HUMOUR GRAVi; ] ( .^ A ^. ^ 4 is jf ifc ^ ,. * * i* . iflL^ *i ... JJL m w a :_, . .A .A a. * THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Post &vo. cloth limp, 2s. 6d. per volume. THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY. A JOURNEY ROUND MY ROOM. By XAVIER DE MAISTRE. Trans- lated by HENRY ATTWELL. LATTER-DAY LYRICS. Edited by W. DAVENPORT ADAMS. QUIPS AND QUIDDITIES. Selected by W. DAVENPORT ADAMS. THE AGONY COLUMN OF 'THE TIMES,' from 1800 to 1870. Edited, with an Introduction, by ALICE CLAY. BALZAC'S 'COMEDIE HUMAINE' and its Author. With Transla- tions by H. H. WALKER. MELANCHOLY ANATOMIZED : a Popular Abridgment of 'Burton's Anatomy of Melancholv.' GASTRONOMY AS A FINE ART. By BRILLAT-SAVARIN. THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES DICKENS. LITERARY FRIVOLITIES, FANCIES, FOLLIES, AND FROLICS. By W. T. DOBSON. POETICAL INGENUITIES AND ECCENTRICITIES. Selected and Edited by W. T. DOBSON. THE CUPBOARD PAPERS. By FIN-BEC. ORIGINAL PLAYS by W. S. GILBERT. FIRST SERIES. Containing : The Wicked World Pygmalion and Galatea Charity The Princess The Palace of Truth Trial by Jury. ORIGINAL PLAYS by W. S. GILBERT. SECOND SERIES. Containing: Broken Hearts Engaged Sweethearts Gretchen Dan'l Druce Tom Cobb-H.M.S. Pinafore- -The Sorcerer The Pirates of Penzance. SONGS OF IRISH WIT AND HUMOUR. Selected and Edited by A. PERCEVAL GRAVES. ANIMALS AND THEIR MASTERS. By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. SOCIAL PRESSURE. By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. CURIOSITIES OF CRITICISM. By HENRY J. JENNINGS. THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Illustrated by J. GORDON THOMSON. PENCIL AND PALETTE. By ROBERT KEMPT. LITTLE ESSAYS ; Sketches and Characters, by CHARLES LAMB. Selected from his Letters by PERCY FITZGERALD. CLERICAL ANECDOTES. By JACOB LARWOOD. FORENSIC ANECDOTES ; or, Humour and Curiosities of the Law and Men of Law. By JACOB LARWOOD. THEATRICAL ANECDOTES. By JACOB LARWOOD. CAROLS OF COCKAYNE. By HENRY S. LEIGH. JEUX D'ESPRIT. Edited by HENRY S. LEIGH. TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON. By E. LYNN LINTON. WITCH STORIES. By E. LYNN LINTON. OURSELVES : Essays on Women. By E. LYNN LINTON. PASTIMES AND PLAYERS. By ROBERT MACGREGOR. THE NEW PAUL AND VIRGINIA. By W. H. MALLOCK. THE NEW REPUBLIC. By W. H. MALLOCK. THOREAU : His Life and Aims. By H. A. PAGE. MUSES OF MAYFAIR. Edited by H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL. PUCK ON PEGASUS. By H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL. Illustrated. PEGASUS RE-SADDLED. By H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL. Illus- trated by Du MAURIER. PUNIANA. By the Hon. HUGH ROWLEY. Illustrated. MORE PUNIANA. By the Hon. HUGH ROWLEY, Illustrated. THE PHILOSOPHY OF HANDWRITING. By DON FELIX DE SALAMANCA. BY STREAM AND SEA. By WILLIAM SENIOR. OLD STORIES RE-TOLD. By WALTER THORNBVRY. LEAVES FROM A NATURALIST'S NOTE-BOOK. By Dr. ANDREW WILSON. CHAT TO &* WIND US, PICCADILLY, W. SONGS OF IRISH WIT AND HUMOUR SELECTED BY ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1884 [All rights reserved] LONDON I PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET GIFT PREFACE. f~ RTSH Wit and Humour have so caught the popular fancy, that no apology is due for the issue, in ' The May fair Library,' of this collec- tion of lyrics, in which the amatory, convivial, martial, predatory, and philosophical instincts of Irishmen have found droll or epigrammatic expression. So complete a collection of the kind could only have been made during the last few years, within which time copyright in Moore's and most of Lover's writings has expired. And I am not only the first in the field in this respectj^^jjjjjjpll^^urjiej: advantage of the permis- 204 PREFACE. sion to draw upon copyright poems by Sir Samuel Ferguson, Mr. William Allingham, Dr. J. F. Waller, Mr. T. D. Sullivan, M.P., and Mr. T. C. Irwin, leading living representatives of Irish poetry. This permission I have freely availed myself of, and now gratefully acknowledge to the above-named authors. THE EDITOR. 6 HAINES HILL, TAUNTON : St. Patrick's Day, 1884. CONTENTS. INTROD UCTION: ST. PATRICK'S DAY PAGE J. F. Waller. xiii LOVE SONGS. WE MAY ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD . MILD MABEL KELLY THE GIRL I LOVE MARY OF TIPPERARY LOVE AND REASON To LADIES' EYES KITTY OF COLERAINE. LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE . THE BOYS OF KILKENNY SONG . . . . YOUGHALL HARBOUR . THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL Moore 3 St. Carolan . 5 Anon. l 7 Lover 9 Sheridan n Moore 12 Anon. 14 Moore 16 Anon. 18 Sheridan 20 Anon.* 21 Allingham 23 1 Translated from the Celtic by J. J. Callanan. 2 Translated from the Celtic by Sir S. Ferguson. CONTENTS. MOLLY CAREW. THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING PASTHEEN FINN . SONG .... THE ROSE OF KENMARE . SONG .... NANCY THE PRIDE OF THE WEST THE LOW-BACKED CAR DRINK TO HER RORY O'MORE . THE YOUNG MAY MOON . LOVELY MARY DONNELLY SONG .... LONESOME LOVERS THE NIGHT DANCE FLY NOT YET . I'M NOT MYSELF AT ALL . MOLLEEN OGE RINGS AND SEALS < . CHARMING JUDY CALLAGHAN RIDING DOUBLE . LYING .... PURTY MOLLY BRALLAGHAN GOING TO CONFESS LOVE AND MARRIAGE 1 Translated from the Celtic by Sir PAGE . Lover 25 Moore 29 . Anon. 1 31 . Sheridan 32 . A. P. Graves . 34 Sheridan . 37 . A. P. Graves. 38 . Lover 4i Moore 44 Lover 46 Moore 49 Allingham 5 1 Sheridan 54 A. P. Graves . 55 Moore 60 . Moore 62 Lover . 64 A. P. Graves . 67 . Moore 69 Probably Front 7i A. P. Graves . 75 Sheridan 77 $A Lady of\ ' \ Quality . ( 79 . A. P. Graves. 82 Sheridan 84 r S. Ferguson. CONTENTS. PAGE FAN FITZGERL . A. P. Graves. 8 5 A Kiss A L'ANTIQUE Moore 87 THE 'WHISTLIN' THIEF* . Lover 90 * JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING ' A. P. Graves. 93 FIXIN' THE DAY A. P. Graves. 96 ILL OMENS Moore 100 THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH . Moore 102 WIDOW MACHREE Lover . IO4 THE WIDOW MALONE . Lever 107 MARY OF THE CURLS . J. F. Waller . no THE RAKE'S APOLOGY . J. F. Waller. 112 THE FIRST CUCKOO IN SPRING . . J. F. Waller. 114 LOVE IN REALITY . J. F. Waller^ 116 * WON'T YOU LEAVE us A LOCK YOUR HAIR? ' . F |y. F. Waller. 119 DRINKING SONGS. THE CRUISKEEN LAWN . . Anon. 125 THE MONKS OF THE SCREW . . y. P. Curran. 127 DRINK OF THIS CUP Moore 128 WHISKY . Joseph O'Leary 130 BARRY OF MACROOM Anon. 133 ONE BOTTLE MORE . Anon. 136 AIR 'DON C^SAR ' . . . John O^Keefe . 138 TONY LUMPKIN'S SONG . . O. Goldsmith . 139 1 From the Celtic. CONTENTS. SONGS OF FEASTING AND FIGHTING. PAGE O'RORKE'S NOBLE FARE . . Dean Swift . H3 THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH . E. Lysaght . 147 LARRY MCHALE . . Lever . 149 JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE Anon. 151 THE RAKES OF MALLOW . E. Lysaght 154 THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS . Maginn I 5 6 GARRYOWEN . Anon. 159 THE KERRY RECRUIT . . Anon. 161 LANIGAN'S BALL . . Anon. 164 SONGS OF SPORT AND OCCUPATION. 'DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART LIES UNDER YOUR FEET, LOVE , IT |y. F. Waller . 169 THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG . . J. F. Waller. 171 THE IRISH SPINNING-WHEEL . A. P. Graves . 174 DARBY THE BLAST . Lever . 178 THE BOWLD SOJER BOY . Lover 1 80 THE LEPRECAUN, OR FAIRY SHOEO . MAKER ^Alhngham . 183 THE Fox HUNT . Anon. 1 . 187 BOATMAN'S HYMN THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG FATHER O'FLYNN. Sir S. Ferguson 2 190 Thomas Irwin 192 A. P. Graves . 196- Edited by A. P. Graves. From the Irish. CONTENTS. PAGE TOM MOODY .... A. Cherry 198 THE COUNTY OF LIMERICK BUCK-HUNT Anon. . 200 THE POACHER .... C. G. Halpine 2O4 THE IRISH REAPER'S SONG T. C. Irwin . 206 O'FARRELL THE FlDDLER A. P. Graves. 211 WINDLASS SONG . Allingham 215 THE MILKMAID Allingham 217 THE KILRUDDERY HUNT. Anon. . 22O SONGS OF PHILOSOPHY. COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE Moore 227 BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES . . A. Daw son . 229 PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY Lover 234 RIDING TREBLE . . . A. P. Graves . 236 THE GLASS OF WHISKY Anon. 2 3 8 ESCRIPTIVE SONGS. BLARNEY CASTLE Prout 243 THE GROVES OF BLARNEY Milliken 246 THE BLARNEY STONE . Prout 249 CORK is THE EDEN FOR YOU, LOVE,^ AND ME . . . J John Wood 250 DE GROVES OF DE POOL R. Milliken . 254 THE ATTRACTIONS OF A FASHIONABLE^ p ^ a ^ 2 ^ IRISH WATERING-PLACE . .j BELLEWSTOWN RACES . . . Anon. . .260 CONTENTS. SONGS IN EXTREMIS. PAGE THE BANTRY GIRLS' LAMENT FOR^I . \-Anon. . 26 1; JOHNNY . . .. .J DRIMMIN DUBH DHEELISH , . Anon. . . 267 FATHER MOLLOY . .. . Lover. . 270 THE POOR MAN'S LABOUR'S NEVER DONE Anon. . . 273 A LAMENT FOR DONNYBROOK . T. C. Irwin . 275 THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS\ w Maher g STRETCHED . . . ./ POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS. THE WOMAN OF THREE Cows . J. C. Mangan 283 RIGGED OUT . . . T. D. Sullivan 287 MR. ORATOR PUFF . . . Moore . 290 AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG ON A") <-, ^ SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET . . . j L A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE Swiff. . 294 A PROSPECT . . . E. Lysaght . 299 LAST NIGHT AS I SLEPT . . Anon. . 302 LARRY O'GAFF . . . Lover . . 304 PADDY O'RAFTHER . . . Lover. . 307 THE ANATOMY OF THE OYSTER . E. Forbes . 310 ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN . Anon. . .313 INTRODUCTION. S7\ PATRICK'S DAY. y^HE white and the orange, the blue and green, boys, ^J We'll blend them together in concord to-night ; The orange most sweet amid green leaves is seen, boys, The loveliest pansy is blue and white. The light of the day, As it glides away, Paints with orange the white clouds that float in the west : And the billows that roar Round our own island shore Lay their green heads to rest on the blue heaven's bosom, Where sky and sea meet in the distance away : As Nature thus shows us how well she can fuse 'em, We'll blend them in love on St. Patrick's Day. The hues of the prism, philosophers say, boys, Are nought but the sunlight resolved into parts : They're beauteous, no doubt ; but I think that the ray, boys, Unbroken, more lights up and warms our hearts. INTRODUCTION. Each musical tone, Struck one by one, Makes melody sweet, it is true, on the ear But let the hand ring All at once every string And, oh ! there is harmony now that is glorious, In unison pealing to heaven away ; For union is beauty, and strength victorious, In hues, tones, or hearts, on St. Patrick's Day. ill Those hues in our bosoms be sure to unite, boys : Let each Irish heart wear those emblems so true ; Be fresh as the green, and be pure as the white, boys, Be bright as the orange, sincere as blue. I care not a jot Be your scarf white or not, If you love as a brother each child of the soil ; I ask not your creed, If you'll stand in her need To the land of your birth in the hour of her dolours, The foe of her foes, let them be who they may ; Then, ' Fusion of hearts, and confusion of colours ! ' Be the Irishman's toast on St. Patrick's Day. J. F. WALLER. LOVE SONGS \ WE MAY ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD. may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet and then flies to the rest ; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, to be off to the west ; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, whenever your goblet is crown'd, Thro this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. B 2 WE MAY ROAM THRO" THIS WORLD. In England the garden of beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery placed within call \ But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watched after all. Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, Which warns the touch while winning the sense, Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, &c. In France, when the heart of woman sets sail, On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye ; While the daughters of Erin keep the boy, Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe, and beams of joy, The same as he looked when he left the shore. Then remember, &c MOORE. MILD MABEL KELLY. WHOEVER the youth who by Heaven's decree Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright head of thine, Tis certain that he From all sorrow is free Till the day of his death, if a life so divine Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree ; Mild Mabel-ni- Kelly, bright Coolun of curls, All stately and pure as the swan on the lake ; Her mouth of white teeth as a palace of pearls, And the youth of the land are lovesick for her sake. No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land That she knows not to sing, in a voice so enchanting That the cranes on the strand Fall asleep where they stand. Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily, ne'er wanting To shed its mild radiance o'er bosom or hand : MILD MABEL KELLY. The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray More blue than her eye human eye never saw : Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray, Dear lady, I drink to you, Slainte go bragh ! CAROLAN. ( Trans, from the Celtic by Sir Samuel Ferguson. ) THE GIRL I LOVE. JHE girl I love is comely, straight, and tall ; Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall ; Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free : Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be ! The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek ; Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek ; Her lips like cherries on a summer tree : Here's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be ! When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound, And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round ; The barrel is full, but its heart we soon shall see : Come, here's to that charming maid, whoe'er she be ! THE GIRL I LOVE. Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign, Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain, I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me : Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she be ! Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay, And five times five, for my love one hour each day ; Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree : Oh, dear one ! I drink a fond deep health to thee ! ANON. (Trans, by J. J. Callanan.) MARY OF TIPPER ARY. sweet Tipperary, See light-hearted Mary : Her step, like a fairy, scarce ruffles the dew, As she joyously springs, And as joyously sings, Disdaining such things as a stocking or shoe ! For she goes bare-footed, Like Venus or Cupid : And who'd be so stupid to put her in silk, When the dew-drops bespangle Her sweet foot and ankle, As she trips o'er the lawn At the blush of the dawn As she trips o'er the lawn with her full pail of milk. For the dance when arrayed, See this bright mountain maid io MARY OP TIPPERARY. If her hair she would braid with young beauty's fond lure, O'er some clear fountain stooping, Her dark tresses looping : Diana herself ne'er had mirror more pure ! How lovely that toilet ! Would fashion dare soil it With paint or with patches when nature bestows A beauty more simple, In mirth's artless dimple, Heaven's light in her eye (The soft blue of the sky) Heaven's light in her eye, and a blush like the rose ? LOVER. LOVE AND REASON. ^ OULD I her faults remember, Forgetting every charm, Soon would impartial reason The tyrant love disarm : But when enraged I number Each failing of her mind, Love still suggests each beauty, And sees while reason's blind. SHERIDAN TO LADIES' EYES. ladies' eyes around, boy, We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten Yon airy bow'rs, yon airy bow'rs, The countless eyes that brighten This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find love there, boy, So drink them all ! so drink them all ! Some looks there are so holy, They seem but giv'n, they seem but giv'n As splendid beacons, solely To light to heav'n, to light to heav'n. TO LADIES" EYES. 13 While some oh ! ne'er believe them With tempting ray, with tempting ray, W r ould lead us (God forgive them !) The other way, the other way. But fill the cup where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find love there, boy, So drink them all ! so drink them all ! In some, as in a mirror, Love seems portray'd, love seems portray'd, But shun the flattering error, 'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. Himself has fix'd his dwelling In eyes we know, in eyes we know, And lips but this is telling So here they go ! so here they go ! Fill up, fill up where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find love there, boy, So drink them all ! so drink them all ! MOORE. KITTY OF COLERAINE. > S beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk for the fair of Cole- raine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. ' Oh, what shall I do now ! 'twas looking at you now, I'm sure such a pitcher I'll ne'er see again. 'Twas the pride of my dairy oh, Barney McCleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine.' I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her That such a misfortune should give her such pain ; A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again KITTY OF COLERA1NE. 15 'Twas the haymaking season I can't tell the reason, Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain, For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. ANON, LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. ESBIA hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth ; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises ; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light, surprises ! Oh, my Nora Creina, dear ! My gentle, bashful Nora Creina ! Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina ! Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. LESBIA HATH A .BEAMING EYE. 17 Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases ! Yes, my Nora Creina, dear \ My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! Nature's dress Is loveliness The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. Lesbia hath a wit refin'd, But when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber Love reposes Bed of peace ! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. Oh, my Nora Creina, dear ! My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! Wit, tho' bright, Hath not the light That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. MOORE. THE BO YS OF KILKENNY. H, the boys of Kilkenny are nate roving blades, And whenever they meet with the nice little maids, They kiss them and coax them and spend their money free ! Oh, of all the towns in Ireland, Kilkenny for me ! Through the town of Kilkenny there runs a clear stream, In the town of Kilkenny there lives a fair dame : Her cheeks are like roses, and her lips much the same, Or a dish of ripe strawberries smothered in cream. Her eyes are as black as Kilkenny's famed coal, And 'tis they through my poor heart have burned a big hole ; THE BOYS OF KILKENNY. 19 Her mind, like its river, is deep, clear, and pure, And her heart is more hard than its marble, I'm sure. Oh, Kilkenny's a fine town, that shines where it stands, And the more I think on it the more my heart warms : If I was in Kilkenny I'd feel quite at home, For it's there I'd get sweethearts, but here I get none. ANON. SONG. CJv NE'ER could any lustre see In eyes that would not look on me ; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art ? I will own the colour true, When yielding blushes aid their hue. Is her hand so soft and pure ? I must press it, to be sure ; Nor can I be certain then, Till it, grateful, press again. Must I, with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me. SHERIDAN, YOUGHALL HARBOUR. NE Sunday morning into Youghall walking, I met a maiden upon the way, Her little mouth sweet as fairy music, Her soft cheeks blushing like dawn of day. I laid a bold hand upon her bosom, And ask'd a kiss ; but she answered, ' No : Fair sir, be gentle, do not tear my mantle ; 'Tis none in Erin my grief can know. ' Tis but a little hour since I left Youghall, And my love forbade me to return ; And now my weary way I wander Into Cappoquin, a poor girl forlorn. Then do not tempt me ; for, alas ! I dread them Who with tempting proffers teach girls to roam, Who'd first deceive us, then, faithless, leave us, And send us shamefaced and barefoot home/ 22 YOUGHALL HARBOUR. c My heart and hand here ! I mean you marriage ; I have loved like you and known love's pain ; If you turn back now to Youghall Harbour You ne'er shall want house or home again. You shall have a lace cap like any lady, Cloak and capuchin, too, to keep you warm, And, if God please, maybe, a little baby By-and by to nestle within your arm. 7 ANON. ( Trans, from the Celtic by Sir Samuel Ferguson. ) THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL. e y es tne y b eam an d they twinkle, Her lips have made smiling more fair ; On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle, But thousands of curls in her hair. She's little, you don't wish her taller ; Just half through the teens is her age ; And baby or lady to call her, Were something to puzzle a sage ! Her walk is far better than dancing ; She speaks as another might sing ; And all by an innocent chancing, Like lambkins and birds in the spring. UnskilPd in the airs of the city, She's perfect in natural grace ; 24 THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL. She's gentle and truthful and witty, And ne'er spends a thought on her face Her face, with the fine glow that's in it, As fresh as an apple-tree bloom ; And oh ! when she comes, in a minute, Like sunbeams she brightens the room. As taking in mind and in feature, How many will sigh for her sake ! I wonder the sweet little creature What sort of a wife she would make. W. ALLINGHAM. MOLLY CAREW. k CH hone ! and what will I do ? Sure my love is all crost Like a bud in the frost, And there's no use at all in my going to bed ; For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head And 'tis all about you, My sweet Molly Carew And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame : You're complater than Nature In every feature, The snow can't compare With your forehead so fair, And I rather would see just one blink of your eye Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky And by this and by that, For the matter o' that, You're more distant by far than that same ! Och hone ! wirrasthrue ! I'm alone in this world without you, 26 MOLLY CARE IV. Och hone ! but why should I spake Of your forehead and eyes, When your nose it defies Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme ? Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime. And then for your cheek ! Throth, 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell as he'd rather. Then your lips ! oh Machree ! In their beautiful glow They a patthern might be For the cherries to grow. 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; But at this time o' day, Ton my conscience, I'll say Such cherries might tempt a man's father ! Och hone ! wirrasthrue ! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone ! by the man in the moon, You taze me all ways That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief Pat Magee, As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me, MOLLY CAREW. 27 Tho' the piper I bate, For fear the owld chate Wouldn't play you your, favourite tune ; And when you're at mass My devotion you crass, For 'tis thinking of you , I am, Molly Carew ; While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep : Oh, lave oif that bonnet, Or else I'll lave on it The loss of my wandherin' sowl ! Och hone ! wirrasthrue ! Och hone ! like an owl, Day is night, dear, to me, without you ! Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; For there's girls by the score That love me and more ; And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the sthreet ; Throth, you'd open your eyes, And you'd die with surprise, To think 'twasn't you was come to it ! And, faith, Katty Naile, And her cow, I go bail, 28 MOLLY CAREW. Would jump if I'd say ' Katty Naile 3 name the day/ And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May, While she's short and dark like a cowld winther's day, Yet if you don't repent Before Easther, when Lent Is over I'll marry for spite ; Och hone ! wirrasthrue ! And when I die for you, My ghost will haunt you every night. LOVER. THE TIME PVR LOST IN WOOING. time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes Has been my heart's undoing. Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the love she brought me, My only books Were woman's looks, And folly all they taught me. Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him, the Sprite, Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted, 30 THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. Like him, too, Beauty won me ; But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turn'd away, Oh ! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going ? And is my proud heart growing Too cold, or wise, For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing ? No vain, alas ! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever ! MOORE. PASTHEEN FINN. k H, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight, Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright; Like the apple-blossom her bosom white, And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright. Then Oro, come with me, come with me, come with me, Oro, come with me, brown girl sweet ! And oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, If you would come with me, my brown girl sweet ! Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen ! Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen ; But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, Than the glass I drank to the health ol my queen. Then Oro, &c. ANON. ( Trans, front the Celtic by Sir Samuel Ferguson.) SONG. IVE Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast, But health and good humour to make her his toast ; If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat, And six feet or four we'll ne'er quarrel for that. Whate'er her complexion, I vow I don't care : If brown, it is lasting more pleasing, if fair ; And though in her face I no dimples should see, Let her smile and each dell is a dimple to me. Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen, And her eyes may be e'en any colour but green ; For in eyes, though so various the lustre and hue, I swear I've no choice only let her have two. SONG. 33 Tis true I'd dispense with a throne on her back ; And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black ; A little round chin, too, 's a beauty, I've heard ; But I only desire she mayn't have a beard. SHERIDAN. THE ROSE OF KENMARE. C^ JIT ' VE been soft in a small way ^li On the girleens of Galway, And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare ; But there's no use denyin' No girl I've set eye on Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare. Oh, where Can her like be found ? Nowhere, The country round, Spins at her wheel Daughter as true, Sets in the reel, Wid a slide of the shoe, A slinderer, Tinderer, Purtier, Wittier Colleen than you, Rose, aroo ! THE ROSE OF KENMARE. 35 Her hair mocks the sunshine, And the soft silver moonshine Her white arm and bosom completely eclipse ; Whilst the nose of the jewel Slants straight as Cam Tual From the heaven in her eye to her heather- sweet lips. Oh, where, &c. Did your eyes ever follow The wings of the swallow, Here and there, light as air, o'er the meadow-field glance ? For, if not, you've no notion Of the exquisite motion Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance, Oh, where, &c. If y' enquire why the nightingale Still shuns the invitin' gale That wafts every song-bird but her to the West, Faix, she knows, I suppose, Ould Kenmare has a rose That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest. Oh, where, &c. When her voice gives the warnin' For the milkin' in the mornin',' Ev'n the cow known for hornin' comes runnin' to her pail j D 2 36 THE ROSE OF KENMARE. The lambs play about her And the small bonneens l snout her, Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail. Oh, where, &c. When at noon from our labour We draw neighbour wid neighbour From the heat of the sun to the shilter of the tree, Wid spuds 2 fresh from the bilin' And new milk you come smilin', All the boys' hearts beguilin', Alanna machree ! Oh, where, &c. But there's one sweeter hour, When the hot day is o'er, And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above, And she sittin' in the middle, When she's guessed Larry's riddle, Cries, ' Now for your fiddle, my love, my love.' Oh, where, &c. ' Bonneens,' young pigs. 2 ' Spuds,' potatoes. 8 * Alanna machree,' my hf art's darling. SONG. V>p HOUGH cause for suspicion appears, ~l Yet proofs of her love, too, are strong ; I'm a wretch if I'm right in my fears, And unworthy of bliss if I'm wrong. What heart-breaking torments from jealousy flow, Ah ! none but the jealous the jealous can know ! When blest with the smiles of my fair, I know not how much I adore : Those smiles let another but share, And I wonder I prized them no more ! Then whence can I hope a relief from my woe, When the falser she seems, still the fonder I grow ! SHERIDAN. NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST. have dark lovely looks on the shores where the Spanish From their gay ships came gallantly forth, And the sweet shrinking violets sooner will vanish Than modest blue eyes from our north ; But oh ! if the fairest of fair-daughtered Erin Gathered round at her golden request, There's not one of them all that she'd think worth comparing With Nancy, the pride of the west. You'd suspect her the statue the Greek fell in love with, If you chanced on her musing alone, Or some goddess great Jove was offended above with, And chilled to a sculpture of stone ; NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST. 39 But you'd think her no colourless, classical statue, When she turned from her pensive repose, With her glowing grey eyes glancing timidly at you, And the blush of a beautiful rose. Have you heard Nancy sigh ? then you've caught the sad echo From the wind-harp enchantingly borne. Have you heard the girl laugh ? then you've heard the first cuckoo Chant summer's delightful return. And the songs that poor ignorant country-folk fancy, The lark's liquid raptures on high, Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of Nancy, Flowing up and refreshing the sky. And though her foot dances so soft from the heather To the dew-twinkling tussocks of grass, It but warns the bright drops to slip closer together To image the exquisite lass ; We've no men left among us, so lost to emotion, Or scornful, or cold to her sex, Who'd resist her, if Nancy once took up the notion To set that soft foot on their necks. Yet, for all that the bee flies for honey-dew fragrant To the half- opened flower of her lips ; 40 NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST. And the butterfly pauses, the purple-eyed vagrant, To play with her pink finger-tips ; , From all human lovers she locks up the treasure A thousand are starving to taste, And the fairies alone know the magical measure Of the ravishing round of her waist. THE LOW-BACKED CAR. HTHEN first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market day, A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay. And when the hay was blooming grass And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in her low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his ould poll, And looked after the low-backed car. In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death in warlike cars 42 THE LOW-BACKED CAR. While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her right eye, That knock men down in the market-town, As right and left they fly While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far, For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these ; While she among her poultry sits Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love ! While she sits in the low-backed car, Her lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin' As she sits in the low-backed car. Oh, I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, THE LOW-BACKED CAR. 43 Than a coach-and-four and gold galore, 1 And a lady for my bride. For the lady would sit fornenst 2 me On a cushion made with taste, And Peggy would sit beside me With my arm around her waist While we drove in the low-backed car To be married by Father Maher. Oh, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-backed car ! LOVER. 1 ' Galore,' in plenty. - ' Fornenst,' in front of. DRINK TO HER. RINK to her who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh ! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone ; By other fingers play'd. It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy ! At Beauty's door of glass When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her, ' Which might pass ? ; She answered, ' He who could.' DRINK TO HER. 45 With golden key Wealth thought To pass but 'twould not do : While Wit a diamond brought Which cut his bright way through. So here's, &c. The love that seeks a home Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome, That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh ! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere ; Its native home's above, Tho' woman keeps it here ! Then drink to her, &c. MOORE. RORY O'MORE. fOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn : He was bold as the hawk, she soft as the dawn : 1 He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. ' Now, Rory, be aisy,' sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye ; 'With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about, Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out!' ' Och, jewel,' says Rory, 'that same is the way You've thrated my heart this many a day : And 'tis plased that I am and why not, to be sure ? For it's all for good luck,' says bold Rory O'More. ' Indeed, then,' says Kathleen, ' don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike, RORY O'MORE. 47 For the ground that I walk on, he loves, I'll be bound.' ' Faith/ says Rory, ' I'd rather love you than the ground.' ' NOWJ Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; Sure, I dhrames every night that I'm hating you so.' ' Och,' says Rory, ' that same I'm delighted to hear ; For dhrames always go by contraries, my dear. So, jewel, keep dhramin' that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie; And 'tis pleased that I am and why not, to be sure ? Since 'tis all for good luck,' says bold Rory O'More. ' Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough, Sure, I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff, And I've made myself drinking your health quite a baste, So I think after that I may talk to the priest.' Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white without freckle or speck ; And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips. Don't you think he was right ? RORY O:MORE. ' Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before.' c Then here goes another,' says he, ' to make sure ; For there's luck in odd numbers,' says Rory O'More. LOVER. THE YOUNG MAY MOON. . young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love - How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, While the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! Then, awake ! the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ! Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love ! THE YOUNG MAY MOON. Then, awake ! till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or in watching the flight Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. MOORE. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. k H, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ; If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest : Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are ! and they give me many a shock : Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. E 2 52 LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up ; Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup ; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit- Monday night exceeded all before : No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor ; But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay ! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet ; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised ; But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue : LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. 53 But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town ! The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady I'd own it was but right. Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small, With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall ! Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress ! It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less ; The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low ; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go. ALLINGHAM, SONG. bard, O Time, discover, . , . With wings first made thee move ? Ah ! sure it was some lover Who ne'er had left his love ! For who that once did prove The pangs which absence brings, Though but one day He were away, Could picture thee with wings ? What bard, &c. SHERIDAN. LONESOME LOVERS. IN KERRY. k CHONE ! Patrick Blake, You're off up to Dublin, And, sure, for your sake, I'm the terrible trouble in ; For I thought that I knew What my < Yes ' and my ' No ' meant,' Till I tried it on you That misfortunate moment. But somehow I find, Since I sent Pat away, Must be, in my mind, I was wishful he'd stay. While ago the young rogue Came and softly stooped over, And gave me a pogue As I stretched in the clover ; 56 LONESOME LOVERS. How I boxed his two ears And axed him ' How dare he ? ' Now I'd let him for years 'Tis the way women vary. For somehow, &c. Oh, why wouldn't he wait To put his comether Upon me complate, When we both were together ? But no ! Patrick, no ; You must have me consentin' Too early ; and so Kitty's late for repentin'. For somehow, &c. LONESOME LOVERS. 57 IN DUBLIN. H ! Kitty O'Hea, I'm the terrible trouble in, For you're at Rossbeigh And myself is in Dublin Through mistaking, bedad ! Your blushes, and that trick Of sighing you had, Showed a softness for Patrick. And yet from my mind A voice seems to speak : ' Go back, and you'll find That she's fond of you, Blake ! ' Oh ! Dublin is grand, As all must acknowledge, Wid the bank on one hand, On the other the college. I'd be proud to be mayor Of so splendid a city ; But I'd far sooner share A cabin wid Kitty. 58 LONESOME LOVERS. And I may so some day, For the voice in my mind Keeps seeming to say : 'After all, she'll be kind.' Oh ! Dublin is fine, Wid her ships on the river, And her iligant line Of bridges for ever. But, Kitty, my dear, I'd exchange them this minute For our small little pier, And my boat, and you in it. And I may, &c. Here you've beautiful squares For all to be gay in, Promenading in pairs Wid the band music playing ; But if I'd my choice, Where our green hollies glisten, To Kitty's sweet voice I'd much rather listen. And I may, &c. Here's a wonderful park, Where the wild beasts are feedin', LONESOME LOVERS. 59 For the world like Noah's Ark Or the Garden of Eden ! But, faix ! of the two, I'd rather be sittin' Manoeuv'ring, aroo, Wid your comical kitten. And I may, &c. Yes, Dublin's a queen, Wid her gardens and waters, And her buildings between, For her sons and her daughters ; In learning so great, So lovely and witty : But she isn't complete At all without Kitty. And that voice in my mind 1 Go back to the South ! ' So I will, then, and find What you mean from her mouth. THE NIGHT DANCE. \ TRIKE the gay harp ! see, the moon is on high, And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, Obey the mute call and heave into motion. Then, sound notes the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest ! Again ! Again ! Oh ! could such heart-stirring music be heard In that city of statues described by romancers, So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr'd, And statues themselves all start into dancers ! Why, then, delay with such sounds in our ears, And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us ; While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, And, list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us ? THE NIGHT DANCE. 61 Again, that strain ! to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death's cold pulse bounding ! Again ! Again ! Oh ! what a bliss when the youthful and gay, Each with eye like sunbeam and foot like a feather, As dance the young hours to the music of May, Thus mingle sweet song and sunshine together ! MOORE. FLY NOT YET. LY not yet, 'tis just the hour . When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon. Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made ; Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh ! stay oh ! stay : Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that, oh ! 'tis pain To break its links so soon. Fly not yet, the fount that play'd In times of old to Ammon's shade, Though icy cold by day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn when night was near. FLY NOT YET. 63 And thus should woman's hearts and looks At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning. Oh ! stay oh ! stay : When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here ! MOORE. FM NOT MYSELF AT ALL. L H, I'm not myself at all, Molly dear, Molly dear, I'm not myself at all. Nothin' carin', nothin' knowin', Tis afther you I'm goin', Faith, your shadow 'tis I'm growin', Molly dear, And I'm not myself at all ! Th' other day I went confessing And I ask'd the father's blessin' ; ' But,' says I, ' don't give me one intirely, For I fretted so last year But the half o' me is here, So give the other half to Molly Brierly.' Oh ! I'm not myself at all ! I'M NOT MYSELF AT ALL. 65 Oh, I'm not myself at all, Molly dear, Molly dear, My appetite's so small I once could pick a goose ; But my buttons is no use, Faith, my tightest coat is loose, Molly dear, And I'm not myself at all ! If thus it is I waste, You'd betther, dear, make haste, Before your lover's gone away intirely ; If you don't soon change your mind, Not a bit of me you'll find And what 'ud you think' o' that, Molly Brierly?- Oh, I'm not myself at all ! Oh, rny shadow on the wall, Molly dear, Molly dear, Isn't like myself at all. For I've got so very thin, Myself says 'tisn't him, But that purty girl so slim, Molly dear, And I'm not myself at all ! If thus I smaller grew, All fretting, dear, for you, 'Tis you should make me up the deficiency 66 I'M NOT MYSELF AT ALL. So just let Father Taaff Make you my betther half, And you will not the worse for the addition be- Oh, I'm not myself at all ! I'll be not myself at all, Molly dear, Molly dear Till you my own I call ! Since a change o'er me there came Sure you might change your name And 'twould just come to the same, Molly dear, 'Twould just come to the same : For if you and I were one, All confusion would be gone, And 'twould simplify the matther intirely ; And 'twould save us so much bother, When we'd both be one another So listen now to rayson, Molly Brierly ; Oh, I'm not myself at all ! LOVER. MOLLEEN OGE. OLLEEN oge, my Molleen oge, Go put on your natest brogue, nd slip into your smartest gown, You rosy little rogue ; For a message kind I bear To yourself from ould Adair, That Pat the piper's come around, And there'll be dancfn' there. Oh, my Molleen, Oh, my colleen, We'll dance to Pat, And after that Collogue upon one chair. Molleen, dear, I'd not presume, To encroach into your room, But I'd forgot a fairin' I'd brought you from Macroom ; 68 MOLLEEN OGE. So open, and I swear Not one peep upon you there ! Tis a silver net to gather At the glass your golden hair. Oh, my Molleen, &c. Molleen pet my MOLLEEN pet, Faix, I'm fairly in a fret At the time you're tittivatin'. MOLLEEN, aren't you ready yet ? Now net, and gown, and brogue, Are you sure you're quite the vogue ? But, bedad, you look so lovely, I'll forgive you, Molleen oge. Oh, my Molleen, Oh, my colleen, We'll dance to Pat, And after that Upon one chair collogue. RINGS AND SEALS. O ! ' said the angry, weeping maid, The charm is broken ! once betrayed, Oh ! never can my heart rely On word, or look, or oath, or sigh. Take back the gifts so sweetly given, With promised faith and vows to heaven That little ring which, night and morn, With wedded truth my hand hath worn : That seal, which oft in moments blest, Thou hast upon my life impressed, And sworn its dewy spring should be A fountain sealed for only thee ! Take, take them back, the gift and vow, All sullied, lost, and hateful now ! ' I took the ring the seal I took ; While, oh ! her every tear and look Were such as angels look and shed, When man is by the world misled ! 