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KATHLEEN O'REGAN. 31
But now old age comes creeping on—
We grow down, and don't get bigger; And cider sweet am sour then,
And I am just de nigger. But let de cause be what it will,
Short, small, or wider, She am de apple of my soul,
And I'm bound to be beside her.
Oh, little more cider, etc.
A BOY in my teens, just before I reached twenty, Among the young lasses would cast a hawk's eye:
Fresh lilies and roses, and posies in plenty, Graced Kathleen O'Regan, the pride of Athy.
She'd say, "Pat, be aisyl ah, why do you teaze me?
I dread to come near you, and cannot tell why." "My sowl! neither Jenny nor Nell of Kilkenny
Are dear as sweet Kathleen, the pride of Athy."
" Arrah, Pat, you know that my father and mother
Both think me too young to be married—oh, fie! To stay awhile longer I know they would rather;
Then can't you have patience ?"—" Dear Kathleen, not I" She smiled like a Cupid, which made me look stupid—
My eyes fixed with love, when I found she'd comply; So bloomed every feature, like soft tints of Nature,
Of Kathleen O'Regan, the pride of Athy.
Then war drove me on to where battle was raging,
She kissed me, I pressed her with tears in each eye: We sighed, groaned, and blubbered—she cried so engaging
" Remember poor Kathleen, and once-loved Athy, Where oft, in its bowers, you've pulled me sweet flowers—
If e'er you forget it, I'll certainly die!" " My Kathleen, to you, love, I'll ever be true, love, Sweet Kathleen O'Regan, the pride of Athy."