Ah, JUDY thru!

  With eyes so blue,

  That you were here to view it!

  And could I screw

  But tu pound tu,

  'Tis I would thrait you to it!

  So let us raise

  Victoria's praise,

  And Albert's proud condition,

  That takes his ayse

  As he surveys

  This Cristial Exhibition.

  1851.

  MOLONY'S LAMENT.

  O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons,

  And read what the peepers report?

  They're goan to recal the Liftinant,

  And shut up the Castle and Coort!

  Our desolate counthry of Oireland,

  They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy,

  And now having murdthered our counthry,

  They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy;

  'Twas he was our proide and our joy!

  And will we no longer behould him,

  Surrounding his carriage in throngs,

  As he weaves his cocked-hat from the windies,

  And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs?

  I liked for to see the young haroes,

  All shoining with sthripes and with stars,

  A horsing about in the Phaynix,

  And winking the girls in the cyars,

  Like Mars,

  A smokin' their poipes and cigyars.

  Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies,

  Your beautiful oilids you'll ope,

  And there'll be an abondance of croyin'

  From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope,

  When they read of this news in the peepers,

  Acrass the Atlantical wave,

  That the last of the Oirish Liftinints

  Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. God save

  The Queen--she should betther behave.

  And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet,

  And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts,

  Whin the Coort of imparial splindor

  From Doblin's sad city departs?

  And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers,

  When the deuce of a Coort there remains?

  And where'll be the bucks and the ladies,

  To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains?

  In sthrains,

  It's thus that ould Erin complains!

  There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy

  'Twas she in the Coort didn't fail,

  And she wanted a plinty of popplin,

  For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail;

  She bought it of Misthress O'Grady,

  Eight shillings a yard tabinet,

  But now that the Coort is concluded,

  The divvle a yard will she get; I bet,

  Bedad, that she wears the old set.

  There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary,

  They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs';

  Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson,

  They mounted the neatest of wigs.

  When Spring, with its buds and its dasies,

  Comes out in her beauty and bloom,

  Thim tu'll never think of new jasies,

  Becase there is no dthrawing-room,

  For whom

  They'd choose the expense to ashume.

  There's Alderman Toad and his lady,

  'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort,

  And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters,

  To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort.

  But now that the quality's goin,

  I warnt that the aiting will stop,

  And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble

  The devil a bite or a dthrop,

  Or chop;

  And the butcher may shut up his shop.

  Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin,

  And his Lordship, the dear honest man,

  And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy,

  And Corry, the bould Connellan,

  And little Lord Hyde and the childthren,

  And the Chewter and Governess tu;

  And the servants are packing their boxes,--

  Oh, murther, but what shall I due

  Without you?

  O Meery, with ois of the blue!

  MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL.

  GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL

  COMPANY.

  O will ye choose to hear the news,

  Bedad I cannot pass it o'er:

  I'll tell you all about the Ball

  To the Naypaulase Ambassador.

  Begor! this f�te all balls does bate

  At which I've worn a pump, and I

  Must here relate the splendthor great

  Of th' Oriental Company.

  These men of sinse dispoised expinse,

  To f�te these black Achilleses.

  "We'll show the blacks," says they, "Almack's,

  And take the rooms at Willis's."

  With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls,

  They hung the rooms of Willis up,

  And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls,

  With roses and with lilies up.

  And Jullien's band it tuck its stand,

  So sweetly in the middle there,

  And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes,

  And violins did fiddle there.

  And when the Coort was tired of spoort,

  I'd lave you, boys, to think there was

  A nate buffet before them set,

  Where lashins of good dhrink there was.

  At ten before the ball-room door,

  His moighty Excellincy was,

  He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd,

  So gorgeous and immense he was.

  His dusky shuit, sublime and mute,

  Into the door-way followed him;

  And O the noise of the blackguard boys,

  As they hurrood and hollowed him!

  The noble Chair* stud at the stair,

  And bade the dthrums to thump; and he

  Did thus evince, to that Black Prince,

  The welcome of his Company.