70 RINGS AND SEALS. Gently I whispered, ' Fanny, dear ! Not half thy lover's gifts are here : Say, where are all the seals he gave To every ringlet's jetty wave, And where is every one he printed Upon that lip so ruby-tinted Seals, of the purest gem of bliss, Oh ! richer, softer, far than this ! And then the ring my love ! recall How many rings, delicious all, His arms around that neck have twisted Twining warmer far than this did ! Where are they all, so sweet, so many ? Oh ! dearest, give back all, if any ! ' While thus I murmured, trembling too, Lest all the nymph had vowed was true, I saw a smile relenting rise 'Mid the moist azure of her eyes, Like daylight o'er a sea of blue, While yet the air is dim with dew. She let her cheek repose on mine, She let my arms around her twine Oh ! who can tell the bliss one feels In thus exchanging rings and seals ! MOORE. CHARMING JUDY CALLAGHAN. JWAS on a windy night At two o'clock in the morning, An Irish lad so tight, All wind and weather scorning, At Judy Callaghan's door, Sitting upon the palings, His love-tale he did pour, And this was part of his wailings : Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan, Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan ! Oh ! list to what I say, Charms you've got like Venus ; Own your love you may, There's but the wall between us, 72 CHARMING JUDY CALLAGHAN. You lie fast asleep, Snug in bed and snoring ; Round the house I creep, Your hard heart imploring. Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan I've got a pig and a sow, I've got a sty to sleep 'em ; 'A calf and a brindled cow, And a cabin, too, to keep 'em ; Sunday hat and coat, An old grey mare to ride on ; Saddle and bridle, to boot, Which you may ride astride on. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. I've got an acre of ground ; I've got it set with praties ; I've got of 'baccy a pound ; I've got some tea for the ladies ; CHARMING JUDY CALLAGHAN. 73 I've got the ring to wed, Some whisky to make us gaily ; I've got a feather bed, And a handsome new shillelagh Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, . Charming Judy Callaghan. You've got a charming eye, You've got some spelling and reading ; You've got, and so have I, A taste for genteel breeding ; You're rich, and fair, and young, As everybody's knowing ; You've got a decent tongue Whene'er 'tis set agoing. Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. For a wife till death I am willing to take ye ! But, och ! I waste my breath The divil himself can't wake ye. 74 CHARMING JUDY CALLAGHAN. 'Tis just beginning to rain, So I'll get under cover ; To-morrow I'll come again, And be your constant lover. Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan. RIDING DOUBLE. ' to the fair, Me and Moll Malony, Seated, I declare, On a single pony- How am I to know that Molly's safe behind, Wid our heads in, oh ! that Awk'ard way inclined ? By her gentle breathin' Whispered past my ear, And her white arms wreathin' Warm around me here. Trottin' to the fair, Me and Moll Maloney, Seated, I declare, On a single pony. 76 RIDING DOUBLE. Yerrig ! 1 Masther Jack, Lift your forelegs higher, Or a rousin' crack Surely you'll require. ' Ah ! ' says Moll, ' I'm frightened That the pony '11 start,' And her hands she tightened On my happy heart ; Till widout reflecting 'Twasn't quite the vogue, Somehow, I'm suspectin' That I snatched a pogue? Trottin' to the fair, &c. ' Yerrig ! ' Gee-up ! 2 ' Pogue,' a kiss. L YING. If DO confess, in many a sigh, If My lips have breathed you many a lie And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them, for a lie or two ? Nay look not thus, with brow reproving : Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving ! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion ! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes ! Oh no ! believe me, lovely girl, When Nature turns your teeth to pearl, 78 LYING Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can Heaven decree That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn We've swearing kissed, and kissing sworn ! And now my gentle hints to clear, For once I'll tell you truth, my dear ! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures, And while he lies, his heart is yours ; But, oh ! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth ! SHERIDAN. PURTY MOLLY BRALLAGHAN. , H, then, ma'am dear, did you never hear of purty Molly Brallaghan ? Troth, dear, I've lost her, and I'll never be a man again Not a spot on my hide will another summer tan again, Since Molly she has left me all alone for to die. The place where my heart was you might aisy rowl a turnip in, It's the size of all Dublin and from Dublin to the Devil's Glen ; If she chose to take another, sure, she might have sent mine back agin, And not to leave me here all alone for to die ! Ma'am dear, I remember, when the milking- time was past and gone, We went into the meadows, where she swore I was the only man 8o PURTY MOLL\ BRALLAGHAN. That ever she could love yet, oh, the base and cruel one, After all that to leave me here alone for to die ! Ma'am dear, I remember, as we came home, the rain began, I rowled her in my frieze coat, though the devil a waistcoat I had on, And my shirt was rather fine- drawn yet, oh, the base and cruel one, After all that to leave me here all alone for to die ! I went and towld my tale to Father McDonnell, ma'am, And then I wint and axed advice of Counsellor O'Connell, ma'am, He told me promise-breaches had been ever since the world began. Now I have but the one pair, ma'am, and they are corduroy. Arrah, what could he mean, ma'am ? or what would you advise me to ? Must my corduroys to Molly go? In troth, I'm bothered what to do : I can't afford to lose both my heart and my breeches too, Yet what need I care, when I've only to die ? PURTY MOLLY BRALLAGHAN. Si Oh, the left side of my carcass is as wake as water- gruel, ma'am, I wish I had a carabine, I'd go and fight a duel, ma'am : Sure, it's better far to kill myself than to stay here to die : I'm hot and detarmined as a live salamander, ma'am : Won't you come to my wake, when I go my long meander, ma'am ; Oh, I'll feel myself as valiant as the famous Alexander, ma'am, When I hear yez crying round me, { Arrah, why did he die?' A LADY OF QUALITY. 1 The * long meander ' is very descriptive of an Irish funeral procession in the country. GOING TO CONFESS. LOVELY lass, with modest mien, Stole out one morning early ; The dew-drops glancing o'er the green Made all her pathway pearly. Young Lawrence, struck with Cupid's dart- Cupid's dart distressing As through the fields he saw her start, Sighed, ( She 's gone confessing ! Oh, vo ! 'twould ease my heart To earn the father's blessing.' The Father, with a twinkling eye, He watched my boyo cunning, Unnoticed by his colleen's eye Behind the bushes running. 1 How well,' he laughed, ' young Lawrence there, After all my pressing, GOING TO CONFESS. 83 With his sweetheart, I declare, Comes at last confessing. Oho ! I'll just take care To give the lad a lesson.' The pleasant priest unbarred the door, As solemn as a shadow : * How slow,' cried he, ' you've come before, How hot-foot now, my laddo. The serious steal with looks sedate, Seeking to be shriven ; But you, you're in no fitting state Now to be forgiven : So go within and wait, With all your thoughts on heaven.' The fair one following in a while Made out her faults with meekness ; The priest then asked her with a smile Had she no other weakness, And led, with that, young Lawrence in ; Her cheeks were now confessing. ( Well, since 'tis after all a sin Easy of redressing, Here, dear, I'd best begin To give you both my blessing.' G 2 -LOVE AND MARRIAGE. \ TILL the question I must parry, Still a wayward truant prove : Where I love, I must not marry ; Where I marry, cannot love. \Vere she fairest of creation, With the least presuming mind : Learned without affectation ; Not deceitful, yet refined ; Wise enough, but never rigid ; Gay, but not too lightly free ; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid ; Warm, yet satisfied with me : Were she all this ten times over, All that Heaven to earth allows, I should be too much her lover Ever to become her spouse, SHERIDAN. FAN FITZGERL. "TRRA, wirra ! ologone ! Can't ye lave a lad alone, Till he's proved, there's no tradition left of any other girl : Not even Trojan Helen, In beauty all excelling Who's been up to half the divlement of Fan Fitzgerl. With her brows of silky black Arched above for the attack, Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admirin' man; Masther Cupid, point your arrows, From this out, agin the sparrows, For you're bested at Love's archery by young Miss Fan See what showers of goolden thread Lift and fall upon her head, The likes of such a trammel-net at say was niver spread ; FAN FITZGERL. For, whin accurately reckoned, ; Twas computed that each second Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead. Now mention, if ye will, Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill, Or Ma'g'llicuddy's Reeks, renowned for cripplin' all they t can; Still the country-side confisses None of all its precipices Cause a quarther of the carnage of the nose of Fan. But your shatthered hearts suppose Safely steered apast her nose, She's a current and a reef beyand to wreck them roving ships. My meaning it is simple, For that current is her dimple, And the cruel reef 'twill coax ye to 's her coral lips. I might inform ye further Of her bosom's snowy murther, And an ankle ambuscadin' through her gown's de- lightful whirl ; But what need, when all the village Has forsook its peaceful tillage, And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl ! A KISS A L> ANTIQUE. EHOLD, my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold : Tis hallowed by the touch of them Who lived in classic hours of old. Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, Upon her hand this gem displayed, Nor thought that time's eternal lapse Should see it grace a lovlier maid. Look, darling, what a sweet design ! The more we gaze, it charms the more : Come closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties o'er. A KISS A L> ANTIQUE. Thou seest, it is a simple youth By some enamoured nymph embraced- Look, Nea, love ! and say in sooth, Is not her hand most dearly placed ? Upon his curled head behind It seems in careless play to lie ; Yet presses gently, half inclined To bring his lip of nectar nigh ! O happy maid ! too happy boy ! The one so fond and faintly loth, The other yielding slow to joy Oh, rare indeed, but blissful both ! Imagine, love, that I am he, And just as warm as he is chilling; Imagine, too, that thou art she, But quite as cold as she is willing. So may we try the graceful way In which their gentle arms are twined : And thus, like her, my hand I lay Upon thy wreathed hair behind. A KISS A r ANTIQUE. And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, As slow to mine thy head I move ; And thus our lips together meet, And thus I kiss thee O my love ! MOORE. THE < WHISTLIN' THIEF. ' "HEN Pat came o'er the hill, His colleen fair to see, His whistle low, but shrill, The signal was to be. (Pat whistles.} ' Mary,' the mother said, ' Some one is whistlin', sure ; ' Says Mary : ' Tis only the wind Is whistlin' thro' the door.' (Pat whistles a bit of a popular air.} I've liv'd a long time, Mary, In this wide world, my dear But a door to whistle like that I never yet did hear.' THE 'WIIISTLIN* THIEF: 91 ' But, mother, you know the fiddle Hangs close beside the chink, And the wind upon the strings Is playing the tune, I think. 7 ( The pig grunts. ) 4 Mary, I hear the pig, Unaisy in his mind. 7 'But, mother, you know they say That pigs can see the wind.' 1 That's thrue enough in the day ; But I think you may remark, That pigs, no more nor we, Can see anything in the dark.' (The dog barks.} ' The dog is barkin' now, The fiddle can't play that tune.' ' But, mother, the dogs will bark Whenever they see the moon.' ' But how could he see the moon, When you know the dog is blind ? Blind dogs won't bark at the moon, Nor fiddles be play'd by the wind. THE < WHISTLIN* THIEF'S : I'm not such a fool as you think, I know very well 'tis Pat : Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief, And go along home out o' that ! ' And you go off to bed, Don't play upon me your jeers ; For tho' I have lost my eyes, I haven't lost my ears ! ' LOVER. . c JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING: , H, Jenny, I'm not jesting, Believe what I'm protesting, And yield what I'm requesting These seven years through.' ' Ah, Lawrence, I may grieve you ; Yet, if I can't relieve you, Sure, why should I deceive you With words untrue ? But, since you must be courtin', There's Rosy and her fortune ; Tis rumoured your consortin' With her of late. Or there's your cousin Kitty, So charming and so witty, She'd wed you out of pity, Kind Kate.' 94 ' JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING.' c Fie ! Jenny, since I knew you, Of all the lads that woo you, None's been so faithful to you, If truth were told. Even when yourself was dartin' Fond looks at fickle Martin, Till off the thief went startin' For Sheela's gold/ ' And if you've known me longest, Why should your love be strongest, And his that's now the youngest, For that be worst ? ' 1 Fire, Jenny, quickest kindled Is always soonest dwindled : And thread the swiftest spindled Snaps first.' * If that's your wisdom, Larry, The longer I can tarry, The luckier I shall marry At long, long last.' * I've known of girls amusing Their minds, the men refusing, Till none were left for choosing At long, long last.' 1 Well, since it seems that marriage Is still the safest carriage, < JEN NY, I'M NOT JESTING.* 95 And all the world disparage The spinster lone ; Since you might still forsake me, I think I'll let you take me, Yes ! Larry, you may make me Your own ! ' FIXIN' THE DAY. PATRICK. ^, RRAH, answer me now, sweet Kitty Mulreddin, Why won't you be fixin' the day of our weddin'? KITTY. Now, Patrick O'Brien, what a hurry you're in : Can't you wait till the summer comes round to begin PATRICK. Oh, no, Kitty Machree, in all sinse and all raison, The winter's the properest marryin' saison ; For to comfort oneself from the frost and the rain, There's nothin' like weddin' in winter 'tis plain. F1X1W THE DAY. 97 KITTY. If it's only protection you want from the cowld, There's a parish that's called the Equator, I'm towld, That for single young men is kept hot through the year : Where's the use of your marryin' ? off wid you there ! PATRICK. But there's also a spot not so pleasantly warmed, Set aside for ould maids, if I'm rightly informed, Where some mornin', if still she can't make up her mind, A misfortunate colleen, called Kathleen, you'll find. KITTY. Is it threat'nin' you are that I'll die an ould maid, Who refused, for your sake, Mr. Laurence M'Quaide? Faix ! I think I'll forgive him ; for this I'll be bound, He'd wait like a lamb till the summer came round. . PATRICK. Now it's thinking I am that this same Mr. Larry Is what makes you so slow in agreein' to marry. H FIX IN* THE DAY. KITTY. And your wish to be settled wid me in such haste, Does't prove that you're jealous of him in the laste ? PATRICK. Well, we'll not say that Kitty '11 die an ould maid. KITTY. And we'll bother no more about Larry M'Quaide. PATRICK. But Kitty machree, sure them weddins in spring, When the Long Fast is out, are as common a thing As the turfs in a rick, or the stones on a wall : Faith ! you might just as well not be married at all. But a wed din', consider, at this side of Lent, Would be thought such a far more surprisin' event : So delightful to all at this dull time of year Now say ' yes ! ' for the sake of the neighbours, my dear ! KITTY. No, Patrick, we'll wed when the woods and the grass Wave a welcome of purtiest green, as we pass FIX IN' THE DAY. 99 Through the sweet cowslip meadow, and up by the mill, To the Chapel itself on the side of the hill : Where the thorn, that's now sighin' a widow's lamint, In a bridesmaid's costume '11 be smilin' contint, And the thrush and the blackbird pipe, ' Haste to the weddin' Of Patrick O'Brien and Kitty Mulreddin.' PATRICK. Will you really promise that, Kitty, you rogue ? KITTY. Whisper, Patrick, the contract I'll seal wid a pogue ! [Kissing him. H 2 ILL OMENS. ^HEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e'er was to press it alone, For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon ; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon ! As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly fresh from the night-flowers' kisses, Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. ILL OMENS. Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces, She brush'd him he fell, alas ! never to rise. ' Ah ! such,' said the girl, ' is jthe pride of our faces, For which the soul's innocence too often dies.' While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, She cull'd some, and kissed off its night-fallen dew ; And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too \ But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost. ' Ah ! this means,' said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning), 1 That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost ! ' MOORE. THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. ^HERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air And lamps from every casement shown ; While voices blithe within are singing, That seem to say c Come ' in every tone. Ah ! once how light, in life's young season, My heart had bounded at that sweet lay ; Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason If I should the syren call obey. And, see the lamps still livelier glitter, The syren lips more fondly sound ; No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter To sink in your rosy bondage bound. Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms Could bend to tyranny's rude control, Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms, And yield to a smile his freeborn soul ? THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. 10; Thus sung the Sage, while, slyly stealing, The nymphs their fetters round him cast, And, their laughing eyes, the while, concealing, Led Liberty's bard their slave at last. For the poet's heart, still prone to loving, Was like that rock of the Druid race, Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power couldn't shake from its base. MOORE WIDOW MACHREE. Machree, it's no wonder you frown, Och hone ! Widow Machree ; Faith ! it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone ! Widow Machree. How altered your air, With that close cap you wear Tis destroying your hair W T hich should be flowing free ; Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl Och hone ! Widow Machree ! Widow Machree, now the summer is come, Och hone ! Widow Machree : When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum ? Och hone ! Widow Machree, See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares WIDOW MACHREE. 105 Why, even the bears Now in couples agree, And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish Och hone ! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, when winter comes in, Och hone ! Widow Machree, To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Och hone ! Widow Machree. Sure, the shovel and tongs To each other belongs, And the kettle sings songs Full of family glee ; While alone with your cup, Like a hermit, you sup Och hone ! Widow Machree. And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld, Och hone ! Widow Machree, But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld ? Och hone ! Widow Machree : With such sins on your head, Sure, your peace would be fled, Could you sleep in your bed Without thinking to see io6 WIDOW MACHREE. Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night, Crying, ' Och hone ! Widow Machree ' ? Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree, Och hone ! Widow Machree ; And with my advice, faith ! I wish you'd take me, Och hone ! Widow Machree. You have me to desire, Then to sit by the fire, And, sure, Hope is no liar In whispering to me That the ghosts would depart, When you'd me near your heart Och hone ! Widow Machree. LOVER. THE WIDOW MALONE. ye hear of the widow Malone, Ohone ! Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone ? Oh ! she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the widow Malone, Ohone! So lovely the widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more ; And fortunes they all had galore, In store ; io8 THE WIDOW M ALONE. From the minister down To the Clerk of the Crown, All were courting the widow Malone, Ohone ! All were courting the widow Malone. But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'Twas known No one ever could see her alone, Ohone ! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the widow Malone, Ohone ! So bashful the widow Malone. Till one Mr. O'Brien from Clare- How quare, It's little for blushing they care Down there Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste Oh,' says he, t you're my Molly Malone, My own ; '- 1 Oh,' says he, ' you're my Molly Malone ! ' THE WIDOW M ALONE. 109 And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye ! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh For why ? But, 'Lucius,' says she, ' Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Molly Malone, Ohone ! You may marry your Molly Malone. 1 There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong ; And, one comfort, it's not very long, But strong : If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! Oh ! they're very like Mistress Malone ! LEVER. MARY OF THE CURLS. oak-leaves, when autumn is turning them sere, Is the hue of my own Mary's beautiful hair ; And light as young ash-sprays, that droop in the grove, Are the ringlets that wave round the head that I love. Dear Mary ! each ringlet, so silken and fine, Is a fetter that round my poor heart you entwine ; And if the wide ocean I roamed to the West, It would still draw me back to the maid I love best. Like stars that shine out from the calm summer sky Are the glances that beam from your melting blue eye ; Your lips red as poppies, your cheeks bright as morn ; And your bosom and neck white as blossoms of thorn. MARY OF THE CURLS. m The stars may shine down on the whole world at night, But your eyes, Mary, dear ! should give me all their light. Let the poppies and blossoms be plucked by who will, If those dear lips and bosom be kept for me still. Not more sportive and light is the young lambkin seen, Than your foot in the dance on our own village green ; And my fond eye still wanders wherever you move 'Midst all the maids seeking for her that I love. The winter is past, and the Shrovetide is nigh ; Dear Mary ! no longer be cruel or shy. I've a home to receive you, a hand to sustain, And a heart that will love you while life shall remain. ( Translated from the Celtic by J. F. Waller. ) THE RAKERS APOLOGY. " O W hush ! dearest Kathleen, give over Upbraiding a lover so true ; I swear, though you say I'm a rover, My heart is still faithful to you. Then where is the use in your doubting, Or breaking my heart with your sighs ; Those sweet lips were not made for pouting, And anger will spoil your mild eyes ? The world, dear, is given to railing, God forgive 'em that call me a rake ; J Tis yourself that's the cause of my failing, For I love the whole sex for your sake. Sure, 'tis pride of you makes me a rover To wake, and to dance, and to fair ; I'm still trying at each to discover A girl with yourself to compare, THE RAKE'S APOLOGY. 