Emigration & farewells

                POOR

               PADDY.

A much-admired Song, written and composed
by Mr. Tom Bennett, and sung by him with
the most unlounded applause.

IF you will only list to me,
We'll have a little harmony,
I'll tell you of the misery
I lately have endured :
Soft and green, from Erin's isle,
I landed here on English soil,
Thinking I'd meet a kindly smile,
Oh ! how I'vr beed allnred !

                    Chorus.

For they laugh at Poor Paddy,
Make game of Poor Padds ;
My heart is sore-
Cut to the core,
Oh ! God help Poor Paddy !

A month ago I landed here,
How I've fared since you shall hear,
I've met with many a bitter sneer,
But I didn't care for that.
I struggled hard to get employed,
On each occasion was denied,
For those I asked did me deride,
And called me ragged Pat !

And they laughed at Poor Paddy, &c.

One friend I met to me was kind,
He told me, if I had a mind,
He'd show me where good work I'd find.
Said I—I'll go and try.
I thought my heart rose in my throat
With joy-but they jung d me by my coat,
For they handed me a little note—
"No Irish Need Apply !"

And they laughed at Poor Paddy, &c.

The English -gen'rous are-no doubt,
Well ; so are we-with harts as stout;
Then why should they Poor Paddy rout,
From this, teare happy land?
We uobly join them in the flght.
Strnggle side by side' with all our might
Then, show us kindness treat us right—
stretch forth a helping hand!

         AS I TROT MY

               MOKE

                  TO

            MARKET !

Printed by T. PEARSON, Machine Printer &c.,
4 and 6, Chadderton St, Oldham Rd. Manchester

HOW my pals just list awhile,
And you ll tumble to my style,
I'm a coster as you all can plainly see,
To Billingsgate I trot;
Of fish I buy a lot,
And there's not another chap comes up to me

Spoken.—Yes, my blooming pals, I should
think there wasn't, on should only see me when
I gó market. I rise about 5 p.m., put my Moke
in harness, get a drop of rum and coffee, lights
my blooming pipe, and feel as happy as a king
when I—

                             Chorus.

Trot, trot, trot, my moke to market,
And don't I steam along and blow my clay ;
I'm a lardy dardy chap, dancing on the cellar flap
And can't I put the pongelo away.

I was born at Seven Dials,
I am known for many miles,
Of costmonger Joe, you all have heard—
I mackerel sell all day,
And at night I'm at the play,
And then I rise next morning like a bird,

I'm palling on a gal,
Her Christian name is Sal,
And she is such a stunner, I declare,
She's eyes as black as sloes,
And she's got a tunned up nose,
And ain't she got a carroty head of hair.

Spoken.—Yes, there's my blooming mistake
about my dona. Yon should see us when we've
going down to market, as I—Chorus.

Now my pals I must away,
For I can no longer stay,
My customers are waiting down Pall Mall,
But I'll call some other night,
And do the thing that's right,
And introduce Jersulem and Sal.

Spoken.—Yes, when I introduce them I'll give
you all a ride, and only charge a duey soldy for
each homey, and then we can all sing together.
chorus.——

                  No.703