{149} The popularity of this West-country song has extended even to Ireland, as appears from two Irish versions, supplied by the late Mr. T. Crofton Croker. One of them is entitled _Last New-Year’s Day_, and is printed by Haly, Hanover-street, Cork. It follows the English song almost verbatim, with the exception of the first and second verses, which we subjoin:— ‘Last New-Year’s day, as I heard say, Dick mounted on his dapple gray; He mounted high and he mounted low, Until he came to _sweet Raphoe_! Sing fal de dol de ree, Fol de dol, righ fol dee. ‘My buckskin does I did put on, My spladdery clogs, _to save my brogues_! And in my pocket a lump of bread, And round my hat a ribbon red.’ The other version is entitled _Dicky of Ballyman_, and a note informs us that ‘Dicky of Ballyman’s sirname was Byrne!’ As our readers may like to hear how the Somersetshire bumpkin behaved after he had located himself in the town of Ballyman, and taken the sirname of Byrne, we give the whole of his amatory adventures in the sister-island. We discover from them, _inter alia_, that he had found ‘the best of friends’ in his ‘Uncle,’—that he had made a grand discovery in natural history, viz., that a rabbit is a _fowl_!—that he had taken the temperance pledge, which, however, his Mistress Ann had certainly not done; and, moreover, that he had become an enthusiast in potatoes! DICKY OF BALLYMAN. ‘On New-Year’s day, as I heard say, Dicky he saddled his dapple gray; He put on his Sunday clothes, His scarlet vest, and his new made hose. Diddle dum di, diddle dum do, Diddle dum di, diddle dum do. ‘He rode till he came to Wilson Hall, There he rapped, and loud did call; Mistress Ann came down straightway, And asked him what he had to say? ‘‘Don’t you know me, Mistress Ann? I am Dicky of Ballyman; An honest lad, though I am poor,— I never was in love before. ‘‘I have an uncle, the best of friends, Sometimes to me a fat rabbit he sends; And many other dainty fowl, To please my life, my joy, my soul. ‘‘Sometimes I reap, sometimes I mow, And to the market I do go, To sell my father’s corn and hay,— I earn my sixpence every day!’ ‘‘Oh, Dicky! you go beneath your mark,— You only wander in the dark; Sixpence a day will never do, I must have silks, and satins, too! ‘‘Besides, Dicky, I must have tea For my breakfast, every day; And after dinner a bottle of wine,— For without it I cannot dine.’ ‘‘If on fine clothes our money is spent, Pray how shall my lord be paid his rent? He’ll expect it when ’tis due,— Believe me, what I say is true. ‘‘As for tea, good stirabout Will do far better, I make no doubt; And spring water, when you dine, Is far wholesomer than wine.