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      A New Year's Song.

MY countrymen, awake ! arise !
Our work begins anew,
Your mingled voices rend the skies,
Your hearts are firm and true ;
You've bravely marched and nobly met
Our little green isle through ;
But, oh ! my friends, there's something yet
For Irishmen to do !

As long as Erin hears the clink
Of base ignoble chains—
As long as one detested link
Of foreign rule remains—
As long as of our rightful dept
One smallest fraction's due,
So long, my friends, there's something yet
For Irishmen to do !
Too long we've borne the servile yoke—

Too long the slavish chain—
Too long in feeble accents spoke,
And ever spoke in vain—
Our wealth has filled the spoiler's net,
And gorg'd the Saxon crew ;
But, oh ! my friends, we'll teach them yet
What Irishmen can do.

The olive branch is in our hands,
The white flag floats above ;
Peace—peace pervades our myriad bands,
And proud forgiving love !
But oh ! let not our foes forget
We're men as Christians, too,
Prepared to do Ireland yet
What Irishmen should do !

There's not a man of all our land
Our country now can spare,
The strong man with his sinewy hand,
The weak man with his prayer !
No whining tone of mere regret,
Young Irish bards, for you ;
But let your songs teach Ireland yet
What Irishmen ahould do !

And wheresoe,er that duty lead,
There—there your post snould be,
The coward slave is never freed ;
The brave alone are free !
Oh! Freedom, firmly fixed are set
Our longing eyes on you ;
And though we die for Ireland yet,
So Irishmen should do !

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   The Broth of a Boy is Paddy

AIR—" The Boys of Kilkenny."

OH, there's not in ould Ireland a boy half so
free,
As bould Paddy Flynn—be me sow , and
that's me !
At breaking the hearts o' the girls I am A 1,
And at breaking the heads o' the boy, bate by
none—
At breaking the skulls o' the boys, banged by
none.

AIR—" Sally, come up."

At making love, sir, Pat's the boy ;
The ladies' hearts can't I decoy ?
Sure, don't they gambol, kiss, and toy,
And galivant with Paddy ?
At them, so shy, I wink my eye,
Awhile the darlint creatures, ay.

AIR—" Be aisy, can't ye, Paddy."

Paddy can stuff the blarney down,
Paddy can grief in whisky drown,
And crack a bottle, joke, or crown,
Such a broth a boy is Paddy.

AIR—" Low-backed Car."

Last night I went a-courting,
And met with a mishap ;
At Judy Reilly's windy—
I went to give a rap :
But bad luck to the cistern,
Poor Paddy stood upon,
Twas like the tricks—o' politics—
Not to be depended on !—
For no sooner had I put
The sowl o' me illigant foot
On the lid, than it slipped,
And whish !—in I was dipped,
Souse, head-over-heels in the butt.

Air—" St Patrick's Day."

Faith, so many I've admired, I'm getting tired
Of courting the smart little lasses at all ;
I've tipped 'em the blarney, but spite of me
blarney,
They've bid Paddy (bad luck!) good morning
I've kilt all my rivals again and again,
And nine times for love it's meself that's been
Wid grief I am laden, for fear an ould maiden
I'll die, without wedlock adorning.

AIR-" The Ould Bog Hole."

So, new, who'll marry a nate Irishman ?
For a lady I'll do all ever I can ;
I'm not very rich, but I'm born to good luck,
I've a cow just died, and a dropsical duck.
I'm expecting a fortune, and sure it won't fail
To come—when the income-tax they repale ;
Shall I spake to the praist, to make it all right?
And order for music, a piany-fortnight ?
Who'll wed a boy from the Emerald Isle ?
Who'll on the suit of a bould Paddy smile ?
Who'll send a letter me grief to beguile,
To Pat, Number One-ty one Lower Turnstile.
Who'll wed a boy, &c.