  O fair the girls, and rich the curls,

  And bright the oys you saw there, was;

  And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi,

  On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was!

  This Gineral great then tuck his sate,

  With all the other ginerals,

  (Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat,

  All bleezed with precious minerals;)

  And as he there, with princely air,

  Recloinin on his cushion was,

  All round about his royal chair

  The squeezin and the pushin was.

  O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls,

  Such fashion and nobilitee!

  Just think of Tim, and fancy him

  Amidst the hoigh gentilitee!

  There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese

  Ministher and his lady there,

  And I reckonized, with much surprise,

  Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there;

  There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno,

  And Baroness Rehausen there,

  And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar

  Well, in her robes of gauze in there.

  There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first,

  When only Mr. Pips he was),

  And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool,

  That after supper tipsy was.

  There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all,

  And Lords Killeen and Dufferin,

  And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife:

  I wondther how he could stuff her in.

  There was Lord Belfast, that by me past,

  And seemed to ask how should I go there?

  And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A Hay,

  And the Marchioness of Sligo there.

  Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls,

  And pretty girls, was sporting there;

  And some beside (the rogues!) I spied,

  Behind the windies, coorting there.

  O there's one I know, bedad would show

  As beautiful as any there,

  And I'd like to hear the pipers blow,

  And shake a fut with Fanny there!

  * James Matheson, Esq., to whom, and the Board of Directors of the

  Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker

  on board the "Iberia," the "Lady Mary Wood," the "Tagus," and the

  Oriental steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful

  muse.

  THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.

  Ye Genii of the nation,

  Who look with veneration.

  And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore;

  Ye sons of General Jackson,

  Who thrample on the Saxon,

  Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore,

  When William, Duke of Schumbug,

  A tyrant and a humbug,

  With cannon and with thunder on our city bore,

  Our fortitude and valiance

  Insthructed his battalions

  To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore.

  Since that capitulation,

  No city in this nation

  So grand a reputation could boast before,

  As Limerick prodigious,

  That stands with quays and bridges,

  And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.

  A chief of ancient line,

  'Tis William Smith O'Brine

  Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more:

  O the Saxons can't endure

  To see him on the flure,

  And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!

  This valliant son of Mars

  Had been to visit Par's,

  That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor;

  And to welcome his returrn

  From pilgrimages furren,

  We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.

  Then we summoned to our board

  Young Meagher of the sword:

  'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore;

  And Mitchil of Belfast

  We bade to our repast,

  To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore.

  Convaniently to hould

  These patriots so bould,

  We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store;

  And with ornamints and banners

  (As becomes gintale good manners)

  We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore.

  'Twould binifit your sowls,

  To see the butthered rowls,

  The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore,

  And the muffins and the crumpets,

  And the band of hearts and thrumpets,

  To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore.

  Sure the Imperor of Bohay

  Would be proud to dthrink the tay

  That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour;

  And, since the days of Strongbow,

  There never was such Congo--

  Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it--by Shannon shore.

  But Clarndon and Corry

  Connellan beheld this sworry

  With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core;

  And they hired a gang of ruffins

  To interrupt the muffins,

  And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore.

  When full of tay and cake,

  O'Brine began to spake;

  But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar

  Of a ragamuffin rout

  Began to yell and shout,

  And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.

  As Smith O'Brine harangued,

  They batthered and they banged:

  Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore;

  They smashed the lovely windies

  (Hung with muslin from the Indies),

  Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.

  With throwing of brickbats,

  Drowned puppies and dead rats,

  These ruffin democrats themselves did lower;

  Tin kettles, rotten eggs,

  Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,

  They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.

  O the girls began to scrame

  And upset the milk and crame;

  And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore:

  And Mitchil of Belfast,

  'Twas he that looked aghast,

  When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.

  O the lovely tay was spilt

  On that day of Ireland's guilt;

  Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door?

  'Tis a national disgrace:

  Let me go and veil me face;"

  And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.