113 And so, just in making the trial, I'm forced still to touch and to taste ; Though 'tis hard, there's no good in denial, An hour from beside you to waste. But their beauties leave no more impression, Than calm waters take from the breeze ; Sit down now, and hear my confession, I'll make a clean breast at your knees. Ellen Bawn has a fine neck and bosom, But her waist feels so tightened and quare ; Rose has bright eyes, but still I don't choose them, When you gaze in them long they've a stare. Mave looks shapely and plump 'tis all dressing ; And Nora's lips please one at first ^ But then they won't do for much pressing, They're so ripe you're afraid that they'll burst. So now, all experiments over, I come back more faithful and true ; And I vow, on the word of a lover, There's no girl half so perfect as you. Then, Kathleen, cheer up, and believe me I'll love you whatever betide ; One word, and that fair hand just give me, I'll wander no more from your side. J. F. WALLER. I THE FIRST CUCKOO IN SPRING. ^NE sweet eve in spring, as the daylight died, Mave sat in her bow'r by her father's side ; (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) so soft and so clear, Sang the bonny cuckoo from a thicket near : (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) ' Do listen, my dear, J Tis the first cuckoo's note I have heard this year.' The maiden smiled archly, then sighed ' 'Tis long I've waited and watched for that sweet bird's song ; ' (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) * Ere winter he'll roam With some belov'd mate to his distant home.' (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) * Ah, would I might roam With that bonny cuckoo to his distant home.' The old man he frowned at the maid, and said, ' What puts such wild thoughts in your foolish head ? ' (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) * No maid should desire To roam from her native land and sire.' (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) ' I don't love a note That comes from that foreign bird's weary throat. THE FIRST CUCKOO IN SPRING. 115 ' The blackbird and throstle, I love their song, They cheer us through summer and autumn long ; ' (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) ' And then they ne'er roam, But they mate and they live all the year at home.'* (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) ' 'Tis still the same note That comes from that foreign bird's weary throat.' The old man he sleeps in the drowsy air, While soft from his side steals his daughter fair, (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) There's a bird in the grove That sings a sweet song all young maidens love. (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) Says the bird from the grove, ' I'm weary cuckooing this hour, my love.' The old man he dreams that the cuckoo sings Close up to his ear very wondrous things : (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) ' I love your dear Mave, And won her young heart just without your leave.' (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) l She is willing to roam From her own beloved nest to my distant nome. Half in fear, half in anger, her sire awakes, As her lips on his brow a soft farewell takes. (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) The old man is alone, For vision, and cuckoo, and child are gone : (Cuckoo ! cuckoo !) A sweet voice whispers near, ' We'll be back with the cuckoo in spring next year.' .r 2 LOVE IN REALITY. WAY with the nonsense of vain poetasters, Their sighing and dying's all lying and fudge ; They say love's a disease full of woes and disasters : I deny it, point-blank, and I think I'm a judge. I boldly assert by my manhood, that no man Is all that he should be who is not in love ; And Providence, sure, sent us beautiful woman, The joy, not the plague, of existence to prove. For myself, I'm in love head and ears at the present, With a maid like a young swan so graceful and fair, And the symptoms I find, on the whole, very pleasant, And just the reverse of what poets declare. I shed not a tear, and I ne'er think of sighing ; I moan not, I groan not, in fanciful woe ; And if truth must be told, I am so far from dying Of love but for love I'd have died long ago. LOVE IN REALITY. 117 I keep up flesh and blood for the sake of this beauty; I make it a point to be sound wind and limb ; I eat well, I drink well, I sleep as a duty, For then of my love all sweet things I can dream. I can listen to music and still feel delighted ; It shakes not my spirits to hear a sweet song ; My pace is quite steady, not like one affrighted Or a tree down a torrent swept swiftly along. I've my voice at command, and my words are ne'er wanting ; And if half of the clothes in Conn's northern " domain Were heap'd on my back, with their heat I'd be panting, And fire is much hotter, I grant, than my skin. If I stood 'neath a torrent, or plung'd in the ocean, I'd come out rather chilly and not over dry ; If robust health and strength can cause death, I've a notion I'm just in the very condition to die. I'm not swollen out with grief till a long rope won't bind me ; My mouth is more moist than the touchwood, no v doubt ; n8 LOVE IN REALITY. And I'll give you my oath, that you never will find me Drinking dry a deep lake to extinguish my drought. I can tell night and day without making a blunder : A ship from a wherry, as well as the best ; And I know white from black, which you'll say is a wonder, Despite all the love that is lodged in my breast. A mountain I never mistake for the ocean, A horse I can tell with great ease from a deer, Of great things and small I've an excellent notion, And distinguish a fly from a whale very clear. And now, to conclude with a stifiish conundrum A part of the stern of a boat o'er the wave, Seven hazels whose barren twigs cast no fruit under 'em/ Is the name of the fair one who holds me a slave. Not one in a thousand that try will make out of it The name of the maid most belov'd of my heart ; And though love touch my brain, yet the sense 'twon't take out of it, For I swear there's no poison or pain in his dart. ( Trans, from an early Celtic Poem by J. F. Waller. ) ' WON'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIRV jj^ HE night is fresh and calm, love, ^ The birds are in their bowers, And the holy light Of the moon falls bright On the beautiful sleeping flowers. Sweet Nora, are you waking ? Ah ! don't you hear me spakingt My heart is well nigh breaking For the love of you, Nora dear. Ah ! why don't you speak, mavrone ? Sure I think that you're made of stone, Just like Venus of old, All so white and so cold, But no morsel of flesh and bone. 120 'LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR: ' There's not a soul astir, love, No sound falls on the ear But that rogue of a breeze That's whispering the trees, Till they tremble all through with fear. Ah ! them happy flowers that's creeping To your window where you're sleeping Sure they're not chid for peeping At your beauties, my Nora dear. You've the heart of a Turk, by my sowl^ To leave me perched here like an owl ; 'Tis treatment too bad For a true-hearted lad To be sarved like a desolate fowl. ' You know the vow you made, love, You know we fixed the day ; And here I'm now To claim that vow, And carry my bride away. So, Nora, don't be staying For weeping or for praying There's danger in delaying, Sure maybe I'd change my mind : For you know I'm a bit of a rake, And a trifle might tempt me to break ' LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIRS 121 Faix, but for your blue eye, I've a notion to try What a sort of old maid you'd make. 3 1 Ah ! Dermot, win me not, love, To be your bride to-night : How could I bear A mother's tear, A father's scorn and slight ? So, Dermot, cease your suing--- Don't work your Nora's ruin ; 'Twould be my sore undoing, If you're found at my window, dear.' ' Ah ! for shame with your foolish alarms : Just drop into your Dermot's arms : Don't mind looking at all For your cloak or your shawl ; They were made but to smother your charms And now a dark cloud rising, Across the moon is cast ; The lattice opes And anxious hopes Make Dermot's heart beat fast : And soon a form entrancing, With arms and fair neck glancing 122 'LEAVE US A LOGIC OF YOUR HAIRS Half-shrinking, half-advancing, Steps light on the lattice sill : When a terrible arm in the air Clutch'd the head of the lover all bare ; And a voice, with a scoff, Cried, as Dermot made off, 1 WON'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR!' J. F. WALLER. DRINKING SONGS GLEE AND CHORUS. THIS bottle's the sun of our table, His beams are rosy wine : We, planets, that are not able Without his help to shine. Let mirth and glee abound ! You'll soon grow bright With borrow'd light, And shine as he goes round. SHERIDAN. THE CRUISKEEN LAWN. ET the farmer praise his grounds, Let the huntsman praise his hounds, The farmer his sweet-scented lawn ; While I, more blest than they, Spend each happy night and day With my smiling little cruiskeen lawn. Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskeen Slainte geal ma vourneen, Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn bawn bawn, Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn. 1 Immortal and divine Great Bacchus, god of wine, Create me by adoption your son. 1 My heart's love is my little jug, Bright health to my darling, My heart's love her fair locks. 126 THE CRUISKEEN LAWN. In hope that you'll comply That my glass shall ne'er run dry, Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn. Gra-ma-chree, &c. And when grim Death appears. After few but happy years, And tells me my glass it is run ; I'll say, * Begone, you slave ! For great Bacchus gives me leave Just to fill another cruiskeen lawn.' Gra-ma-chree, &c. Then fill your glasses high, Let's not part with lips adry, Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn ; And since we can't remain, May we shortly meet again To fill another cruiskeen lawn. Gra-ma-chree, &c. ANON. THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. HEN St. Patrick our order created And called us the Monks of the Screw, Good rules he revealed to our abbot, To guide us in what we should do. But first he replenished his fountain With liquor the best in the sky ; And he swore by the word of his saintship That fountain should never run dry ! My children, be chaste till you're tempted ; While sober, be wise and discreet ; And humble your bodies with fasting Whene'er you have nothing to eat. Then be not a glass in the convent, Except on a festival, found : And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it A festival all the year round ! JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. DRINK OF THIS CUP. A POEM ON WHISKY PUNCH. .RINK of this cup you'll find there's a spell in Jl^x/ j{- s every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Would you forget the dark world we are in, Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it ; But would you rise above earth, till akin To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. Send round the cup for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. DRINK OF THIS CUP. 129 Ne'er yet was philter fornrd with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing ; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having by Nature's enchantment been fill'd With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd To enliven such hearts as are here brought together ! Then drink of the cup you'll find there's a spell in, &c. And though, perhaps but breathe it to no one Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, Yet 'tis not less potent for being unlawful. And e'en though it taste of the smoke of that flame, Which in silent extracted its virtues forbidden Fill up there's a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work, too, its charm, though as lawless and hidden. So drink of the cup for oh there's a spell in, &c. MOORE. WHISKY. HISKY, drink divine ! Why should drivellers bore us With the praise of wine, Whilst we've thee before us ? Were it not a shame, Whilst we gaily fling thee To our lips of flame, If we could not sing thee ? Whisky, drink divine ! Why should drivellers bore us With the praise of wine, Whilst we've thee before us ? Greek and Roman sung Chian and Falernian Shall no harp be strung To thy praise Hibernian ? WHISKY. 131 Yes ! let Erin's sons Generous, brave, and frisky Tell the world at once They owe it to their whisky. Whisky, c. If Anacreon who Was the grape's best poet Drank our Mountain-dew, How his verse would show it ! As the best then known, He to wine was civil ; Had he Inishowen, He'd pitch wine to the d 4 1. Whisky, &c. Bright as beauty's eye, When no sorrow veils it ; Sweet as beauty's sigh, When young love inhales it ; Come, then, to my lip Come, thou rich in blisses ! Every drop I sip Seems a shower of kisses. Whisky, &c. K 2 132 WHISKY. Could my feeble lays Half thy virtues number, A whole grove of bays Should my brows encumber. Be his name adored, Who summed up thy merits In one little word, When he called thee spirits, Whisky, &c. Send it gaily round Life would be no pleasure, If we had not found T^his enchanting treasure ; And when tyrant Death's 'Arrow shall transfix ye, Let your latest breaths Be, whisky ! whisky ! whisky ! Whisky ! drink divine ! Why should drivellers bore us With the praise of wine, Whilst we've thee before us ? JOSEPH O'LEARY, BARRY OF MACRO OM. { H, what is Dan MacCarty, or what is old Jem Or all who e'er in punch -drinking by luck have cut a dash, Compared to that choice hero, whose praise my rhymes perfume I mean the boast of Erin's isle, bold Barry of Macroom ? 'T was on a summer's morning bright that Barry shone most gay, He had of friends a chosen few, to dine with him that day; And to himself he coolly said (joy did his eyes illume), ' I'll show my guests there's few can match bold Barry of Macroom.' 134 BARRY OF MAC ROOM, The dinner was despatched, and they brought in six gallon jugs Of whisky-punch ; and after them eight huge big- bellied mugs ; And soon all 'neath the table lay, swept clean as with a broom, Except the boast of Erin's isle, bold Barry of Mac- room. Now Barry rose, and proudly cried, ' By Judy, Til go down, And call into each whisky shop that decorates our town ; For lots of whisky-punch is here for master and for groom, If they'll come up and drink it with bold Barry of Macroom.' Thus Barry soon he brought with him a choice hard- drinking set, As ever at a punch-table on Patrick's Day had met ; Yet soon upon the floor they lay, a low, disgraceful doom, While like a giant fresh and strong rose Barry of Mac- room ! BARRY OF MACROOM. 135 Then Barry went unto his wife, and to his turtle said, 1 My dear, I now have had enough, therefore I'll go to bed; But as I may be thirsty soon, just mix it in the room A gallon-jug of punch, quite weak, for Barry of Mac- room.' ANON. ONE BOTTLE MORE. j SSIST me, ye lads, who have hearts void of guile, To sing out the praises of ould Ireland's isle ; Where true hospitality opens the door, And friendship detains us for one bottle more. One bottle more, arrah, one bottle more ; And friendship detains us for one bottle more. Old England, your taunts on our country forbear ; With our bulls and our brogues we are true and sincere ; For if but one bottle remains in our store, We have generous hearts to give that bottle more. One bottle more, &c. At Candy's in Church Street, I'll sing of a set Of six Irish blades who together had met ; ONE BOTTLE MORE. 137 Four bottles apiece made us call for our score, For nothing remained but just one bottle more. One bottle more, &c. Our bill being brought we were loath to depart, For friendship had grappled each man by the heart, Where the least touch, you know, makes an Irishman roar, And the whack from shillelah brought six bottles more. Six bottles more, &c. Swift Phoebus now shone through our window so bright, Quite happy to view his glad children of light ; So we parted with hearts neither sorry nor sore, Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more. Twelve bottles more, &c. AIR .< DON CAESAR: , thou regal purple stream Tinted by the solar beam, In my goblet sparkling rise, Cheer my heart and glad my eyes. My brain ascend on fancy's wing, 'Noint me, wine, a jovial king. While I live, I'll lave my clay : When I'm dead and gone away, Let my thirsty subjects say, 'A month he reign'd, but that was May. 7 JOHN O'KEEFE. LUMPKIN'S SONG. y\ ET schoolmasters puzzle their brain . With grammar, and nonsense, and learning ; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genus a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians ; Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. When Methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I'll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence For a slice of their scurvy religion, 140 TONY LUMPKIN^S SONG. I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; But of all the birds in the air, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. SONGS OF FEASTING AND FIGHTING O'RORKE'S NOBLE FARE, ,'RORKE'S noble fare Will ne'er be forgot, By those who were there, Or those who were not His revels to keep, We sup and we'dine On seven score sheep, Fat bullocks, and swine. Usquebaugh to our feast In pails is brought up, An hundred at least, And a mether our cup. Tis there is the sport ! We rise with the light, In disorderly sort, From snoring all night. 144 O'RORKE'S NOBLE FARE. Oh ! how I was tricked ; My pipe it was broke, My pocket was picked, I losi; my new cloak. 1 I'm robbed/ exclaimed Nell, ' Of mantle and kercher.' Why then fare them well, The de'il take the searcher. c Come, harper, strike up : But first, by your favour, Boy, give us a cup Ah ! this has some flavour.' O'Rorke's jolly boys Ne'er dreamed of the matter, Till roused by the noise And musical clatter. They bounce from their nest, No longer will tarry ; They rise ready dressed, Without one * Hail Mary.' They dance in around, Cutting capers and romping : 'Tis a mercy the ground Didn't burst with their stamping ! O^RORKE^S NOBLE FARE. 145 Bless you, late and early, Laughing O'Henigan : By my hand, you dance rarely, Margery Grinigan. Bring straw for our bed, Shake it down to our feet, Then over it spread The winnowing sheet. To show I don't flinch, Fill the bowl up again, Then give us a pinch Of your sneezing a bhan. Good Lord ! what a sight After all their good cheer, For people to fight In the midst of their beer ! They rise from their feast, So hot are their brains A cubit at least The length of their skiains. What stabs and what cuts ! What clattering of sticks ! What strokes on the guts ! What basting and kicks ! 146 O'RORK&S NOBLE FARE. With cudgels of oak, Well hardened in flame A hundred heads broke A hundred legs lame. ' You churl, I'll maintain My father built Lusk, The castle of Slane, And Carrick Drumrusk. < The Earl of Kildare, And Moynalta his brother, As great as they are, I was nursed by their mother. ' Ask that of old madam, She'll tell you who's who, As far up as Adam : She knows that 'tis true,' ( Translated from the Celtic by Dean Swift. THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH. ^ H ! love is the soul of a neat Irishman, He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! His heart is good-humoured, 'tis honest and sound, No envy or malice is there to be found ; He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, For love, all for love, for in that he delights, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook Fair ? An Irishman, all in his glory, is there, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neat neck ; He goes to a tent, and he spends half-a-crown, He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! L 2 148 THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH. At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with blows From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! He meets with his Sheelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries, ' Get ye gone, Pat,' yet consents all the while. To the priest soon they go ; and nine months after that A fine baby cries, ' How do ye do, Father Pat, With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ? ' Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth ! Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth, Where grow the shillelah and shamrock so green ! May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and 'the Shannon, Drub the French, who dare plant at our confines a cannon ! United and happy, at loyalty's shrine, May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine Round the sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! EDWARD LYSAGHT. LARRY McHALE. i H, Larry McHale, he had little to fear, And never could want, when the crops didn't fail; He'd a house and demesne, and eight hundred a year, And a heart for to spend jt had Larry McHale. The soul of a party, the life of a feast, And an ilegant song he could sing I'll be bail ; He would ride with the rector and drink with the priest, Oh, the broth of a boy was old Larry McHale ! It's little he cared for the judge or recorder, His house was as big and as strong as a jail ; With a cruel four-pounder he kept all in great order : He'd murder the country, would Larry McHale. He'd a blunderbuss, too, of horse-pistols a pair ; But his favourite weapon was always a flail ; 150 LARRY McHALE. I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair, For he handled it nately did Larry McHale. His ancestors were kings before Moses was born, His mother descended from the great Granna Uaile ; He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn, They were mushrooms compared to old Larry McHale. He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner, With cousins and uncles enough for a tail ; And, though loaded with debt, oh, the devil a thinner Could law or the sheriff make Larry McHale ! With a larder supplied and a cellar well stored, None lived half so well from Fair Head to Kinsale, And he piously said, ' I've a plentiful board, And the Lord He is good to old Larry McHale.' So fill up your glass and a high bumper give him, It's little we'd care for tithes or repale ; Ould Erin would be a fine country to live in, If we only had plenty like Larry McHale. LEVER. 