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Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em ;
But sure such folks could ne'er beget

So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

In battle's wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes

of death in warlike cars ; While Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down in the market town,

As right and left they fly ;
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far,

For the doctor's art

Cannot cure the heart,
That is hit from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, 'sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters

By far outnumber these ;
While she among her poultry sits,

Just like a turtle-dove,
Well worth the cage, I do engage,

Of the blooming god of Love ! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far,

And envy the chicken

That Peggy is pickin',
As she sits in her low-backed car.

When she is by I leave my work,

I love her so sincerely ;
My master comes like any Turk,

And bangs me most severely.
But let him bang his bellyful,

I 'll bear it all for Sally ;
For she's the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
Of all the days that's in the week

I dearly love but one day,
And that's the day that comes betwixt

The Saturday and Monday ;
For then I'm drest all in my best

To walk abroad with Sally ;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

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O, I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,

And a lady for my bride ;
For the lady would sit forninst me,

On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar ;

0, my heart would beat high

At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-backed car!

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When Christmas comes about again,

0, then I shall have money! I 'll hoard it up, and, box and all,

I 'll give it to my honey ;
O, would it were ten thousand pound !

I'd give it all to Sally ;
For she's the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.
My master and the neighbors all

Make game of me and Sally,
And but for her I'd better be

A slave, and row a galley ; But when my seven long years are out,

0, then I 'll marry Sally ! 0, then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,

But not in our alley !

SAMUEL LOVER.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

HENRY CAREY.

Of all the girls that are so smart

There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

LOVELY MARY DOXYELLY.

O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the

best! If fifty girls were around you, I'd hardly see the

rest;

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ;

7

Be what it may the time of day, the place be | O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, where it will, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall;

O, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are! how dark they are! and they give me many a shock;

O

lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my dis-, It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never

tress;

Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower,

wish it less;

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has

me in its power.

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low,

But

blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and

THE POSIE.

so fine,

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered O, LUVE will venture in where it daurna weel be

in a twine.

No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor;

But Mary kept the belt of love, and O, but she

seen,

O, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been!

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded But I will down yon river rove amang the woods

sae green:

all before;

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

was gay;

She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my heart away!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms
without a peer:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in

so complete,

view,

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And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you

sung;

Your smile is always in my heart, your name be-
side my tongue.
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count
on both your hands,
And for myself there's not a thumb or little
finger stands.

blue:

The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'; feet; The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air :

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray,
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;

take away:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

O, you're the flower of womankind, in country
or in town;

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star
is near,
And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een
sae clear;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.
If some great lord should come this way and see The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to
your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

wear:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

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"T is when the sigh in youth sincere

And only then, The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear — Is by that one, that only Dear

Breathed back again.

THOMAS MOORE.

AH, HOW SWEET.

Au, how sweet it is to love!

Ah, how gay is young desire !
And what pleasing pains we prove

When we first approach love's fire !
Pains of love are sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown

Do but gently heave the heart :
E'en the tears they shed alone

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death. Love and Time with reverence use,

Treat them like a parting friend ;
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send :
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high,

Swells in every youthful vein ;
But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again. If a flow in age appear, 'T is but rain, and runs not clear.

JOHN DRYDEN.

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,

That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win; This is the way that boys begin,

Wait till you come to forty year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ;

Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,

Wait till you come to forty year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ;

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,

Once you have come to forty year.
Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are gray,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was past away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,

The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,

Ere yet ever a month is gone.
Gillian's dead ! God rest her bier, -

How I loved her twenty years syne !
Marian's married ; but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

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