The Heart of an Irishman — A
living monument of the kind and
generous feelings — while the hand
of Charity guides the stream, may
the hand of Wealth yield a perpetual
supply.
The homes that our fathers — our
childhood endeared —
That our memories cling to with
puling desire,
Shall be Ours — Ours again — and
the brave will be heard,
The long exiled brave — cheering
Sheela na guire.
The Irish - American — may his tribe
increase !
The Lads of the land of Shillelagh.

And if the field of fame be lost,
It won't be by an Irishman.
Erin! loved land! from age to age
Be thou more great, more famed,
and free;
May peace be thine, or, should'st
thou wage
Defensive war, cheap victory.
May plenty bloom in every field
Which gentle breezes softly fan,
And cheerful smiles . serenely gild
The home of every Irishman!
The Shamrock, the green immortal
Shamrock,
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock.

Then let us be frisky> and tipple the
whiskey,
joys,
No country whatever has power to Long life to the land of dear liberty's
sever
The Shamrock, the Rose and the
Thistle, my boys.
Then here's their memory — may
it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty,
And teach us to unite!
Through good and ill, be Ireland's
still,
Though sad as theirs, your fate;
And true men, be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-Eight.

There's a dear little plant that grows
in our isle, '
Twas Saint Patrick himself, sure,
that set it;
And the sun on his labor
pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye
wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through
the brake, through the mireland;
And he called it the dear little shamrock
of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the
dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock
of Ireland.
This dear little plant still grows in
our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters
of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose
eyes can command,

n each climate that they may
appear in;
And shine through the bog, through
the brake, through the mireland:
The sweet little shamrock, the dear
little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock
of Ireland.
This dear little plant that
from our soil,
When its three little leaves
extended,
Denotes from one stock we together
should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be
befriended;
And still through the bog, through the
brake, through the mireland,
From one root should branch, like
the shamrock of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the dear
little shamrock,

To the Country that gave St. Patrick
birth.
To the Irishmen in America! —
They have built our great public
works; they have constructed our
vast system of railways; they have
risen to place of power and eminence
in every walk of industry and in every
avenue which is open to brains and
pluck.
To the Shamrock, that never will
lose its emerald hue.
To our native land. Every one
loves it whether he was born there
or not.

True to his name, his country, and
his God,
Faithful at home, and steadfast still
abroad.' '
Truth for England and Justice for
Ireland. "
Well, here's thank God for the race
and the sod ! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
Wert thou all that I wish thee,
Great, glorious and free,
First flower of the earth,
And first gem of the sea.
tf
We've heard her faults a hundred
times,

The new ones and the old,
In songs and sermons, ranns and
rhymes,
Enlarged some fifty fold,
But take them all, the great and small,
And this we've got to say :
Here's dear Old Ireland,
Good Old Ireland,
Ireland, boys, hurrah!
What flood reflects a shore so sweet
As Shannon's sweet or pastoral
Pann?
Or who a friend or foe can meet
So generous as an Irishman?
When Erin first rose from the dark
swelling flood,
God blessed the green Island, and saw
it was good;

The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled
and shone -
In the ring of the world the most
precious stone.
In her sun, in her soil, in her station
thrice blest,
With her back towards Britain, her
face to the West,
Erin stands proudly insular on her
steep shore,
And strikes her high harp 'mid the
ocean's deep roar.
Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for Liberty!
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Beimedh a gole ! (
Let us be drinking.)
A glass is good, a lass is good,
And a pipe to smoke in cold weather.
The world is good and the people are
good,
And we're all good fellows together.
Be the whiskey ever near thee, thro'
the day and night, '
Tis the cordial for all ages,
Every evil it assuages
And to bards and saints and sages
Gives joy and life and light.
Bird of the North! By instinct fine
You sought a perfect sea.
And we to-night from sparkling wine
Will make that place for thee!

No longer seek the rippling brine,
Or haunt the marshy waste,
But dip your wing in drink divine,
With celery to your taste.
Bird of the blest, a choicer wave
Flows o'er our goblet's brim,
And in it you shall sweetly lave,
And in it you shall swim!
No more the waters beat your breast,
Your tired wings brave the sky,
But you shall have eternal rest,
And float hi " Extra Dry."
But send round the bowl, and be
happy awhile —
May we never meet worse in our
pilgrimage here
Than the tear that enjoyment may
gild with a smile —
And the smile that compassion
can turn to a tear.

 

COME ANY TIME

Come in the evening, or come in the morning —
Come when you're looked for, come without warning;
A thousand welcomes you'll find here before you !
And the oftener you come the more I'll adore you t
 

— Old Irish Toast

Irish Toast.

" Here is that ye may never die nor be kilt till ye break your bones over a bushel o' glory."