1 JOHNNY, I HARDL Y KNE H YE: HILE going the road to sweet Athy, Hurroo ! hurroo ! While going the road to sweet Athy, Hurroo ! Hurroo ! While going the road to sweet Athy, A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye, A doleful damsel I heard cry, 1 Johnny, I hardly knew ye. With your drums and guns, and guns and drums, The enemy nearly slew ye, Oh, darling dear, you look so queer, Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye ! ' Where are your eyes that looked so mild ? Hurroo ! Hurroo ! Where are your eyes that looked so mild ? Hurroo ! Hurroo ! 152 'JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE: Where are the eyes that looked so mild, When my heart you so beguiled ? Why did you skedaddle from me and the child ? Why, Johnny, I hardly knew ye ! With your guns, &c. ' Where are the legs with which you run ? Hurroo ! Hurroo ! Where are the legs with which you run ? Hurroo ! Hurroo ! Where are the legs with which you run, When you went to carry a gun Indeed, your dancing days are done ! Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye ! With your guns, &c. ' It grieved my heart to see you sail, Hurroo ! hurroo ! It grieved my heart to see you sail, Hurroo ! hurroo ! It grieved my heart to see you sail, When from my heart you took leg bail Like a cod you're now doubled up head and tail. Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye ! With your guns, &c. < JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE: 153 1 I'm happy for to see you home, Hurroo I Hurroo ! I'm happy for to see you home,. All from the island of Ceylon, So low in flesh, so high in bone, Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye ! With your guns, &c.' ANON, THE RAKES OF MALLOW. j|)) EAUING, belling, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, damning, sinking, 1 Ever raking, never thinking, Live the rakes of Mallow. Spending faster than it comes, Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns, Bacchus's true begotten sons, Live the rakes of Mallow. One time nought but claret drinking, Then like politicians thinking To raise the sinking funds when sinking, Live the rakes of Mallow. 1 To ' sink ' was, eighty years ago, a stronger term than to * damn. ' It implied sending the victim lower down than hell. THE RAKES OF MALLOW. 155 When at home with dadda dying, Still for Mallow water crying ; But where there's good claret plying, Live the rakes of Mallow. Living short, but merry lives ; Going where the devil drives ; Having sweethearts but no wives, Live the rakes of Mallow. Racking tenants, stewards teasing, Swiftly spending, slowly raising, Wishing to spend all their days in Raking as at Mallow. Then, to end this raking life, They get sober, take a wife, Ever after live in strife, And wish again for Mallow. EDWARD LYSAGHT. THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS. fERRY Mahony, arrah, my jewel ! come let us be off to the fair, For the Donovans all in their glory most cer- tainly mean to be there ; Say they, ' The whole Mahony faction we'll banish 7 em out clear and clean.' But it never was yet in their breeches their bullaboo words to maintain. There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke, 'Twould make your mouth water to see him just giving a bit of a stroke. There's Corney, the bandy-legged tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff, Who'd fight though the black blood was flowing like butter-milk out of his buff. THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS. 157 There's broken-nosed Bat from the mountain last week he burst out of jail And Murty the beautiful Tory, who'd scorn in a row to turn tail ; Bloody Bill will be there like a darling and Jerry och ! let him alone, For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone ! And Tim, who'd served in the militia, has his bayonet stuck on a pole ; Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order a neat sort of tool on the whole ; A cudgel I see is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail ; But I think that a man is more handy who rights, as I do, with a flail. We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by ile- gant men, Who battered the Donovans often, and now will go do it again : To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that) in spite of their talk, We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk* 158 THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS. After cutting out work for the sexton by smashing a dozen or so, We'll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery's go ; In gallons we'll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day, When mustering again in a body we all shall go leathering away. MAGINN. GARR YO WEN. ) ET Bacchus's sons be not dismayed, But join with me each jovial blade ; Come booze and sing and lend your aid To help me with the chorus : Instead of Spa we'll drink brown ale, And pay the reckoning on the nail, No man for debt shall go to gaol From Garryowen in glory ! We are the boys that take delight in Smashing the Limerick lamps when lighting, Through the streets like sporters fighting, And bearing all before us. Instead of Spa, &c. We'll break windows, we'll break doors, The watch knock down by threes and fours; 160 GARRYOWEN. Then let the doctors work their cures And tinker up our bruises. Instead of Spa, &c. , We'll beat the bailiffs, out of fun, We'll make the mayor and sheriffs run : We are the boys no man dares dun, If he regards a whole skin. Instead of Spa, &c. Our hearts, so stout, have got us fame, For soon 'tis known from whence we came ; Where'er we go they dread the name Of Garryowen in glory. Instead of Spa, &c. Johnny ConnelPs tall and straight, And in his limbs he is complete ; He'll pitch a bar of any weight From Garryowen to Thomond Gate. Instead of Spa, &c. Garryowen is gone to wrack, Since Johnny Connell went to Cork, Though Darby O'Brien leapt over the dock, In spite of all the soldiers. Instead of Spa, &c. ANON. THE KERRY RECRUIT. nine years ago and me diggin' some land, Two brogues on my feet and a spade in my hand, Says I to myself, ' Tis a pity to see Such a dashing young blade diggin 5 turf in Tralee.' Wid my brogues so well greased and My face 'twas so dirty. So I butthered my brogues and shook hands wid my spade, And I off to the fair, like a dashing young blade ; I there met a sergeant, who axed me to list. ' Arrah, sergeant,' says I, ' will ye tip me the fist.' Wid rcy brogues, &c. M 1 62 THE KERRY RECRUIT. He gave me a shillin', he said he'd no more ; When I'd get to Head Quarters I'd get half a score. ' Head Quarters,' says I, < arrah, sergeant, good-bye ; I'm not going to be quartered I'm in dread I might die. 7 With my brogues, &c, 1 Arrah, Paddy, be aisy, why can't you abide ; Head Quarters is the place where we all do reside.' I soon found his meaning and went wid good grace To take up my quarters in that royal place. Wid my brogues, &c. Then up comes the Captain, a man of great fame, He axed me my county, I told him my name ; Then up wid my story and told him agin That my father and mother were two Kerry men, Wid my brogues, &c. Then up comes the Colonel to give me his thanks, He bade me take arms and fall into the ranks. 4 Arrah, Colonel, achree, won't you lave me alone, Don't you see that I've arms and legs of my own ? ' Wid my brogues, &c. The first thing they gave me it was a red coat, Wid a great strap of leather to tie up my throat ; THE KERRY RECRUIT. 163 They gave me a quare thing, I axed 'em c What's that ? ' And they told me it was a cockade for my hat. Wid my brogues, &c. The next thing they gave me it was a great gun, Wid powder and trigger and on her my thumb ; An' first she spit fire and then she spit smoke, Wid a noise then like thunder my shoulder she broke. Wid my brogues, &c. The first place they sent me was ever so far In a quare thing they said was the King's Man o' War ; Three sticks in the middle, and on her a sheet, And she walked on the water widout any feet. Wid my brogues, &c. We fought many battles wid pretty good luck At Vinegar Hill and at Ballinamuck, The balls and the powder they all were so hot I sneaked round behind them in dread of bein' shot. Wid my brogues, &c. Now war is all over and peace is come in, I'm paid all my wages, and God save the King ! I'm nine years in glory, and glad it's not ten, And now I am back diggin' praties agin. Wid my brogues so well greased and My face just as dirty. ANON. M 2 LANIGAN'S BALL. fN the town of Athy one Jeremy Lanigan Battered away till he hadn't a pound, His father he died and made him a man again, Left him a farm and ten acres of ground ! He gave a grand party to friends and relations Who hadn't forgot him when sent to the wall ; And if you'll just listen, I'll make your eyes glisten With the rows and the ructions of Lanigan's ball. Myself, of course, got free invitations For all the nice boys and girls I'd ask, *, And in less than a minute the friends and relations Were dancing away like bees round a cask. Miss O'Hara, the nice little milliner, Tipped me the wink to give her a call, And soon I arrived with Timothy Glenniher Just in time for Lanigan's ball. LANIGAN'S BALL. 165 There was lashins of punch and wine for the ladies, Potatoes and cakes and bacon and tay, The Nolans and Doolans and all the O'Gradys Were courtin' the girls and dancin' away. Songs there were as plenty as water, From 'The Harp that once thro' Tara's ould Hall,' To < Sweet Nelly Gray' and 'The Ratcatcher's Daughter,' All singing together at Lanigan's ball. They were startin' all sorts of nonsensical dances, Turning around in a nate whirligig ; But Julia and I soon scatthered their fancies, And tipped.them the twist of a rale Irish jig. Och mavrone ! 'twas she that was glad o' me : We danced till we thought the ceilin' would fall (For I spent three weeks in Burke's Academy Learning a step for Lanigan's ball). The boys were all merry, the girls were all hearty, Dancin' away in couples and groups, When an accident happened young Terence McCarty He put his right foot through Miss Halloran's hoops. The creature she fainted, and cried ' Millia murther ! ' She called all her friends and gathered them all. Ned Carmody swore he'd not stir a step further, But have satisfaction at Lanigan's ball. 166 LANIGAN'S BALL. In the midst of the row Miss Kerrigan fainted Her cheeks all the while were as red as the rose Some of the ladies declared she was painted, She took a small drop of potheen, I suppose. Her lover, Ned Morgan, so pow'rful and able, When he saw his dear colleen stretched out by the wall, He tore the left leg from under the table, And smashed all the china at Lanigan's ball. Oh, boys, there was the ructions Myself got a lick from big Phelim McHugh, But I soon replied to his kind introductions, And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo. Old Shamus the piper had like to be strangled, They squeezed up his pipes, bellows, chanters, and all; The girls in their ribbons they all got entangled, And that put an end to Lanigan's ball. ANON. SONGS OF SPORT AND OCCUPATION ' -DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER YOUR FEET, LOVE: , H, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning ; Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree, Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning. The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew- whitened valley ; While all the air rings with the soft loving things, Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley.' With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glanc- ing ; 'Tis hard to refuse, when a young lover sues, So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing ; 170 DANCE LIGHT: And Pat without fail leads out sweet Kitty Neil, Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of re- fusing. Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion ; With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground, The maids move around just like swans on the ocean. Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing, Search the world all around from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing. Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly ? Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love ; The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh, ' Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love ! ' J. F. WALLER, THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. ELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning ; Close by the window young Eileen is spin- ning ; Bent o'er the fire her blind grandmother, sitting, Is crooning and moaning, and drowsily knitting : c Eileen achora, I hear some one tapping.' ' 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.' 1 Eileen, I surely hear some one sighing.' 1 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.' Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring ; Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 172 THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 'What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder ? ' * Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.' ' What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong the old song of the Coolun ? ' There's a form at the casement the form of her true love And he whispers, with face bent, ' I'm waiting for you love. Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly ; We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly.' Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring ; Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. The maid shakes her hand, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from the seat longs to go, and yet lingers ; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round, Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's round ; THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 173 Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower and slower and slower the wheel swings ; Lower and lower and lower the reel rings ; Ere the reel and the wheel stopped their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving J. F. WALLER, THE IRISH SPINNING- WHEEL. t k ING me a song, Shiel, Shiel As my foot on the reel Goes guidin' the wheel Along. For I keep better time To a musical rhyme, Than without/ ' No doubt But, Roseen, yourself start a tune For I've heard How a bird That sings by the light of the moon, Away over the ocean, Once took up a notion, THE HUSH SPINNING-WHEEL. 175 The vain little elf, that he'd fly To Ireland itself on the sly, And prove all the songs of our sky Wid the tone Of his own Could never at all at all vie And he thought himself surely the best, And 'twas true for him p'r'aps of the rest ; But we've all understood, Meetin' you in the wood, As you warbled " The Land of the West," He should say, He'd no chance Wid you. So away Into France He flew.' ' Behave, Shiel, Yerra, don't you feel How your blarneyin' talk is delayin' my reel ; If you won't sing a song, As I'm spinnin' along, Be off for you're idlin' myself and the wheel.' ' Is it so ? O ! Vo! If off I should go Widout that I make you the music, machree i ;6 THE IRISH SPINNING-WHEEL. Down here, My dear, From this seat At your feet, I'll up wid the song that's the dearest to me.' Song. Show me a sight Bates for delight An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. O ! No ! Nothing you'll show, Aquals her sittin' and .takin' a twirl at it. Look at her there, Night in her hair The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us ! Faix, an' a foot, Perfect of cut, Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us That there's a sight Bates for delight An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. O ! No ! Nothin' you'll show, Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. THE IRISH SPINNING-WHEEL. 177 See ! the lamb's wool Turns coarse an' dull By them soft, beautiful, weeshy white hands of her. Down goes her heel, Roun' runs the wheel, Purrin' vvid pleasure to take the commands of her. Then show me a sight Bates for delight An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. O ! No ! Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. Talk of Three Fates, Seated on seats, Spmnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me, You may want three For your massacree, But one fate for me, boys, and only the one for me : And Isn't that fate, Pictured complate An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it ? O ! No! Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. N DARBY THE BLAST. k H, my name it is Darby the Blast ! n My country is Ireland all over ; My religion is never to fast, But live, as I wander, in clover ; To make fun for myself every day, The ladies to please when I'm able, The boys to amuse as I play, And make the jug dance off my table, Oh, success to the chanter, my dear ! Your eyes on each side you may cast, But there isn't a house that is near you But they're glad to have Darby the Blast, And they'll tell ye 'tis he that can cheer you. DARBY THE BLAST. 179 Oh, 'tis he can put life in a feast ! What music lies under his knuckle, As he plays ' Will I send for the Priest ? ' Or a jig they call ' Cover the Buckle ! ' Oh, good luck to the chanter, your sowl ! But give me an audience in rags, They're ilegant people for listening ; Tis they that can humour the bags As I rise a fine tune at a christening. There's many a wedding I make Where they never get further nor sighing, ' And when I performed at a wake, The corpse looked delighted at dying. Oh, success to the chanter, your sowl LEVER N 2 THE BOWLD SOJER BOY. ! there's not a trade that's going, Worth showing, Or knowing, Like that from glory growing For a bowld sojer boy ! When right or left we go, Sure you know, Friend or foe Will have the hand or toe From a bowld sojer boy ! There's not a town we march thro', But the ladies, looking arch thro' The window-panes, will search thro' The ranks to find their joy ; THE BOWLD SOJER BOY. 181 While up the street, Each girl you meet, With look so sly, Will cry, ' My eye ! Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy ? ' But when we get the rout, How they pout, And they shout, While to the right about Goes the bowld sojer boy ; Oh, 'tis then that ladies fair, In despair, Tear their hair, 1 But the divil a one I care,' Says the bowld sojer boy ! For the world is all before us, Where the landladies adore us, And ne'er refuse to score us, But chalk us up with joy ; We taste her tap We tear her cap 1 Oh ! that's the chap For me ! ' Says she, ' Oh ! isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy ! ' 1 82 THE BOWLD SOJER BOY. ' Then come along with me, Gramachree, And you'll see How happy you will be With your bowld sojer boy ; Faith ! if you're up to fun, With me run : 'Twill be done In the snapping of a gun,' Says the bowld sojer boy ; ' And 'tis then that without scandal, Myself will proudly dandle The little farthing candle Of our mutual flame, my joy ; May his light shine As bright as mine, Till in the line He'll blaze, And raise The glory of his corps, like a bowld sojer boy ! ' LOVER. THE LEPRECAUN, OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER A RHYME FOR CHILDREN. ITTLE cowboy, what have you heard, Up on the lonely rath's green mound ? Only the plaintive yellow-bird Singing in sultry fields around? Chary, chary, chary, chee-e ! Only the grasshopper and the bee ? 'Tip-tap, rip-rap, Tick-a-tack-too ! Scarlet leather sewn together, This will make a shoe. Left, right, pull it tight, Summer days are warm ; Underground in winter, Laughing at the storm ! ' 1 84 THE LEPRECAUN. Lay your ear close to the hill : Do you not catch the tiny clamour, Busy click of an elfin hammer, Voice of the Leprecaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade ? He's a span And a quarter in height : Get him in sight, hold him fast, And you're a made Man ! You watch your cattle the summer day, Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ; How should you like to roll in your carnage And look for a duchess's daughter in marriage ? Seize the shoemaker, so you may ! f Big boots a hunting, Sandals in the hall, White for a wedding-feast, And pink for a ball : This way, that way, So we make a shoe, Getting rich every stitch, Tick- tack -too ! ' Nine-and-ninety treasure crocks, This keen miser-fairy hath, THE LEPRECAUN. 185 Hid in mountain, wood, and rocks, Ruin and round-tower, cave and rath, And where the cormorants build ; From times of old Guarded by him ; Each of them filled Full to the brim With gold ! I caught him at work one day myself, In the castle-ditch where the foxglove grows ; A wrinkled, wizened, and bearded elf, Spectacles stuck on the top of his nose, Silver buckles to his hose, Leather apron, shoe in his lap ; 1 Rip-rap, tip-tap, Tick-tack-too ! A grig stepped upon my cap, Away the moth flew. Buskins for a fairy prince, Brogues for his son, Pay me well, pay me well, When the job's done. 3 The rogue was mine beyond a doubt, I stared at him ; he stared at me ! 1 Servant, sir ! ' i Humph ! ' said he, And pulled a snuff-box out. 1 86 THE LEPRECAUN. He took a long pinch, looked better pleased, The queer little Leprecaun ; Offered the box with a whimsical grace, Pouf ! he flung the dust in my face, And, while I sneezed, Was gone ! W. ALLINGHAM. THE FOX HUNT. fHE first morning of March in the year '33 There was frolic and fun in our own country : The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks Most nobly set out in the search of a fox. Hullahoo ! harkaway ! hullahoo ! harkaway ! Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys ! away, harkaway ! When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore, Through Wicklow and Arklow along the sea-shore ; There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and, says he, ' Tis mighty refreshing this breeze from the sea,' Hullahoo ! harkaway ! &c. With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way, He led us by sunset right into Roscrea 1 88 THE FOX HUNT. Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top, The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop From their loud harkaway ! &c. 4 Twas a long thirsty stretch since we left the sea- shore, But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore ; Myself will make free just to slip out of view, And take a small pull at my own mountain dew, 7 So no more hullahoo ! &c. One hundred and twenty good sportsmen went down, And sought him from Ballyland through Ballyboyne ; We swore that we'd watch him the length of the night, So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light. Hullahoo ! harkaway ! &c. But the hills they re-echoed right early next morn With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn, And in spite of his action, his craft, and his skill, Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill. Hullahoo ! harkaway ! &c. W T hen Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh, For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh ; And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil, With these few dying words he declared his last will, While we ceased harkaway ! &c. THE FOX HUNT. 189 ' Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curraghmore estate, And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate, And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs, and cap, For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a gap/ And of what he made mention they found it no blank, For he gave them a cheque on the National Bank. BOATMAN'S HYMN. ARK that bears me through foam and squall, You in the storm are my castle- wall ; Though the sea should redden from bottom to top, From tiller to mast she takes no drop. On the tide top, the tide top, Wherry aroon, my land and store ! On the tide top, the tide top, She is the boat can sail go-leor \ She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn ; For God has blessed her, gunnel and wale : And oh ! if you saw her stretch out to the gale, On the tide top, &c. BOATMAN'S HYMN. 191 Whillan, ahoy ! old heart of stone, Stooping so black o'er the beach alone, Answer me well on the bursting brine Saw you ever a bark like mine ? On the tide top, &c. Says Whillan, l Since first I was made of stone, I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone : But till to-day on the bursting brine Saw I never a bark like thine ! ' On the tide top, &c. ' God of the air ! ' the seamen shout When they see us tossing the brine about ; Give us the shelter of strand or rock, Or through and through us she goes with a shock ! ' On the tide top, c. ( Trans, from the Celtic by Sir Samuel Ferguson. ) THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG. Connal, acushla, turn the clay, And show the lumpers the light, gossoon ! For we must toil this autumn day, With Heaven's help, till rise of the moon. Our corn is stacked, our hay secure, Thank God ! and nothing, my boy, remains, But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure, Before the coming November rains. The peasant's mine is his harvest still ; So now, my lads, let's work with a will ; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the crumbly mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG. 193 Och ! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear Were singing beside us this soft day ; Of course they're far better off than here : But whether they're happier who can say ? I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night With them on the far Australian shore ; Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright, And send them childer and money galore. With us there's many a mouth to fill, And so, my boy, let's work with a will ; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the brown dry mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardan, you thundering Turk, Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon. Come over here, Katty, and mind your work, Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune. Well, youth will be youth, as you know, Mike, Sixteen and twenty for each were meant ; But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avick, Defer your proposals till after Lent ; o 194 THE POTATO-DIGGERS SONG. And as love in this country lives mostly still On potatoes dig, boy, dig with a will ; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the harvest mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. Down the bridle road the neighbours ride, Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves ; And the children sing on the mountain side In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves. As the great sun sets in glory furled, Faith, it 's grand to think, as I watch his face, As he never sets on the English world, He never, lad, sets on the Irish race. In the West, in the South, new Irelands still Grow up in his light. Come, work with a will ;- Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the native mould ; THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG. 195 The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. But look ! the round moon, yellow as corn, Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm ; It scarcely seems a day since morn ; Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am ! God bless the moon ! for many a night, As I restless lay on a troubled bed, .When rent was due, her quietest light Has flattered with dreams my poor old head. But see the basket remains to fill : Come, girls, be alive; boys, dig with a will ; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the moonlit mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. THOMAS IRWIN. o 2 FATHER O'FLYNN. h F priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety ; Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin ^ Powerfulest preacher, and Tinderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, Dad, and the divils and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all ! Come, I venture to give ye my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard, FATHER O'FLYNN. 197 Down from mythology Into thayology, Troth ! and conchology, if he'd the call. Here's a health, &c. Och ! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick. Still, for all you're so gentle a soul Gad ! you've your flock in the grandest control : Checking the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Lifting the lazy ones on wid the stick. Here's a health, &c. And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you ? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off with the rest ; ' Is it lave gaiety All to the laity ? Cannot the clergy be Irishmen too ? ' Here's a health, &c. TOM MOODY. all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell. A more able sportsman ne'er follow'd a hound, Thro 7 a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever open'd with Tom near the wood, But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good; And all with attention would eagerly mark When he cheer'd up the pack, c Hark ! to Rookwood, hark ! hark ! High ! wind him ! and cross him ! Now, Rattler, boy ! Hark !' Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest, Supported poor Tom to an * earth ' made for rest ; TOM MOODY. 199 His horse, which he styled his * Old Soul,' next appear'd, On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was rear'd ; Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound, And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound. Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace, Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase ! With ' High ovei ! now press him ! Tally-ho ! Tally-ho ! ' Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath : 1 Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death, One favour bestow 'tis the last I shall crave Give a rattling view-holloa thrice over my grave ; And unless at that warning I lift up my head, My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead ! ' Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky, For every voice joined in the tally-ho cry, c Tally-ho ! Hark, forward ! Tally-ho ! Tally-ho ! ' ANDREW CHERRY. THE COUNTY OF LIMERICK BUCK- HUNT. T3) Y your leave, Larry Grogan, Enough has been spoken ; 'Tis time to give over your sonnet, your sonnet. Come, listen to mine, 'Tis far better than thine, Though not half the time was spent on it, spent on it. Oh ! 'tis of a buck slain In this very campaign : To let him live longer 'twere pity, 'twere pity ; For fat and for haunches, For head and for branches, Exceeding the mayor of a city, a city. THE COUNTY OF LIMERICK BUCK- HUNT. 201 A council assembled (Who'd think but he trembled ?) Of lads of good spirit, well mounted, well mounted ; Each with whip and with cap on, And spurs made at Ripon, To the number of twenty were counted, were counted. Off, a score, we went bounding, Sweet horns were sounding, Each youth filPd the air with a whoop and a halloo ; Dubourg, were he there, Such sweet music to hear, Would leave his Cremona, and follow, and follow. Knockaderk and Knockaney, And hills twice as many, Saw us fly o'er their stone walls, and hedges, and ditches. He skimmed o'er the grounds, But to baffle our hounds Was ne'er yet in any buck's breeches, buck's breeches. Four hours he held out Most surprisingly stout, Till at length to his fate he submitted, submitted ; His throat being cut up, The poor culprit put up, To the place where he came was remitted, remitted. 202 THE COUNTY OF LIMERICK BUCK-HUNT. A place most enchanting, Where nothing was wanting That .poor hungry huntsman could wish, sir, could wish, sir. Though our number was there, Yet of delicate fare For every man was a dish, sir, a dish, sir. We fell-to with fury, Like a long-famish'd jury, Nor stay'd we for grace to our dinner, our dinner ; The butler a-sweating, The knives all a- whetting ; The edge of each stomach was keener, was keener. Oh ! the bumpers went round, With an elegant sound, Chink, chink, like sweet bells, went the glasses, the glasses. We drank Queen and King And each other fine thing, Then bumper'd the beautiful lasses, sweet lasses. There was Singleton (Cherry), And sweet Sally Curry, Miss Croker, Miss Bligh, and Miss Prittie, Miss Prittie ; THE COUNTY OF LIMERICK BUCK-HUNT. 203 With lovely Miss Persse, That subject for verse, Who shall ne'er be forgot in my ditty, my ditty. With a great many more, From fifteen to a score ; Oh ! had you but seen them together, together, Such charms you'd discover, You'd pity the lover, And look on St. James's a feather, a feather. Long prosper this county, And high-sheriff's bounty, Where thus we indulge, and make merry, make merry ; For, jovial as we are, We'll puff away care To poor busy Robin, and Fleury, and Fleury. THE POACHER. ^'RYAN was a man of might Whin Ireland was a nation, But poachin' was his heart's delight And constant occupation. He had an ould militia gun, And sartin sure his aim was ; He gave the keepers many a run And wouldn't mind the game laws. St Pathrick wunst was passin' by O'Ryan's little houldin', And, as the saint felt wake and dhry, He thought he'd enther bould in. 1 0'Ryan,' says the saint, ' avick ! To praich at Thurles I'm goin', So let me have a rasher quick, And a dhrop of Innishowen.' THE POACHER. 205 c No rasher will I cook for you, While betther is to spare, sir, But here's a jug of mountain dew, And there's a rattlin' hare, sir.' St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet, And, says he, ' Good luck attind you, And, when you're in your windin' sheet, It's up to heaven I'll sind you.' O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff * Them tidin's is thransportin' ; But may I ax your saintship if There's any kind of sportin' ? ' St. Pathrick said, 'A lion's there, Two bears, a bull, and cancer ? 1 Bedad,' says Mick, ' the huntin's rare ; St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir.' So, to conclude my song aright, For fear I'd tire your patience, You'll see O'Ryan any night Amid the constellations. And Venus follows in his track, Till Mars grows jealous raally, But, faith, he fears the Irish knack Of handling the shillaly. CHARLES G. HALPINE. THE IRISH REAPER'S SONG. ELL, never a pleasanter meal I've eat, Thank God, than this that now is done : Come, boys and girls who love the sun, And let us go out into the wheat. Mary, alanna, hand me quick My bran-new sickle down from the thatch, And take this kiss for handsel. Dick, Just put a string about the latch, Lestways the pig should burst the door, And in the cradle fright the child, The purtiest your mother bore. As 'tis the last 'twould drive her wild If ill-luck happened him. All right : With hearts as light as sun is bright, Now for a happy harvest day, Reapers and binders, young and gay : Bend in the heat, And close to your feet THE IRISH REAPER'S SONG. 207 Cut down the wheat We sowed in spring ; And lay it bound Light on the ground, While lads around And lasses sing. A glorious morning, hot and still, There's not a cloud, and scarce a sound, Except where yonder from the mound Drums the wheel of the whitewashed mill. How strong the great sun showers his rays Upon the corn they've turned to gold ! If it could hear us sing its praise, As once the people did of old, Its ears would better like the tune Chiefly if young Rose yonder sung Than any breeze of morn or noon That ever moved its stems among ; For there's no music like the voice Of a colleen that's glad, my boys ; And we have reason just to drop Upon our knees for this fine crop : Bend in the heat, And close to your feet Cut down the wheat We sowed in spring ; 208 THE IRISH REAPERS SONG. And lay it bound Light on the ground, While lads around And lasses sing. Hurrah ! my friends, you've done your best Half the field cut with half the day ! Let us be gay : all work is play When it brings profit. Now for a rest, And drink beside the streamlet blue. How pleasantly the thrushes sing, And see, from town the sparrows, too, Have come to join our harvesting : How close the whistling swallows fly Not one of them that hasn't come Up from the far hot Southern sky, Perhaps from Greece or holy Rome. If from America they flew, I'd like them more 'twixt me and you, For they'd have seen our friends oghone ! Well, the sun sees them, and the moon : But, up ! and beat, My boys, complete This field of wheat We sowed in spring ; And lay it bound Light on the ground, THE IRISH REAPERS SONG. 209 While lads around And lasses sing. For politics I don't much care Upon a day so fine, because Better are Nature's old Corn Laws Than them whose chaff was wonst our share ; In Peter's heart young Kate at least Has fixity of tenure eh ? And for improvements made, the priest Will put them in the lease some day ; And if ever we had a Parliament In College Green, Rory, my boy, Sure you'd be sent to represent The reapers but for Ellen Hoey : Such whispering ! and how long, you thief, Two sweethearts take to bind a sheaf ! But as you're both in want of brogues, And even love's path has thorns, ye rogues Bend in the heat, Close to your feet, Cut down the wheat We sowed in spring ; And lay it bound Light on the ground, While lads around And lasses sing. THE IRISH REAPER'S SONG. Yon sun which sinks the hills behind A finer harvest never saw ; The wheat will feed us, and the straw Will shield us from the winter wind. And now the last thrush leaves the tree, Our cottage turf-smoke rises blue Up to the sickle moon, as we Plod homeward in the heavy dew ; No other Race can work so much On little, as we can, they say, And would we had to reap as rich A field all night, as this to-day. But now for a dance, and then to rest After a taste of true potheen ; To drink to friends in the East and West And to old Ireland's isle of green ! For all the heat, Our work was sweet ; Now with our feet The floor shall ring ; And friend with friend Their songs shall blend, To happily end Our harvesting ! T C. IRWIN. O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER. SbT OW) thin> what has become of Thad Y O'Farrell? The honest poor man, what's delay in* him, <~_ > why? Oh, the thrush might be dumb, and the lark cease to carol, Whin his music began to comether the sky. Three summers have gone since we've missed you, O'Farrell, From the weddin', and patron, and fair on the green ; In an hour to St. John we'll light up the tar-barrel But ourselves we're not flatter'n' that thin you'll be seen. O'Thady, we've watched and we've waited for ever, To see your ould self steppin' into the town p 2 O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER. Wid your corduroys patched so clane and so clever, And the pride of a Guelph in your smile or your frown. Till some one used say, f Here's Thady O'Farrell ; ' And, 'God bless the good man ! let's go meet him,' we cried And wid this from their play, and wid that from their quarrel, All the little ones ran to be first at your side. Soon amongst us you'd stand, wid the ould people's blessin', As they lean'd from the door to look out at you pass; Wid the colleen's kiss-hand, and the childer's caressin', And the boys fightin', sure, which 'd stand your first glass. Thin you'd give us the news out of Cork and Kil- larney Had O'Flynn married yet ? Was ould Mack still at work ? Shine's political views Barry's last bit of blarney And the boys you had met on their way to New York. O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER. 213 And when from the sight of our say-frontin' village The far-frownin' Blasquet stole into the shade, And the warnin' of night called up from the tillage The girl wid her basket, the boy wid his spade : By the glowin' turf-fire, or the harvest moon's glory, In the close- crowded ring that around you we made, We'd no other desire than your heart-thrillin' story, Or the song that you'd sing, or the tune that you played. Till you'd ax, wid a leap from your seat in the middle, And a shuffle and slide of your foot on the floor, 1 Will we try a jig-step, boys and girls, to the fiddle ; ' * Faugh a ballagh,' we cried, ' for a jig, to be sure. 7 For whinever you'd start jig or planxty so merry, Wid their caperin' twirls, and their rollickin' runs, Where's the heel or the heart in the kingdom of Kerry Of the boys and the girls wasn't wid you at once ? So you'd tune wid a sound that arose as delightin' As our old colleen's voice, so sweet and so clear, As she coyly wint round, wid a curtsy invitin' The best of the boys for the fun to prepare. 214 0*FARRELL THE FIDDLER. For a minute or two, till the couples were ready, On your shoulder and chin the fiddle lay quiet ; Then down came your bow so quick and so steady, And away we should spin to the left or the right ! Thin how Micky Dease forged steps was a wonder, And well might our women of Roseen be proud Such a face, such a grace, and her darlin' feet under, Like two swallows skimmin' the skirts of a cloud ! Thin, Thady, ochone ! come back, for widout you We are never as gay as we were in the past : Oh, Thady, mavrone, why thin I wouldn't doubt you. Huzzah ! boys, huzzah ! here's O'Farrell at last ! WINDLASS SONG. ruT EAVE at the windlass ! Heave O, cheerly, men ! Heave all at once, with a will ! The tide's quickly making, Our cordage is creaking, The water has put on a frill, Heave O ! Fare-you-well, sweethearts ! Heave O, cheerly, men ! Shore gambarado and sport ! The good ship all ready, Each dog-vane is steady, The wind blowing dead out of port, Heave O ! Once in blue water Heave O, cheerly, men ! Blow it from north or from south ; 2i6 WINDLASS SONG. She'll stand to it tightly, And curtsy politely, And carry a bone in her mouth, Heave O ! Short cruise or long cruise Heave O, cheerly, men ! Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one, No latitude dreads he Of White, Black, or Red sea, Great icebergs, or tropical sun, Heave O ! One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men ! Heave, and good-bye to the shore ! Our money, how went it ? We shared it and spent it ; Next year we'll come back with some more, Heave O ! ALLINGHAM. THE MILKMAID. k H, where are you going so early? he said ; Good luck go with you, my pretty maid ; To tell you my mind I'm half afraid But I wish I were your sweetheart. When the morning sun is shining low, And the cocks in every farmyard crow, I'll carry your pail, O'er hill and dale, And I'll go with you a-milking. I'm going a-milking, sir, says she, Through the dew, and across the lea ; You ne'er would even yourself to me, Or take me for your sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. 218 THE MILKMAID. Now give me your milking-stool a while, To carry it down to yonder stile ; I'm wishing every step a mile, And myself your only sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. Oh, here's the stile in under the tree, And there's the path in the grass for me, And I thank you kindly, sir, says she, And wish you a better sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. Now give me your milking-pail, says he, And while we're going across the lea, Pray reckon your master's cows to me, Although I'm not your sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. Two of them red, and two of them white, Two of them yellow, and silky bright : She told him her master's cows aright, Though he was not her sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. She sat and milk'd in the morning sun, And when her milking was over and done, THE MILKMAID. 