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 Now ſhe may give another ſwain,

Her wiſh'd for maiden-head;

And grieve for me (ah! hapleſs ſwain)

When deep in grave my head is lain-

What's that when I am dead?

ET mirth and loyalty abound,

Whilſt we the bumpers fill boys,

Let us quaff our bowls without controul,

With a hearty free good will boys;

Let us toaſt a health to the jovial blades,

I mean the lads of the linen trade,

Whoſe heroic courage was ne'er diſmay'd,

Succeſs to the linen weavers.

The glorious pavillion on the plain,

We do rear for the holy Ark to ſtand on,

It was garniſhed by both rule and ſquare,

None but maſons had a hand in:

It was a type of ſanctuary,

That after anes endured might be,

By the bright ſons of maſonry,

Who honour linen weavers.

The eight of Auguſt ninety-eight,

They march'd through Dublin city,

And all who ſaw their graceful mein,

Declar'd them wondrous pretty :

Like Eaſtern Rex their banners flew,

Compos'd of the Orange and the Blue,