you get so merrily out
of the three? Where are promises to marry and promises to pay treated with
the same gentleman-like forbearance; and where, when you have lost your
heart and your fortune, are people found so ready to comfort you in your
reverses? Yes," said Maurice, as he filled his glass up to the brim, and
eyed it lusciously for a moment,--"yes, darling, here's your health; the
only girl I ever loved--in that part of the country, I mean. Give her a
bumper, lads, and I'll give you a chant."

"Name! name! name!" shouted several voices from different parts of the
table.

"Mary Draper!" said Maurice, filling his glass once more, while the name
was re-echoed by every lip at table.

"The song! the song!"

"Faith, I hope I haven't forgotten it," quoth Maurice. "No; here it is."

So saying, after a couple of efforts to assure the pitch of his voice, the
worthy doctor began the following words to that very popular melody, "Nancy
Dawson:"--

MARY DRAPER.

AIR,--_Nancy Dawson_.

Don't talk to me of London dames,
Nor rave about your foreign flames,
That never lived, except in drames,
Nor shone, except on paper;
I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew,
Who lived in Ballywhacmacrew,
And let me tell you, mighty few
Could equal Mary Draper.

Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,
Her hair was brown of deepest hue,
Her foot was small, and neat to view,
Her waist was slight and taper;
Her voice was music to your ear,
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear,
Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear,
As from sweet Mary Draper.

She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team,
Or with a fly she'd whip a stream,
Or may be sing you "Rousseau's Dream,"
For nothing could escape her;
I've seen her, too,--upon my word,--
At sixty yards bring down her bird,
Oh, she charmed all the Forty-third,
Did lovely Mary Draper.

And at the spring assizes' ball,
The junior bar would one and all
For all her fav'rite dances call,
And Harry Dean would caper;
Lord Clare would then forget his lore;
King's Counsel, voting law a bore,
Were proud to figure on the floor,
For love of Mary Draper.

The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too,
Were all her slaves, and so would you,
If you had only but one view,
Of such a face and shape, or
Her pretty ankles--But, ohone,
It's only west of old Athlone