Again, by sweet confession blest,
I drank each melting sigh.
Dost thou, Kathleen, my loss deplore,
And lone on Erin's emerald shore,
In memory trace the love I bore;
On all our transports dwell??
Can I forget the fatal day
That call'd me from thy arms away,
When nought was loft me but to say
'Farewell, my love—farewell!'
THE TWIG OF SHELALY.
Mulrooney's my name, I'm comical boy,
A tight little lad at Shelaly;
St. Paddy wid whiskey he suckled me, joy,
Among the sweet bogs of Kelaly!
The world I began with the prospect so fair,
My dad was worth nothing, and I was his heir;
So all my estate was a heart free from care,
And a tight little twig of Shelaly.
"Turn captain," cried dad, "and if kilt in de strife,
Success and long life to Shelaly!
Your fortune is made all the rest of your life,
As sure as there's bogs in Kelaly."
But thinks I, spite of what fame and glory bequeath,
How conceited I'd look in a fine laurel wreath,
Wid my head in my mouth to stand picking my teeth,
Wid a tight little twig of Shqlaly.
Yet firmly both Ireland and England I'll aid,
The lands of oak stiek and Shelaly;
For now these two sisters are man and wife made,
As sure as there's bogs in Kelaly.
