So shall his lyre, untouch'd so long,
The tone with which it charm'd regain;
Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,
With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.




AN IRISH SONG


Poor Molly O'Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
Drank so deeply of whiskey, 'twas thought she would die;
Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole,
And stepp'd into Dublin to buy her a pie.
Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!

Tho' chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov'd well;
A pie-man pass'd near, crying "Pies" at his _aise_;
"Here are pies of all sorts."--"Oh! if all sorts you sell,
Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!"
Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!




THE SONG OF GRIEF