Conceive yourselves quite lucky,
For 'tis not often here you see
A hunter from Kentucky.

Oh, Kentucky! the hunters of Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.

We are a hardy free-born race,
Each man to fear a stranger;
Whate'er the game, we join in chase,
Despising toil and danger;
And if a daring foe annoys,

Whate'er his strength and forces,
We'll show him that Kentucky boys
Are alligator horses.'

Oh! Kentucky, &c.

I s'pose you've read it in the prints,
How Packenham attempted
To make old Hickory Jackson wince,
But soon his schemes repented;
For we with rifles ready cock'd,
Thought such occasion lucky,
And soon around the general flock'd
The hunters of Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

You've heard, I s'pose, how New-Orleans
Is famed for wealth and beauty-
There's girls of every hue, it seems,

From snowy white to sooty.

So Packenham he made his brags,
If he in fight was lucky,

He'd have their girls and cotton bags,
In spite of old Kentucky.

Oh! Kentucky, &c.

But Jackson he was wide awake,
And wasn't scar'd at trifles,
For well he knew what aim we take
With our Kentucky rifles;

So he led us down to Cypress swamp,
The ground was low and mucky,
There stood John Bull in martial pomp,
And here was old Kentucky.

Oh! Kentucky, &c.

A bank was rais'd to hide our breast,
Not that we thought of dying,
But that we always like to rest,.
Unless the game is flying:
Behind it stood our little force-
None wish'd it to be greater,
For every man was half a horse,
And half an alligator.

Oh! Kentucky, &c.

They did not let our patience tire,
Before they show'd their faces-
We did not choose to waste our fire,
So snugly kept our places;

But when so near to see them wink,
We thought it time to stop 'em;
And 'twould have done you good, I think,
To see Kentuckians drop 'em.

Oh! Kentucky, &c.

They found at last 'twas vain to fight
Where lead was all their booty;
And so they wisely took to flight,
And left us all our beauty.
And now if danger e'er annoys,
Remember what our trade is;

Just send for us Kentucky boys,
And we'll protect you, ladies.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

WILLIAM TELL.-By F. Reynolds. WHEN William Tell was doom'd to die, Or hit the mark upon his infant's headThe bell toll'd out, the hour was nigh, And soldiers march'd with grief and dread! The warrior came serene and mild,

Gaz'd all around with dauntless look, Till his fond boy unconscious smil'd; Then nature and the father spoke. And now, each valiant Swiss his grief partakes, For they sigh, And wildly cry,

Poor William Tell! once hero of the lakes.

But soon is heard the muffled drum,

And straight the pointed arrow flies;
The trembling boy expects his doom,
And all shriek out he dies! he dies!'
When lo! the lofty trumpet sounds!
The mark is hit! the child is free!
Into his father's arms he bounds,
Inspir'd by love and liberty!

And now each valiant Swiss their joy partakes,
For mountains ring,
Whilst they sing,

Live, William Tell! the hero of the lakes.

CROSS-KEEN LAWN.

LET the farmer praise his grounds,
As the huntsman does his hounds,

And the shepherd his sweet-scented lawn; While I more blest than they,

Spend each happy night and day

With my smiling little Cross-keen lawn, lawn, lawn,

Oh, my smiling little Cross keen lawn. Leante ruma Cross-keen

Sleante gar ma voor meh neen

Agus gramachree ma cooleen ban, ban, ban,
Agus gramachree ma cooleen ban.

In court with manly grace,

Should Sir Toby plade his case,

And the merits of his cause make known, Without his cheerful glass,

He'd be stupid as an ass,

So he takes a little Cross-keen lawn.
Leante ruma, &c.

Then fill your glasses high,

Let's not part with lips so dry,

Though the lark should proclaim it is dawn;

But if we can't remain,

May we shortly meet again,

To fill another Cross-keen lawn.
Leante ruma, &c.

And when grim death appears,
After few but happy years,

And tells me my glass it is run,

I'll say, be gone you slave,

For great Bacchus gives me lave

Just to fill another Cross-keen lawn.
Leante ruma, &c.

OLD TOWLER.-By O'Keefe.

BRIGHT chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn;
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn.

Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet towler leads the cry;
Arise, the burden of their song-

This day a stag must die!

With a hey, ho, chivey!

Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy, &c.

The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail;

The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;

The upland winds they sweep along,
O'er fields, through brakes they fly;
The game is rous'd too true the song-
This day a stag must die!
With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face;
The huntsman's pleasure is no more;
His joys were in the chase.

Alike the sportsmen of the town,

The virgin game in view,

Are full content to run them down,

Then they in turn pursue.
With a hey, ho, &c.

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA'.

O How can I be blithe and glad,

Or how can I gang brisk and braw,