Since St. Patrick's Day is coming up fast (the parade is this Sunday on Staten Island) herewith a couple of lovely old-fashioned Irish songs, first sent to the list eight years ago. Don't know who wrote them, but i'm sure you'll enjoy them. The Babies on Our Block If you want more information, or in need of merriment, Come over with me socially to Murphy's tenement, He owns a row of houses in the first ward near the dock, Where Ireland's represented by the babies on our block. There's the Phelans and the Whelans, from the sweet Doknockadees, They're sitting on the railings with their children on their knees, All gossiping and talking with their neighbors in a flock, Singing "Little Sally Waters" with the babies on our block. On a warm day in the Summer when the breeze blows off the sea, A hundred thousand chil-deren lay on the Battery, They come from Murphy's buildings, oh the noise would stop a clock, Ah, there's no preambulatory with the babies on our block. There's the Clearys and the Learys, from the sweet backwater side, They're laying on the Battery and they're gazing at the tide, All royal blood and normal, all of Dan O'Connell stock, Singing "Little Sally Waters" with the babies on our block. It's good morning to you landlord, and how are you today, When Patrick Murphy Escue-ire comes down the alleyway In a shiny silken beaver, he's as solid as a rock, The envy of the neighbor boys aliving off our block. There's the Brennans and the Gannons, Far Down and Connaught men, Right easy with the shovel and so handy with the pen, All neighborly and friendly, with relations by the flock, Singing "Little Sally Waters" with the babies on our block. This one is in much the same vein: Paddy Duffy's Cart The many happy evenings I spent when but a lad, On Paddy Duffy's lumber cart, quite safe away from dad, It stood down on the corner, near the old lamplight, You'd see a congregation there on every Summer night. Ah, there was Tommy Dobson, now a sena-tore, Jimmy Flynn and Johnny Glynn, ah they were killed in war, All merry boyish comrades, recollections bring, All seated there in Duffy's cart on Summer nights to sing. We'd gather in the evening, all honest working boys, And climb on Paddy Duffy's cart, for no one marred our joys, All seated in the moonlight, laughing in it's rays, I love to talk of old New York, and of my boyish days. Ah, there was Henry Gleason, now a millionaire, Curly Bob and Whitey Hobb, they're living on the air, All merry boyish comrades, recollections bring, All seated there in Duffy's cart, on Summer nights to sing. Oh merry little maidens, so naughty, neat and coy, Asmiling up at Duffy's cart, upon their sweetheart boy, It made a jealous feeling, a quiet piece of chaff, But all in play it died away, and ended with a laugh. Oh, there was Bobby Thompson, he was a chum of mine, Larry Fehr and Sandy Greer, they died in forty-nine, All merry boyish comrades, recollections bring, All seated there on Duffy's cart, on Summer nights to sing.