo, thro' many a far-off dell.

But my harsh screamer,

With the shrill cry of steamer,

Awakes no memory of distant times,
Nor rings a benizon,

But the knell of DENISON,

Who first invented these cruel chimes.

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BRIAN O'LIN.

BRIAN O'LIN had no coat to put on,
He borrow'd a goat skin to make him a one,
He planted the horns right under his chin,
They'll answer for pistols," says Brian O'Lin. &c.

A NEW IRISH MELODY.

(To an old Air, viz., "Brian O'Lin.")

DANIEL O'CONNELL'D no mischief to brew,
So he started Repeal just for something to do,

And the watch-word like mad through Hibernia ran;
"Och! the rint is a mighty fine income," says DAN.

Daniel O'Connell found nothing would do

But to keep up a regular hullabaloo,

Till he found himself frying like fat in a pan;

Faith, I'm thinking I'd like to be out on't," says DAN.

Daniel O'Connell said rather too much,

About blackguards, and tyrants, and Sassenachs, and such,

Till the Government shut up the turbulent man ; "Arrah! here's a gintale situation," says Dan.

Daniel O'Connell had friends to his back,

So he got out of prison again in a crack;

And he now is exactly just where he began,

"Arrah! What in the world will I do now," says DAN. Punch. 1844.

When they cheered up the boy with," Paddy, more bricks!
A little water !-more mortar !
Below, Pat, below!"

Six whacking big chairmen, with togs queerly dress'd,
Supported poor Pat to his last place of rest;

His rod, which he styled the best hod in the world,
(On whose top hung his jacket, like a flag that's unfurled,)
His cap, boots, and shovel, in a trophy was bound,
And the spalpeens all join'd in the "hubbaboo" sound;
But no more, sure, the boys his loud "hollo" will fix,
Nor the buildings resound with, "Paddy, more bricks!
A little water!-more mortar !

Hollo, Pat, hollo!"

Thus Pat spoke,

My honies, now I give up de ghost,
I hope of my death you'll all make de most;
One favour I'll ask-the same I will crave-
Kick a thundering big row up, now, over my grave;
And, unless I jump up and flourish my sprig,
My boys, you'll conclude I'm as dead as a pig!"
Honest Pat was obey'd-the howls rent the sky,
And the spalpeens all join'd in the "hubbaboo" cry."
"Hubbaboo !-philliloo!

Arrah, my darling, why did you die?
Och, murder !-Pat, come back!

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WADE'S VERSION.

MEET me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale
Must be told by the light of the moon,
In the grove at the end of the vale.
O remember! be sure to be there;

ANONYMOUS.

For though dearly the moonlight I prize,

I care not for all in the air,

If I want the sweet light of thine eyes.
Then meet me by moonlight alone.

Daylight was made for the gay,

For the thoughtless, the heartless, the free! But there's something about the moon's ray That is dearer to you, love, and me, Oh! be sure to be there, for I said

I would show to the night-flowers their queen. Nay, turn not aside that sweet head'Tis the fairest that ever was seen. Then meet me by moonlight alone.

ABBE DE PROUT.

VIENS au bosquet, ce soir, sans témoin,
Dans le vallon, au clair de la lune ;
Ce que l'on t'y dira n'a besoin

Ni de jour ni d'oreille importune.
Mais surtout rends-toi là sans faillir,
Car la lune a bien moins de lumière
Que l'amour n'en sçait faire jaillir
De ta languissante paupière.

Sois au bosquet au clair de la lune. Pour les cœurs sans amour le jour luit, Le soleil aux froids pensers préside; Mais la pale clarté de la nuit

Favorise l'amant et le guide. Les fleurs que son disque argentin Colore, en toi verront leur reine. Quoi tu baisses ce regard divin, Jeune beauté, vraiment souveraine ? Rends-toi là donc au clair de la lune.

FRANCIS S. MAHONY.

She may fidget and caper and kick, O, But by de good help of Old Nick, O, De Jacobin ever will stick, O,

And Erin may go bray.

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THE SHAN VAN VOGHT.*

OH! the French are on the sea,
Says the Shan Van Voght;
The French are on the sea,

Says the Shan Van Voght;
Oh! the French are in the Bay,
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,

Says the Shan Van Voght.

Oh! the French are in the Bay,t
They'll be here by break of day,
And the Orange will decay,

Says the Shan Van Voght.

And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
Where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Voght;

On the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will be there
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Voght.

To the Curragh of Kildare
The boys they will repair,

And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Voght.

Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
What will the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Voght;
What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the Shan Van Voght?

What should, &c.

And what colour will they wear?

Says the Shan Van Voght;

What colour will they wear?