219 She found him waiting, all as one As if he were her sweetheart. When the morning sun, &c. He freely offer'd her his heart and hand : Now she has a farm at her command, And cows of her own to graze the land : Success to all true sweethearts ! When the morning sun, &c. ALLINGHAM. THE KILRUDDERY HUNT. kJ ARK ! hark ! jolly sportsmen, a while to my tale, Which to gain your attention I'm sure cannot fail: 'Tis of lads and of horses, and dogs that ne'er tire, O'er stone walls and hedges, thro' dale, bog, and brier ; A pack of such hounds, and a set of such men, Tis fifty to one if you meet with again ; Had Nimrod, the mightiest of hunters, been there, Fore-gad he'd have shook like an aspen for fear. In seventeen hundred and forty and four, The fifth of December, I think 'twas no more, At five in the morning, by most of the clocks, We rode from Kilruddery in search of a fox. The Leighlinstown landlord, the brave Owen Bray, And Johnny Adair, too, were with us that day ; Joe Debil, Hal Preston those huntsmen so stout Dick Holmes, some few others : and so we set out. THE KILRUDDERY HUNT. 221 We cast off our hounds for an hour or more ; When Wanton set up a most tuneable roar, 'Hark ! Wanton,' cried Joe, and the rest were not slack : For Wanton 's no trifler esteemed by the pack ; Old Bounty and Collier came readily in, And every hound joined in the musical din : Had Diana been there, she'd been pleased to the life, And one of the lads got a Goddess to wife. Ten minutes past nine was the time of the day When Reynard broke cover, and this was his way As strong from Kilegar, as tho' he feared none, Away he brush'd round by the house of Kilternan, To Carrickmines thence, and to Cherrywood then, Steep Shankhill he climbed, and to Ballyman glen, Bray Common he crossed, leap'd Lord Anglesey's wall, And seemed to say, ' Little I care for you all.' He ran Bushes Grove up to Carbury Byrns Joe Debil, Hal Preston, kept leading by turns ; The earth it was open, yet he was so stout, Tho' he might have got in, still he chose to keep out ; To Malpas high hills was the way that he flew, At Dalkey's stone common we had him in view ; He drove on to Bullock, then slunk Glenagarry, And so on to Monkstown, where Laura grew weary. THE KILRUDDERY HUNT. Thro' Rochestown wood, like an arrow he passed, And came to the steep hills of Dalkey at last ; There gallantly plunged himself into the sea, And said in his heart, ' None can now follow me ; ' But soon, to his cost, he perceived that no bounds Could stop the pursuit of the staunch-mettled hounds : His policy here did not serve him a rush, Five couple of Tartars were hard at his brush. To recover the shore then again was his drift ; But ere he could reach to the top of the clift, He found both of speed and of daring a lack, Being waylaid and killed by the rest of the pack. At his death there were present the lads I have sung, Save Larry, who, riding a garron, was flung : Thus ended at length a most wonderful chase, That held us five hours and ten minutes space. We returned to Kilruddery's plentiful board, Where dwelt hospitality, truth, and my Lord ; ] We talked o'er the chase, and we toasted the health Of the man who ne'er struggled for place or for wealth. ' Owen Bray balked a leap,' says Hal Preston ; 'twas odd.' "Twas shameful,' cried Jack, 'by the great L --- G - !' 1 Lord Meath. KTLRUDDERY HUNT. Said Preston, ' I holloa'd, " Get on, tho' you fall ; Or I'll leap over you, your blind gelding and all." ' Each glass then we quaffed to freedom and sport, For party affairs we consigned to the Court : Thus we finished the rest of the day, and the night, In gay flowing bumpers and social delight. Then till the next meeting bid farewell each brother, And we went on our way, well pleased with each other ; As Phoebus befriended our earlier roam, So Luna took care of conducting us home. SONGS OF PHILOSOPHY Q COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. send round the wine, and leave points ot belief To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; This moment's a flower too fair and brief, To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools : Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? Q2 228 COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this. MOORE. BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES. good fellows all, Who love to be told where good claret 's in store, Attend to the call Of one who 's ne'er frighted, But greatly delighted With six bottles more. Be sure you don't pass The good house, Moneyglass, Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns, 'Twill well suit your humour For, pray, what would you more, Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones ? 230 BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES. Ye lovers who pine For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair, Who whimper and whine For lilies and roses. With eyes, lips, and noses, Or tip of an ear ! Come hither, I'll show ye How Phillis and Chloe No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans ; For what mortal 's so stupid As not to quit Cupid, When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones ? Ye poets who write, And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brook, Though all you get by 't Is a dinner ofttimes, In reward for your rhymes, With Humphrey the Duke, Learn Bacchus to follow, And quit your Apollo, Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones Our jingling of glasses Your rhyming surpasses, When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES. 231 Ye soldiers so stout, With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin, Who make such a rout Of all your commanders, Who served us in Flanders, And eke at the Boyne, Come leave off your rattling Of sieging and battling, And know you'd much better to sleep in whole bones ; Were you sent to Gibraltar, Your notes you'd soon alter, And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. Ye clergy so wise, Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear, How worthy to rise ! You preach once a week, But your tithes never seek Above once in a year ! Come here without failing And leave off your railing 'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones ; Says the text so divine, ' What is life without wine ? ' Then away with the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones. 232 BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES. Ye lawyers so just, Be the cause what it will you so learnedly plead, How worthy of trust ! You know black from white, You prefer wrong to right, As you chance to be fee'd : Leave musty reports, And forsake the king's courts, Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones ; Burn Salkeld and Ventris, 1 And all your damned entries, And away with the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones ! Ye physical tribe, Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace, Whene'er you prescribe, Have at your devotion Pills, bolus, or potion, Be what will the case ; Pray where is the need To purge, blister, and bleed ? When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns That the forms of old Galen Are not so prevailing As mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. 1 Law commentators of the time, BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES. 233 Ye fox-hunters eke That follow the call of the horn and the hound, Who your ladies forsake % Before they're awake To beat up the brake Where the vermin is found : Leave Piper and Blueman, Shrill Duchess and Trueman, No music is found in such dissonant tones ! Would you ravish your ears With the songs of the spheres, Hark away to the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones ! ARTHUR DAWSON. PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY. Molly, th' other day, sir, Was makin' of the hay, sir, I ask'd her for to be my bride, And Molly she began to chide : Says she, f You are too young, dear Pat.' Says I, * Myjew'l, I'll mend o' that.' ' You are too poor,' says she, beside ; When to convince her, then, I tried, That wealth is an invintion The wise should never mintion, And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade, And it's better be wed than die an owld maid. The purty little sparrows Have neither ploughs nor harrows, Yet they live at aise, and are contint, Bekase, you see, they pay no rint ; PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY. 235 They have no care nor flustherin' About diggin' or industherin' ; No foolish pride their comfort hurts For they eat the flax, and wear no shirts For wealth is an invintion, &c. Sure, Nature clothes the hills, dear, Without any tailors' bills, dear ; And the bees they sip their sweets, my sowl, Though they never had a sugar-bowl ; The dew it feeds the rose of June, But 'tis not with a silver spoon : Then let us patthern take from those, The birds and bees, and lovely rose For wealth is an invintion, &c. LOVER. RIDING TREBLE. P/OULTIN' to the fair, Three upon the pony, That so lately were Me and Moll Malony 4 How can three be on, boy ? Sure, the wife and you, Though you should be wan^ boy, Can't be more nor two.' Arrah, now then, may be You've got eyes to see That this purty baby Adds us up to three. Joultin' to the fair, Three upon the pony, That so lately were Me and Moll Malony. RIDING TREBLE. 237 Come, give over, Jack, Cap'rin' and curvettin', All that's on your back Foolishly forgettin' ; For I've tuk the notion Wan may cant'rin' go, Trottin' is a motion I'd extind to two ; But to travel steady Matches best wid three. And we're that already, Mistress Moll and me. Joultin' to the fair, Three upon the pony, That so lately were Me and Moll Malony. THE GLASS OF WHISKY. T the side of the road, near the bridge of Drum- condra, Was Murrough O'Monaghan stationed to beg ; He brought from the wars, as his share of the plunder, A crack on the crown and the loss of a leg. f Oagh, Murrough ! ' he'd cry, ' musha nothing may harm ye ! What made you go fight for a soldier on sea ? You fool, had you been a marine in the army, You'd now have a pinsion and live on full pay.' 'But now I'm a cripple, what signifies thinking? The past I can never bring round to the fore ; The heart that with old age and weakness is sinking Will ever find strength in good whisky galore. THE GLASS OF WHISKY. 239 Oaghj whisky, mavourneen, my joy and my jewel ! What signifies talking of doctors and pills ? In sorrow, misfortune, and sickness so cruel, A glass of north country can cure all our ills.' 1 When cold in the winter it warms you so hearty ; When hot in the summer it cools you like ice ; In trouble, false friends, without grief I can part ye ; Good whisky 's my friend, and I take its advice. When hungry and thirsty, 'tis meat and drink to me ; It finds me a lodging wherever I lie ; Neither frost, snow, nor rain any harm can do me, The hedge is my pillow, my blanket the sky.' 1 Now merry be the Christmas ! success to good neighbours ! Here's a happy New Year, and a great many too ! With a plenty of whisky to lighten their labours, May sweet luck attend every heart that is true ! ' Poor Murrough then joining his old hands together, High held up the glass while he vented this prayer : 1 May whisky, by sea or by land, in all weather, Be never denied to the children of care ! ' ANON. DESCRIPTIVE SONGS BLARNEY CASTLE. BLARNEY Castle, my darlint ! Sure, you're nothing at all but a stone Wrapt in ivy a nest for all varmint Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone. Och ! 'tis you that was once strong and ancient, And ye kep' all the Sassenachs down, While fighting their battles, and ain't yet Forgotten by martial renown. O Blarney Castle, &c. Bad luck to that robber, ould Crommill ; That plundered our beautiful fort ; We'll never forgive him, though some will Saxons ! such as George Knapp and his sort. But they tell us the day'll come, when Dannei Will purge the whole country, and drive 244 BLARNEY CASTLE. All the Sassenachs into the Channel, Nor leave a Cromwellian alive. O Blarney Castle, &c. Curse the day clumsy Noll's ugly corpus, Clad in copper, was seen on our plain ; When he rowled over here like a porpoise, In two or three hookers from Spain ! And bekase that he was a freemason, He mounted a battering-ram, And into her mouth, full of treason, Twenty pound of gunpowder he'd cram. O Blarney Castle, &c. So when the brave boys of Clancarty Looked over their battlement wall, They saw wicked Oliver's party All a-feeding on powder and ball ; And that giniral that married his daughter, Wid a heap of grape-shot in his jaw That's boiild Ireton, so famous for slaughter And he was his brother-in-law. O Blarney Castle, c. They fired off their bullets like thunder, That whizzed through the air like a snake ; And they made the ould castle (no wonder !) With all its foundations to shake. BLARNEY CASTLE. 245 While the Irish had nothing to shoot off, But their bows and their arras, the sowls ! Waypons fit for the wars of old Plutarch, And perhaps mighty good for wild fowls. O Blarney Castle, &c. Och ! 'twas Crommill then gave the dark token For in the black art he was deep ; And tho' the eyes of the Irish stood open, They found themselves all fast asleep ! With his jack-boots he stepped on the water, And he walked clane right over the lake ; W 7 hile his sodgers they all followed after, As dry as a duck or a drake. O Blarney Castle, &c. Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder, And the roof he demolished likewise ; Oh ! the rafters they flamed out like tinder, And the buildin' flared up to the skies. And he gave the estate to the Jeffers, With the dairy, the cows, and the hay ; And they lived there in clover like heifers, As their ancestors do to this day. O Blarney Castle, &c. PROUT. THE GROVES O^ BLARNEY. ^ HE groves of Blarney they are so charming, All by the purling of sweet silent streams ; Being banked by posies that spontaneous grow there, Planted in order by the sweet rock close. 'Tis there 's the daisy and the sweet carnation, The blooming pink and the rose so fair ; The daffydowndilly besides the lily, Flowers that scent the sweet fragrant air. Oh, Uilagoane. 'Tis Lady Jeffreys that owns this station, Like Alexander or Queen Helen fair ; There 's no commander throughout the nation For emulation can with her compare. She has castles round her, that no nine-pounder Could dare to plunder her place of strength ; THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 247 But Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel, And made a breach in her battlement. Oh, Ullagoane. There 's gravel walks there for speculation, And conversation in sweet solitude ; Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or The gentle plover, in the afternoon. And if a young lady should be so engaging As to walk alone in those shady bowers, Tis there her courtier he may transport her In some dark fort or under ground. Oh, Ullagoane. For 'tis there 's the cave where no daylight enters, But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; Being mossed by Nature that makes it sweeter Than a coach-and-six, or a feather bed. 'Tis there 's the lake that is stored with perches, And comely eels in the verdant mud ; Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches, All standing in order for to guard the flood. Oh, Ullagoane. 'Tis there 's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in, With the maids a- stitching upon the stair ; The bread and biske, the beer and whisky, Would make you frisky if you were there. 248 THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter, A-washing praties forenent the door, With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy, All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore. Oh, Ullagoane. There's statues gracing this noble place in, All heathen goddesses so fair, Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus, All standing naked in the open air. So now to finish this brave narration, Which my poor geni could not entwine, But were I Homer or Nebuchadnezzar, In every feature I'd make it shine, Oh, Ullagoane. MlLLIKEN. THE BLARNEY STONE. tf""^ "^HERE is a stone there. +r . j That whoever kisses, Oh ! he never misses To grow eloquent ; 'Tis he may clamber To a lady's chamber, Or become a member Of Parliament : A clever spouter He'll soon turn out, or An out-and-outer, 4 To be let alone.' Don't hope to hinder him Or to bewilder him, Sure he's a pilgrim From the Blarney Stone ! PROUT. ' CORK IS THE EDEN FOR YOU, LOVE, AND ME: cT~>^ tHEY may rail at the city where I was first bom, But it's there they've the whisky and butter and pork, An' a nate little spot to walk in each morn The place is Daunt's Square, and the city is Cork ! The square has two sides why, one east and one west And convanient 's the region for frolic and spree, Where salmon, drisheens, and beef-steaks are cooked best, Och, Fishamble's the Aiden for you, love, and me ! If you want to behold the sublime and the beauteous, Put your toes in your brogues and see sweet Blarney Lane, 'CORK IS THE EDEN FOR YOU, LOVES 251 Where the parents and childer is comely and duteous, And dry lodging both rider and beast entertain ; In the cellars below dine the slashin' young fellows That come with the butter from distant Tralee ; While the landlady chalking the score on the bellows Sings, ' Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me.' Blackpool is another sweet place of that city, Where pigs, twigs, and weavers they all grow together, With its small little tanyards och, more is the pity ! To trip the poor beasts to convert them to leather ! Farther up to the east is a place great and famous, It is called Mallow Lane : antiquaries agree That it holds the shebeen that once held King Shamus. l Oh, Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me ! Then go back to Daunt's Bridge, though you'll think it is quare That you can't see the bridge faix, you ne'er saw the like Of that bridge, nor of one-sided Buckingham Square, Nor the narrow Broad Lane that leads up to the Dyke, 1 King James II., who landed in Cork with the French expedition. 252 'CORK IS THE EDEN FOR YOU, LOVE: Where turning his wheel sits the saint ' Holy Joe/ And numbrellas are made of the best quality, And young vargents sing, ' Colleen dhas croothen a mo/ And Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me. When you gets to the Dyke there's a beautiful pro- spect Of a long gravel walk between two rows of trees ; On one side, with a beautiful southeren aspect, Is Blair's castle, that trembles above in the breeze. Far off to the west lie the lakes of Killarney, Which some hills intervening prevents you to see ; But you smell the sweet wind from the wild groves of Blarney, Och ! Cork is the Aiden for you, love, and me ! Take the road to Glanmire, the road to Blackrock, or, The sweet Boreemanah to charrm your eyes ; If you doubt what is wise, take a dram of Tom Walker, And if you're a walker, toss off Tommy Wise I give you my word they are both lads of spirit ; But if a raw chaw with your gums don't agree, Beamish, Crawford, and Lane brew some porter of merit, Tho' potheen is the nectar for you, love, and me. *CORK IS THE EDEN FOR YOU, LOVE: 253 Oh, long life to you, Cork, with your pepper-box steeple, Your girrls, your whisky, your curds and sweet whey, Your hill of Glanmire, and shops where the people Gets decent new clothes downbeyant the coal quay ! Long life to sweet Fair Lane, its pipers and jigs, And to sweet Sunday's Wells and the banks of the Lee! Likewise to your court-house, where judges in wigs Sing, ' Cork is an Aiden for you, love, and me ! ' JOHN WOOD. DE GROVES OF DE POOL. > ' OW the war, dearest Nancy, is ended, And de Peace is come over from France So our gallant Cork City Militia Back again to headquarters advance : From beatin' dose rebels so cruel We'll turn to beatin' de bull, And enjoy those genteel recreations Dat come from de Groves of de Pool. Den out come our loving relations To see wor we livin' or no, Besides all de jolly ould neighbours All around us who flocked in a row ; De noggins of sweet Tommy Walker Are lifted according to rule, An' wetted our necks wid de native Dat's brewed in de Groves of de Pool. DE GROVES OF DE POOL. 255 When de reg'ment marched into de Commons, 'Twould do your heart good for to see You'd tink not a man nor a woman Was left in Cork's famous city. De boys dey come flocking around us, Not a hat or wig stuck to a skull, All to compliment dose Irish heroes Dat sprung from de Groves of de Pool. Wid our band out before us in order, We played coming in to de town, We up'd wid de ould ' Boyne Water,' Not forgettin' ' de Croppies lie down ; ' Bekase you may read in de newses Dat 'twas we made dose rebels so cool, Who all tought, like Turks, or like Jewses, To murder * de Boys of de Pool.' Oh ! sure, dere's no nation in Munster Wid de Groves of de Pool can compare, Where dose heroes were all edicated, An' de nymphs are so comely an' fair : Wid de gardens around entertainin' Wid sweet purty posies so full, Dat is worn by dose comely young creatures Dat walks in de Groves of de Pool. 256 DE GROVES Of DE POOL. Oh ! many's de time, late and early, Dat I wished I was landed again, Where I'd see de sweet watercourse ' flowin' Where de tanners deir glory maintain. Likewise dat divine habitation, Where dose babbies are all sent to school Dat never had fader nor moder, But were found in de Groves of de Pool. Come, all ye young youths of dis nation, Come fill up a bumper all round, Drink success to Blackpool navigation, An' may it wid plenty be crowned. Here's success to de jolly hoop-coilers, Likewise to de shuttle an' de spool ; To de skinners an' worthy glue-boilers Dat lives in de Groves of de Pool. R. MILLIKEN. THE ATTRACTIONS OF A FASHION- ABLE IRISH WATERING-PLACE. Tp^ HE town of Passage ;h Is both large and spacious, And situated Upon the say ; 'Tis nate and dacent, And just adjacent To come from Cork On a summer's day. There you may slip in To take a dipping, Foment the shipping That at anchor ride ; Or in a wherry Cross o'er the ferry To Carrigaloe, On the other side. 258 ATTRACTIONS OF A WATERING-PLACE. Mud cabins swarm in This place so charming, With sailors' garments Hung out to dry ; And each abode is Snug and commodious, With pigs melodious In their straw-built sty. Tis there the turf is, And lots of murphies, Dead sprats and herrings, And oyster-shells ; Nor any lack, O ! Of good tobacco Though what is smuggled By far excels. There are ships from Cadiz And from Barbadoes, But the leading trade is In whisky-punch ; And you may go in Where one Molly Bowen Keeps a nate hotel For a quiet lunch. But land or deck on, You may safely reckon, ATTRACTIONS OF A WATERING-PLACE. 259 Whatsoever country You come hither from, On an invitation To a jollification With a parish priest That's called 'Father Tom.' Of ships there's one fixt For lodging convicts, A floating ' stone jug ' Of amazing bulk ; The hake and salmon, Playing at backgammon, Swim for diversion All round this ' hulk ' ; There ' Saxon ' jailors Keep brave repailors, Who soon with sailors Must anchor weigh From th' em'rald island, Ne'er to see dry land, Until they spy land In sweet Bot'ny Bay. PROUT. S 2 BELLE WSTOWN RACES. a respite ye'd borrow from turmoil or sorrow, I'll tell you the secret of how it is done ; Tis found in this statement of all the excitement That Bellewstown knows when the races come on. Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty, Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill, In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper, And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill ! On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion, It Banagher bangs, by the table o' war ! From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity Jogging along on an ould low-backed car. BELLEWSTOWN RACES. 