  "Cut down the bloody horde!"

  Says Meagher of the sword,

  "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;"

  But the best use Tommy made

  Of his famous battle blade

  Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.

  Immortal Smith O'Brine

  Was raging like a line;

  'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar;

  In his glory he arose,

  And he rushed upon his foes,

  But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.

  Then the Futt and the Dthragoons

  In squadthrons and platoons,

  With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore;

  And they bate the rattatoo,

  But the Peelers came in view,

  And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.

  LARRY O'TOOLE.

  You've all heard of Larry O'Toole,

  Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole;

  He had but one eye,

  To ogle ye by--

  Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l!

  A fool

  He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

  'Twas he was the boy didn't fail,

  That tuck down pataties and mail;

  He never would shrink

  From any sthrong dthrink,

  Was it whisky or Drogheda ale;

  I'm bail

  This Larry would swallow a pail.

  Oh, many a night at the bowl,

  With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl;

  He's gone to his rest,

  Where's there's dthrink of the best,

  And so let us give his old sowl

  A howl,

  For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.

  THE ROSE OF FLORA.

  Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle

  Brady.

  On Brady's tower there grows a flower,

  It is the loveliest flower that blows,--

  At Castle Brady there lives a lady,

  (And how I love her no one knows);

  Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora

  Presents her with this blooming rose.

  "O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora,

  "I've many a rich and bright parterre;

  In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers,

  But you're the fairest lady there:

  Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty,

  Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!"

  What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her!

  Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew.

  Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let,

  That darkly glistens with gentle jew!

  The lily's nature is not surely whiter

  Than Nora's neck is,--and her arrums too.

  "Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora,

  My dearest creature, take my advice,

  There is a poet, full well you know it,

  Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,--

  Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry,

  If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise."

  THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE.

  On reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the

  appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of HER MAJESTY'S Godless

  colleges, MASTER MOLLOY MOLONY, brother of THADDEUS MOLONY, Esq.,

  of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the

  following spirited lines:--

  As I think of the insult that's done to this nation,

  Red tears of rivinge from me fatures I wash,

  And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation,

  The sleeves that appointed PROFESSOR M'COSH.

  I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience,

  And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,--

  Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians,

  All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise;

  I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion;

  LARD JAHN and his minions in Council I ask;

  Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion)

  But children of Erin were fit for that task?

  What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition?

  What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun,

  To think that our countree has ne'er a logician

  In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun!

  On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance,

  And, rather from Saxons than gather its rules,

  I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science,

  And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools!

  O false SIR JOHN KANE! is it thus that you praych me?

  I think all your Queen's Universitees Bosh;

  And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me,

  I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon M'COSH.

  There's WISEMAN and CHUME, and His Grace the Lord Primate,

  That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe;

  'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate,

  And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe!

  'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther,

  Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint!

  SAINT PATHRICK'S sweet Statue shall stand in the centher,

  And wink his dear oi every day during Lint.

  And good Doctor NEWMAN, that praycher unwary,

  'Tis he shall preside the Academee School,

  And quit the gay robe of ST. PHILIP of Neri,

  To wield the soft rod of ST. LAWRENCE O'TOOLE!

  THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.

  THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.

  An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek--

  I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,

  Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,

  Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she.

  This Mary was pore and in misery once,

  And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce.

  She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea,

  And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

  Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks,

  (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax,)

  She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be,

  Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she.

  "Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;

  Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me a pill?"

  "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she;

  And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as may be.

  No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,

  Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;

  She hopens all the trunks without never a key--

  She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

  Mrs. Roney's best linning, gownds, petticoats, and close,

  Her children's little coats and things, her boots, and her hose,

  She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee.

  Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be!

  Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,

  Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day.

  Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see

  But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she?

  She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man,

  They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand;

  And the Church bells was a ringing for Mary and he,

  And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his fee.

  When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,

  Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.

  She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;

  I charge this yonng woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

  "Mrs. Roney, O, Mrs. Roney, O, do let me go,

 

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