Says the Shan Van Vught;

What colour should be seen

Where our Fathers' homes have been, But their own immortal Green?

Says the Shan Van Voght.

What colour, &c.

And will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Voght;
Will Ireland then be free?

Says the Shan Van Voght;
Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurra for Liberty!

Says the Shan Van Voght.
Yes! Ireland, &c.

THERE'S a Dutchman in the town,
Says the Jan Van Beers;
There's a Dutchman in the town;
Though he's more than half a clown,
Still folks pay their shillings down,
Says the Jan Van Beers.

Oh! what should the English do?
Says the Jan Van Beers;
What should the English do,
But admire my red and blue,
And swear that I'm "too too!'
Says the Jan Van Beers.

And shall not Artists kneel?
Says the Jan Van Beers.
No! Artists will not kneel,
But express contempt they feel
For your incense and pastille,
Mister Jan Van Beers.

So said Punch about an exhibition of clap-trap foreign pictures which, in 1886, attracted sightseers of morbid tastes, in search of the horrible and the grotesque. Cunning arrangements of black curtains, grinning skeletons, headless bleeding bodies, and ghastly wounds made up a show, in which but little true art could be found.

They're supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State,

Which one and all they do their best to injure;

I have said their taik's as clear as the stalest ginger-beer,

And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger.

The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own
The young Tories are as noisy and unruly,

And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol

The intemperate brigade of "Ballyhooly."

Chorus-Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

There's a moral to my song, and it won't detain yez long, Of Party spirit e'en the merest " nip" shun.

It's poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly "ginger-beer,'

As ye'll own when I have given the prescription.

You take heaps of Party "rot," spirit mean, and temper hot,

Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly ;

For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt,

Faith, they call it "Statesmanship" in "Ballyhooly.” Chorus-Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

Punch. August 13, 1887.

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MARY, I BELIEVED THEE TRUE.

MARY, I believed thee true,

And I was blest in thus believing;

But now I mourn that e'er I knew

A girl so fair and so deceiving!

Few have ever loved like me,

Oh! I have loved thee too sincerely! And few have e'er deceived like thee,Alas! deceived me too severely!

Oh! when I snatched a tender kiss,
Or some such trifle when I courted,
You said, indeed, that love was bliss,
But never owned you were transported!
But then to gaze on that fair face-
It would have been an unfair feeling
To dream that you had pilfered lace-
And Flints had suffered from your stealing.

Or when my suit I first preferred,

To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammered out a word,

How could I dream you'd heard a sentence?

Or when with all the warmth of youth
I strove to prove my love no fiction,
How could I guess I urged a truth
On one already past conviction?
How could I dream that ivory part,

Your hand-where I have looked and lingered ; Altho' it stole away my heart,

Had been held up as one light-fingered?

In melting verse your charms I drew,

The charms in which my Muse delighted; Alas! the lay, I thought, was new,

Spoke only what had been indicted!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one,

Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,

I little thought that you had run

A chance of hanging on your own too!

You said you picked me from the world—
My vanity it now must shock it,

And down at once my pride is hurled,

You've picked me-and you've picked a pocket!

Oh! when our love had got so far,

The banns were read by Doctor Daly,

Who asked if there was any bar

Why did not some one shout Old Bailey"?

But when you robed your flesh and bones
In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
Among the Joans that link with Darbies!

And when the parson came to say

My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honour and obey,

Who could have thought-" Ó Bay of Botany!" But, oh!-the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discoverThat down in Deptford's prison ships, O Mary you've a hulking lover!

:0:

THOMAS HOOD.

"Oh dear first rose of summer, it gladdens my heart, To behold thee thus lovely and bright, as thou art ;

I had feared that the east wind, which well-nigh killed me,
Would have proved as destructive, sweet darling, to thee.
"But thou hast no cough, I may fairly suppose,
Such as I had all winter, delectable rose-

A cough to my heirs most enchanting to hear;

And so thou art blooming and beauteous, my dear!

"I'll not leave thee, enchantress, to pine on the tree,
Thou shalt make a gay button-hole, loved one, for me.
This summer's the last that will ever be thine,
And I somehow believe 'tis the last, too, of mine.

'Tis the last fly of summer

Left buzzing alone,

All its club-footed comrades
Have buzzed and passed on.
No remnant pestiferous
Save this one is nigh,
To tickle our proboscis,

Or bob in our eye.

I'll not leave thee, old buzzer,
To feast upon me-
Take that, thou tormentor-

To other lands flee.

It is folly to spare thee

Swear words to maintain,

When the mates of thy raidin
Stick flat on the pane.

Sound, sound, shall we slumber,
When thou art away-

When the bedroom is quiet
In cool of the day.