Pop goes the weazel, and shoot goes the gun, While over the mountains the Fenians do run; As a regiment of soldiers did after them jog, Four hundred and fifty fell into a bog! The best of the fun was--the soldiers did shout, We have got in a mess, and we cannot get out! When a funny old woman so nimbly flew, And collared great General Doodlem-doo. Some could not fire, and some could’nt run, One carried a reap-hook, another a gun, They tried to kill nobody, just for a spree, So they both went together to cut down a tree; There was a young lady, her name it was Peg, She’d one eye and two noses, one arm and one leg, March on, lads, she shouted, to glory we’ll steer, The Fenians are coming, oh dear, oh dear! Some with big stones and brickbats their pockets did fill, They thought of the battle of great Bunker’s Hill, Cut away, fire away, go along Pat, A soldier fired at a Fenian, and shot a tom cat; Old Molly Maloney, up her chimney did creep, Over the hills and the mountains she had a good peep, While under her window the bagpipes did play, To cheer Moll with the tune of St. Patrick’s day. What do you think of the Fenians? said Kit, in a joke, Why, says Nell, it will end in a bottle of smoke, Thousands over the mountains, like grasshoppers flew, Be aisy, cried General Doodlem-doo: Colonel Catch’em commanded, had a hump on his back, Shoot away, fire away, philliloo whack, Then a jolly old fiddler from famed Mullingar, Struck up the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh. The soldiers one night when the bugle did sound, That night going over the mountains they found, A cat and a donkey, a pig and a dog, And twenty old women stuck fast in a bog; While down at Killarney, ’twas fire away whack, At the glorious battle of herrings and sprats! And although they fought without trousers or shirt, I think they were really more frightened than hurt. Cheer up, says old Barney, here comes the police: Here’s old Erin and glory, plum pudding and peace, A glass of good whiskey twice every day, That is better than fighting and running away! As for me, my dear boys, if a row I was in it, I’d rather run for a mile than fight for a minute; And I would advise all to have done with such capers, And just stay at home to look after the taters. Old Dennis Mahoney got up in a tree, His musket was loaded with skillagalee, Blood-an-ouns, said old Denny, I’m a Fenian, here goes, He fired, and shot two policemen under the nose; The bough of the tree with old Dennis soon broke, And Dennis came down like a pig in a poke. He died as he fell, and he whistled, oh la! Singing, farewell for ever, old Erin-go-bragh. H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London. AWFUL EXPLOSION IN CLERKENWELL. DREADFUL LOSS OF LIFE.