"The sun was rising in the yeast,
And lit the hull concern;

But not a sign of either chap
Was found at any turn.

"Yet, in the region where they fit,
We found, to our surprise,

One pint of buttons, two big knives,

Some whiskers, and four eyes!"

Robert Henry Newell.

THE DONNYBROOK JIG

OH! 'twas Dermot O'Nolan M'Figg,
That could properly handle a twig,

He wint to the fair, and kicked up a dust there,
In dancing a Donnybrook jig-with his twig.

Oh! my blessing to Dermot M'Figg.

Whin he came to the midst of the fair,

He was all in a paugh for fresh air,

For the fair very soon, was as full-as the moon, Such mobs upon mobs as were there, oh rare!

So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.

But Dermot, his mind on love bent,

In search of his sweetheart he went,

Peep'd in here and there, as he walked through the fair, And took a small drop in each tent-as he went,

Oh! on whisky and love he was bent.

And who should he spy in a jig,

With a meal-man so tall and so big,

But his own darling Kate, so gay and so nate? Faith! her partner he hit him a dig-the pig,

He beat the meal out of his wig.

The piper, to keep him in tune,
Struck up a gay lilt very soon;

Until an arch wag cut a hole in the bag,

The Donnybrook Jig

And at once put an end to the tune-too soon-
Och! the music flew up to the moon.

The meal-man he looked very shy,

While a great big tear stood in his eye,

He cried, "Lord, how I'm kilt, all alone for that jilt;
With her may the devil fly high in the sky,
For I'm murdered, and don't know for why."

"Oh!" says Dermot, and he in the dance, Whilst a step to'ards his foe did advance,

"By the Father of Men, say but that word again, And I'll soon knock you back in a trance-to your dance, For with me you'd have but small chance."

"But," says Kitty, the darlint, says she,

"If you'll only just listen to me,

It's myself that will show that he can't be your foe, Though he fought for his cousin-that's me," says she, "For sure Billy's related to me.

"For my own cousin-jarmin, Anne Wild,

Stood for Biddy Mulroony's first child;

And Biddy's step-son, sure he married Bess Dunn, Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild a child

As ever at mother's breast smiled.

"And may be you don't know Jane Brown,

Who served goat's-whey in Dundrum's sweet town?

701

'Twas her uncle's half-brother, who married my mother, And bought me this new yellow gown, to go down When the marriage was held in Milltown."

By the powers, then," says Dermot, "'tis plain,
Like the son of that rapscallion Cain,

My best friend I have kilt, though no blood is spilt,
But the devil a harm did I mane-that's plain;
And by me he'll be ne'er kilt again."

Viscount Dillon.

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY

A CAPTAIN bold from Halifax who dwelt in country quarters, Betrayed a maid who hanged herself one morning in her Garters.

His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his Stomach daily,

And took to drinking Ratafia while thinking of Miss Bailey.

One night betimes he went to bed, for he had caught a Fever;

Says he, "I am a handsome man, but I'm a gay Deceiver." His candle just at twelve o'clock began to burn quite palely, A Ghost stepped up to his bedside and said "Behold Miss Bailey!"

66 Avaunt, Miss Bailey!" then he cries, "your Face looks white and mealy."

"Dear Captain Smith," the ghost replied, "you've used me ungenteelly;

The Crowner's 'Quest goes hard with me because I've acted frailly,

And Parson Biggs won't bury me though I am dead Miss Bailey."

"Dear Corpse!" said he, " since you and I accounts must once for all close,

There really is a one pound note in my regimental Smallclothes;

I'll bribe the sexton for your grave." The ghost then vanished gaily

Crying "Bless you, Wicked Captain Smith, Remember poor

Miss Bailey."

Unknown.

The Laird o' Cockpen

703

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

The last two stanzas were added by Miss Ferrier.

THE Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great;
His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state;
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep;
But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she'd look well
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee-
A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was well-pouther'd, as guid as when new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue:
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat—
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie-
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
"Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben:
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine;
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put off her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low;
And what was his errand he soon let her know,
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na,
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie;

And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
"She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

And now that the Laird his exit had made,

Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said; "Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get tenI was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

Neist time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,

But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen. Lady Nairne.

A WEDDING

I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been;
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!

Such sights again can not be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town;
Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger tho' than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest;

Our landlord looks like nothing to him;
The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo him
Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' th' town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the green,
Or Vincent of the crown.