OUR Granny she rose one morning quite soon, She slip'd on her petticoat, apron and gown, There's very bad news last night came to me, They are wronging my children that's over the sea.

Old Granny she mounted her gelding in haste, And straight up to Dublin she took her next place, And as she was prancing up Dublin fair street, It was with Lord Granville and Bute she did meet.

They said noble Granny, come tell us in haste, What news do you bring that is good from the west, There is very bad news, which makes me complain, They are wronging my children that's over the main

Old Granny she mounted her gelding in haste, And strait up to London she took her next pace, And as she was prancing up London fair street, It was there with Lord Granville & Bute she did meet

She said noble Lords come tell me in fa&t, Are you the ringleaders now of this Tea A&t. You are the great villains I do understand, That are wronging my children in American land.

They said noble Granny don't make such a vent, We'll cool your sons courage, & make them repent, For our great ships of war, and our men in the field, Will cool your sons courage and make them to yield.

O do not you think for to frighten my sons, For at Lexington battle they made your men run, They're men of experience in ev'ry respe&t, And they never will yield to your cursed Tea A&t.

I've a million of sons that's American born, For to yield to your slavery they hold it in scorn, For they're men of experience in every degree, And they'll turn your great ships with their helms alee.

The Mulberry Tree.

THE sweet brier grows in the merry green wood, Where the musk rose diffuses its purfume so free; But the blight often seizes both blossom and bud, While the mildew flies over the mulberry-tree.

In the surfery rear'd like the young tender vine, Mankind of all orders, and ev'ry degree, First crawl on the ground, then spring up like the pine, And some branch and bear fruit, like the mulberry- tree.

To the fair tree of knowledge some twine like a twig, While some sappy sprouts with their fruits disagree; For which we from birch now & then pluck a twig, Which is not quite so sweet as the mulberry-tree

The vast tree of life we all eagerly climb, And impatiently pant at its high top to be, Tho' nine out of ten are lopp'd off in their prime, And they drop like dead leaves from the mul- bery-tree.

Some live by the leaf, and some by the bough, As the song or the dance, their vocation may be, And some live and thrive, tho' we know no more how, Than the dew that flies over the mulberry-tree.

But like weeping willows we hang down the head, When poor wither'd elders we're destin'd to be, And we're minded no more than mere logs when we re dead, Or the dew that flies over the mulberry-tree.

Yet like lignum-vitæ we hearts of oak wear, Or the cedar that keeps from the canker-worm free, While the vine juice we drain to dissolve ev'ry care, Like the dew that flies over the mulberry-tree.