THE IVY GREEN:

H, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:

And the mouldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;

THE IRISH DRAGOON.

H love is the soul of an Irish Dragoon,
In battle, in bivouac, or in saloon-

From the tip of his spur to his bright sabretasche.
With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high,
His gay laughing look, and his light speaking eye,
He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench,
He springs in his saddle and chasses the French-
With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.

His spirits are high, and he little knows care,
Whether sipping his claret, or charging a square—

With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.
As ready to sing as to skirmish he's found,
To take off his wine, or to take up his ground;
When the bugle may call him, how little he fears,
To charge forth in column, and beat the mounseers-
With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.

When the battle is over, he gaily rides back
To cheer every soul in the night bivouac-

With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.
Oh! there you may see him in full glory crown'd
As he sits 'mid his friends on the hardly won ground,
And hear with what feeling the toast he will give,
As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live-
With his jingling spur and his bright sabretasche.

CHARLES LEVER.

[From Charles O'Malley, chap. xv.-"Power,' said three or four together, 'let us have "The Irish Dragoon"?' Here goes, then,' said Dick, taking off a bumper as he began the following chant to the air of 'Love is the soul of a gay Irish Man !'"]

[From Charles O'Malley, chap. xix., where it is sung by Frank Webber.]