THE IRISH SMUGGLERS (Extracted from No. XII of the MONTHLY MIRROR - New Series.) From Brighton two Paddies walk'd under the cliff, For pebbles and shells to explore, When lo! a small barrel was dropp'd from a skiff, Which floated at length to the shore. Says Dermot to Pat, we the owner will bilk— To-night we'll be merry and frisky, I know it as well as my own mother's milk, Dear joy! 'tis a barrel of whisky. Says Pat, I'll soon broach it, O fortunate lot! (Now Pat, you must know, was a joker) I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot, And borrow his kitchen hot poker. 'Twas said, and 'twas done—the barrel was bor'd, (No Bacchanals ever felt prouder) When Paddy found out a small error on board— The whisky, alas! was gunpowder! With sudden explosion, he flew o'er the ocean, And high in air sported a leg; Yet instinct prevails, when philosophy fails, So he kept a tight hold of the keg. But Dermot bawl'd out, with a terrible shout, I'm not to be chous'd Master Wiseman; If you do not come down, I'll run into the town, And by Jasus, I'll tell the exciseman.