Her false and crooked teeth fix in A mouth both grim and wide, Her pig like eyes squint now and then, And sometimes leer aside. She did not buy those teeth for me But food to gobble down―― Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown. For her I’d keep an eating-house If she provided cash, For her if she would send a haunch, I’d make some venison hash; Charms which I never saw I’d praise, Change to a smile her frown―― Oh! scorch’d is the heart that’s frying For the lunch of Kitty Brown. I’ve felt repletion’s horrid pain, And suffered hunger dread, But the cursed cat has run away, With my bonny baked sheep’s head; And as I rove, some wag may say, That fool without a crown. His _head_ lost, while he _warmed_ his _heart_, For the lunch of Kitty Brown. From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin. ――――:o:―――― HER HAIR IS TURNING GREY. No wonder that they’ve painted her, With rouge and carmine high, And made her look so beautiful, I guess the reason why: She long has pass’d her prime of life, Her flesh now falls away, And, few men ever choose a wife, Whose hair is turning grey! She dresses fine and very smart, She buys the best of lace; She uses _Rowland’s Kalydor_, To wash her hands and face. Her dress becomes her very well, Her bonnet looks quite gay, But I’m awake――yes, I can smell, Her hair is turning grey She’s sunk, at least an inch in height, She does not walk so fast, But, her virgin state is not yet done, Her single life’s not past; For when the men have ogled her, I’ve heard them whispering say She must be old, and so I’ve thought For her hair is turning grey! From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin. ――――:o:―――― I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS, Words and Music by CLARIBEL. I cannot sing the old songs I sung long years ago, For heart and voice would fail me, And foolish tears would flow; For bygone hours come o’er my heart, With each familiar strain. I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again. I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again. * * * * * “I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS.” “Of course not; they’re hackneyed and out of fashion, and nobody knows what half of them mean. We will change them into new songs, adapted to the taste of the day. We met――’twas on the rink, And I feared he’d upset me; He curved――I tried to think Who he was, and he let me!