I was sint on the mighty world one day,
    Like a squeaking pig out of a sack;
  And, och, murder! although it was Sunday,
    Without a clane shirt to my back. 
  But my mother died while I was sucking,
    And larning for whiskey to squall,
  Leaving me a dead cow, and a stocking
    Brimful of—­just nothing at all. 
      But in rainy, &c.

  My ancistors, who were all famous
    At Donnybrook, got a great name: 
  My aunt she sould famous good whiskey—­
    I’m famous for drinking that same. 
  And I’m famous, like Master Adonis,
    With his head full of nothing but curls,
  For breaking the heads of the boys, sirs,
    And breaking the hearts of the girls. 
      For in rainy, &c.

  Och!  I trace my discint up to Adam,
    Who was once parish priest in Kildare;
  And uncle, I think, to King David,
    That peopled the county of Clare. 
  Sure his heart was as light as a feather,
    Till his wife threw small beer on his joy
  By falling in love with a pippin,
    Which intirely murder’d the boy. 
      For in rainy, &c.

  A fine architict was my father,
    As ever walk’d over the sea;
  He built Teddy Murphy’s mud cabin—­
    And didn’t he likewise build me? 
  Sure, he built him an illigant pigstye,
    That made all the Munster boys stare. 
  Besides a great many fine castles—­
    But, bad luck,—­they were all in the air. 
      For in rainy, &c.

  Though I’d scorn to be rude to a lady,
    Miss Fortune and I can’t agree;
  So I flew without wings from green Erin—­
    Is there anything green about me? 
  While blest with this stock of fine spirits,
    At care, faith, my fingers I’ll snap;
  I’m as rich as a Jew without money,
    And free as a mouse in a trap. 
      For in rainy, &c.

* * * * *

THE “WEIGHT” OF ROYALTY.—­THE SOCIAL “SCALE.”

The Prince of Wales it is allowed upon all hands is the finest baby ever sent into this naughty world since the firstborn of Eve.  At a day old he would make three of any of the new-born babes that a month since blessed the Union bf Sevenoaks.  There is, however, a remarkable providence in this.  The Prince of Wales is born to the vastness of a palace; the little Princes of Pauperdom being doomed to lie at the rate of fifteen in “two beds tied together,” are happily formed of corresponding dimensions, manufactured of more “squeezeable materials.”  There is, be sure of it, a providence watching over parish unions as well as palaces.  How, for instance, would boards of guardians pack their new-born charges, if every babe of a union had the brawn and bone of a Prince of Wales?

However, we could wish that the little Prince was thrice his size—­an aspiration in which our readers will heartily join, when they learn the goodly tidings we are about to tell them.