261 Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste, It's jigging and jumping to mollify still ; Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly, From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill. In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers, Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows ; While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing, Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes. More power to you, Micky ! faith, your foot isn't sticky, But bounds from the boards like a pay from the quill. Oh, 'twould cure a rheumatic, he'd jump up ecstatic At ' Tatter Jack Walsh ' upon Bellewstown Hill. Oh, 'tis there 'neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks, In chattering groups that the quality dine : Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers In flattery spout and come out mighty fine. And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are ' having,' Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille. All we read in the pages of pastoral ages Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill. 262 BELLEWSTOWN RACES. Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at, From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends, There's no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland ! To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends. And the soil 'neath your feet has a memory sweet, The patriots' deeds they hallow it still ; Eighty-two's volunteers (would to-day saw their peers !) Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill. But hark ! there's a shout the horses are out, 'Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo ! To old Crock-a-Fatha, the people that dot the Broad plateau around are all for a view. 1 Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I'll bet on the yellow ! ' 1 Success to the green ! faith, we'll stand by it still ! ' The uplands and hollows they're skimming like swallows, Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill. ANON. SONGS IN EXTREMIS THE BANTRY GIRLS' LAMENT FOR JOHNNY. k H, who will plough the field, or who will sell the corn ? Oh, who will wash the sheep, an 7 have 'em nicely shorn ? The stack that's on the haggard unthrashed if may remain, Since Johnny went a- thrashing the dirty King o' Spain. The girls from the bawnoge in sorrow may retire, And the piper and his bellows may go home and blow the fire ; For Johnny, lovely Johnny, is sailin' o'er the main, Along with other pathriarchs, to fight the King o' Spain. 266 7 HE BANTRY GIRLS' LAMENT. The boys will sorely miss him, when Moneyhore comes round, And grieve that their bould captain is nowhere to be found ; The peelers must stand idle, against their will and grain, For the valiant boy who gave them work now peels the King o' Spain. At wakes or hurling-matches your like we'll never see, Till you come back to us again, astore gra-gal-machree; And won't you throunce the buckeens that show us much disdain, Bekase our eyes are not so black as those you'll meet in Spain. If cruel fate will not permit our Johnny to return, His heavy loss we Bantry girls will never cease to mourn ; We'll resign ourselves to our sad lot, and die in grief and pain, Since Johnny died for Ireland's pride in the foreign land of Spain. ANON. DRIMMIN DUBH DHEELISH. , I'm but a poor man, And I had but one cow, And when I had lost her I could not tell how, But so white was her face, And so sleek was her tail, That I thought my poor drimmin dubh Never would fail. Agus oro, drimmin dubh Oro, ah. Oro, drimmin dubh Miel agra. Returning from mass, On a morning in May, I met my poor drimmin dubh Drowning by the way. 268 DRIMMIN DUBH DHEELISH. I roared and I bawled, And my neighbours did call To save my poor drimmin dubh, She being my all. Ah, neighbour ! was this not A sorrowful day, When I gazed on the water Where my drimmin dubh lay ? With a drone and a drizzen, She bade me adieu, And the answer I made Was a loud pillalu. Poor drimmin dubh sank, And I saw her no more, Till I came to an island Was close by the shore ; And down on that island I saw her again, Like a bunch of ripe blackberries Rolled in the rain. Arrah, plague take you, drimmin dubh ! What made you die, Or why did you leave me, For what and for why ? DRIMMIN DUBH DHEELISH. 269 I would rather lose Paudeen, My bouchalleen bawn, Than part with my drimmin dubh, Now that you are gone. When drimmin dubh lived, And before she was dead, She gave me fresh butter To eat to my bread, And likewise new milk That I soaked with my scone, But now it's black water Since drimmin dubh's gone. ANON. FATHER MOLLOY; OR, THE CONFESSION. )ADDY McCabe was dying one day, And Father Molloy he came to confess him ; Paddy pray'd hard he would make no delay, But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him. ' First tell me your sins,' says Father Molloy, 'For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy.' 1 Oh,' says Paddy, ' so late in the evenin', I fear 'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear, For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go, While the road / ve to travel's much longer you know. So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle, To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle ; And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet 'Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it ; FAT PIER MOLLOY. 271 And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tell #//, 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all. So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy.' 1 Well, I'll read from a book,' says Father Molloy, 1 The manifold sins that humanity's heir to ; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto.' Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar 1 Oh, murdher !' says Paddy, 'clon't read any more, For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue ; Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins, That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins, So you'd betther suppose I committed them all, For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore, 'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, astore ; So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boy And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy.' 272 FATHER MOLLOY. 1 Well,' says Father Molloy, ' if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly ; And promise me also that, if you should live, You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly.' * I forgive ev'rybody,' says Pat, with a groan, Except that big vagabone Micky Malone ; And him I will murdher if ever I can ' 1 Tut, tut ! ' says the priest, ' you're a very bad man ; For without your forgiveness, and also repentance, You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence.' ' Poo ! ' says Paddy McCabe, ' that's a very hard case With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace ; But with Heaven and your Reverence I wondher^- Och hone You would think of comparin' that blackguard Malone But since I'm hard press'd and that I must forgive, I forgive if I die but as sure as I live That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy ! So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy ! ' LOVER. THE POOR MAN'S LABOUR'S NEVER DONE. f MARRIED a wife for to sit by me, which makes me sorely to repent : Matches, they say, are made in heaven, but mine was for a penance sent. I soon became a servant to her, to milk the cows and black her shoon : For woman's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labour's never done. The very first year that we were married, she gave to me a pretty babe : She sat me down to rock its cradle, and give it cordial when it waked : If it cried, she would bitterly scould me, and if it bawled, away I should run ; For women's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labour's never done. T 274 TffM POOR MAWS LABOUR'S NEVER DONE. So all ye young men that are inclined to marry, be sure and marry a loving wife, And do not marry my wife's sister, or she will plague you all your life ; Do not marry her mother's daughter, or she will grieve your heart full sore ; But take from me my wife, and welcome and then my care and trouble is o'er. ANON. A LAMENT FOR DONNYBROOK. A LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL OF THE LIBERTY. vvPIMMY, aghar, hand me my pipe, In truth I'm as wearied as man can be ; My eye is as dim as the winter sea, And my nose as sharp as the bill of a snipe ; For here for a week, a week and more, I have been labouring body and sowl, Just sustained by whisky and sassages, While I touch the finishing passages Of my Donnybrook rigmarole. Saints be about us ! what are they driving at ? All sorts of people are taking their share All have their heads together conniving at At the destruction of Donnybrook Fair. Once in the good ould times of the city, M.P.'s, farmers, the rich, and the rare, 276 A LAMENT FOR DONNYBROOK. Gentlemen, nobles, the wise and the witty, Went for a trifle of element there. Then was the rale indulgement in jollity, Devil a one of them cared who was who ! All took their glass of the old mountain dew, And their hop in the tent on the ground of equality. But now it is over, this is the last of them This is the last ould fair that we'll see ; Now we must live as we can on the past of them Such is the Corporation's decree. Ah, never again in this isle shall be seen The rale boys up to the sweet oaken science ! Trailing their coats in courageous defiance, And shouting the pillalu over the green. Never again shall we see the shillelagh Joyously splintering forehead and limb, Or hear Molly Finucane crying, ' Oh, mela Murder ! what have you done with my Jim ? ' Never again 'mid the turmoil or rattle Shall we assemble to shoulder the door, Bearing dear friends, through the thick of the battle, Faithfully home to their widows, asthore : Leaving the pleasant old ground, when the short night Of August was melting in matinal dew, With a rib or two dinged or an eye black and blue, Or a wound that would lay us up snug for a fortnight ; A LAMENT FOR DONNYBROOK. 277 While a rattle of sticks in the distance behind Made old Donnybrook look like a wood in a wind. Now all is over, this is the last of them, This is the last ould fair that we'll see ; Now we must live as we can on the past of them Such is the Corporation's decree. T. C. IRWIN. THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED. fHE night before Larry was stretched, The boys they all paid him a visit ; A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched, They sweated their duds till they riz it ; For Larry was ever the lad, When a friend was condemned to the squeezer, But he'd pawn all the rags that he had Just to help the poor boy to the sneezer, And moisten his gob 'fore he died. 1 I'm sorry now, Larry,' says I, ' To see you in this situation ; Ton my conscience, my lad, I don't lie, I'd rather it had been my own station.' 4 Och hone ! it's all over,' says he ; 4 For the neckcloth I'm forced to put on ! NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED. 279 And by this time to-morrow you'll see, Your Larry will be dead as mutton : Bekays why, dear, his courage was good.' The boys they came crowding in fast ; They drew all their stools round about him. Six glims round his crap- case they placed ; He couldn't be well waked without 'em. f I axed if he was fit to die, Without having first duly repented ? Says Larry, { That's all in my eye, It's only what gownsmen invented To get a fat bit for themselves.' Then the cards being called for, they played, Till Larry found one of them cheated. He made a smart blow at his head, The boy being easily heated. ' Oh ! be de Holy, you teef, I'll scuttle your nob with my daddle ; You cheat me bekays I'm in grief, But soon I'll demolish your noddle, And leave you your claret to drink.' Then in came the priest with his book, He spoke him so smooth and so civil, Larry tipped him a Kilmainham look, And pitched his big wig to the devil. 280 NIGH7 BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED. Then stooping a little his head, To get a sweet drop of the bottle, And pitiful sighing, he said, 1 Oh, the hemp will be soon round my throttle, And choke my poor windpipe to death ! ' So moving these last words he spoke, We all vented our tears in a shower ; For my part, I thought my heart broke To see him cut down like a flower. On his travels we watched him next day ; Oh, the hangman, I thought I could kill him ! Not one word poor Larry did say, Nor change till he came to ( King William,' Och, then, dear, his colour turned white. When he came to the nubbling chit, He was tucked up so neat and so pretty ; The rumbler jogged off with his feet, And he died with his face to the city. WILLIAM MAKER. ! 1 This famous song has been long cruelly attributed to Dean Burrowes of Cork ; but I have indisputable evidence before me that the Dean had no hand at all in the writing of it. Yet another ecclesiastic, the Rev. Francis Mahony (Father Prout), took a great deal of trouble to touch up the song, altering passages, and even adding five lines of his own to the original, which I now reproduce verbatim from an early ballad edition furnished me by one of the leading living authorities on Irish humorous verse. EDITOR. POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL SONGS THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. WOMAN of Three Cows, agragh ! don't let your tongue thus rattle ! Oh, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser ; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser : And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows. Then don't be stiff and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows ! 284 THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name and had the grand attendants ! If they were forced to bow to fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows ? The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning ; Movrone ! for they were banish'd, with no hope of their returning Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house ? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows ! Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, un- chanted ! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows ! THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. 285 O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrin'd in story Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows ! Th J O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest ; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse ? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows ! Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because, inagh ! youVe got three cows one more, I see, than she has ; That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows ! 286 THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. The summing up. Now, there you go ! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I'm too poor to hinder you but, by the cloak I'm wearing ! If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows ! ( Translated from the Celtic by James Clarence Mangan. ) RIGGED OUT. C*i f'M a brand from the burning, a genuine saint, Newly purged and set free from Papistical taint ; Yea, I'm one of that holy, that sanctified troop Whose souls have been chastened by flannel and soup I'll tell how so blessed a change came about : I always was lazy, a slouch, and a lout ; I never was willing to delve or to dig, But I looked for support to my wife and the pig. My spirit was never confused or perplexed By the talk in this world about things in the next ; But I felt I'd be certain of one life of bliss, If some one would feed me for nothing in this. And so by a ditch near my cabin I lay, With my front to the sun, on a hot summer day, When the Reverend Oliver Stiggins came by, And attracted my gaze by the white of his eye. 288 RIGGED OUT. He spoke, and he said : 1 1 perceive by your face, Wretched man, that you're much unacquainted with grace.' ' Very true, sir,' said I, ' sure I scarce know the taste Of the broth or the flesh of a four-footed baste.' Then he bade me arise and proceed with him home, Till he'd give me some proofs of the errors of Rome. I went, and the clinchers that Oliver chose Were a full and complete suit of second-hand clothes. I felt at the moment the breeches went on That half of my ancient religion was gone ; Much was done by a vest buttoned up to the throat, But the grand hit of all was a rusty black coat. The hat was convincing, as one might expect, The necktie itself had a certain effect ; Then to pluck away error right out from the roots, He covered my croobs with a new pair of boots. Then he raised up his hands and his eyes, and began To declare, through his nose, I'd ' put off the Old Man,' And he hoped to my newly-found faith I'd hold fast ; Which I said that I would while his garments would last. RIGGED OUT. 289 Then he bade me go talk unto Biddy, my wife. About ribbons and cotton and Protestant life ; And to ask her, with dear Mrs. Stiggins' regards, What stuff would convert her, and how many yards. I hurried to Biddy she shrieked with affright, She laughed and she cried at the comical sight ; She called me an assal^ a rogue, and a fool, And fell combing my head with a three-legged stool. She pitched me right out and she bolted the door, I knocked and I shouted, I cursed, and I swore ; But soon I grew meek, and I made up my mind I could fare very well leaving Biddy behind. From town unto town have I travelled since then, Giving good British Scripture to women and men, And indulging at times in a bit of a freak, But, sure, Stiggins himself knows the flesh is but weak. Well, my clothes are supplied, and secure is my pay, But my wages are settled at so much per day ; And I boldly contend that my friends have no right To heed what a Souper may do through the night. T. D. SULLIVAN. MR. ORATOR PUFF. .. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, the other down so ! In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one was B alt. and the rest G below. Oh ! oh ! Orator Puff ! One voice for one orator 's surely enough. But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, ' My voice is for war,' asked him, ' Which of them, pray ? ' Oh ! oh ! &c. Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, 'MR. ORATOR PUFF. 291 He tripped near a sawpit and tumbled right in, ' Sinking Fund/ the last word as his noddle came down. Oh ! oh ! &c. * Help ! help ! ' he exclaimed in his he and she tones, * Help me out ! help me out I have broken my bones ! ' 6 Help you out ? ' said a Paddy who passed, ' what a bother ! Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another ? ' Oh ! oh ! &c, MOORE. u 2 AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. ROCADES and damasks and tabbies and gauzes Are by Robert Ballantine lately brought over, With forty things more : now hear what the law says : Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover. Though a printer and Dean Seditiously mean Our true Irish hearts from old England to wean, We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his Deanship and journeyman Waters. In England the dead in woollen are clad, The Dean and his printer then let us cry * fie on ; ' To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad, Since a living dog better is than a dead lion. AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 293 Our wives they grow sullen At wearing of woollen, And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in. Then we'll buy, &c. Whoever our trading with England would hinder, To inflame both the nations does plainly conspire ; Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder, And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire. Therefore, I assure ye, Our noble grand jury, When they saw the Dean's book they were in a great fury; They would buy, &c. That wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning, And before Coram Nobis so oft has been called, Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen, And, if swearing can do 't, shall be swingingly mauled ; And as for the Dean You know whom I mean If the printer will 'peach him he'll scarce come oft clean. Then we'll buy, &c. SWIFT. A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALF- PENCE. "E people of Ireland, both country and city, Come listen with patience and hear out my ditty : At this time I'll choose to be wiser than witty : Which nobody can deny. The halfpence are causing the nation's undoing, There's an end of your ploughing, and baking and brewing, In short, you must all go to wreck and to ruin : Which nobody can deny. ; Both high men and low men, and thick men and tall men, And rich men and poor men, and free men and thrall men, A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE. 295 Will suffer ; and this man, and that man, and all men : Which nobody can deny. The soldier is ruin'd, poor man, by his pay ; His five pence will prove but a farthing a day, For meat, or for drink, or he must run away : Which nobody can deny. When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not, That ten times as much he must pay for his shot ; And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot : Which nobody can deny. If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff, And twenty pence have for a twopenny loaf, Then c dog, rogue, and rascal,' and so kick and cuff : Which nobody can deny. Again, to the market whenever he goes, The butcher and soldier must be mortal foes, One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose : Which nobody can deny. The butcher is stout and he values no swagger ; A cleaver 's a match any time for dagger, And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may stagger : Which nobody can deny. 296 A NEW SONG ON WOOD^S HALFPENCE. The squire who has got him twelve thousand a year, O Lord ! what a mountain his rents would appear ! Should he take them, he would not have house-room, I fear : Which nobody can deny. Though at present he lives in a very large house, There would then not be room in it left for a mouse ; But the squire is too wise, he will not take a souse : Which nobody can deny. The farmer who comes with his rent in this cash, For taking these counters and being so rash, Will be kick'd out of doors both himself and his trash : Which nobody can deny. For in all the leases that ever we hold, We must pay our rent in good silver and gold, And not in brass tokens of such a base mould : Which nobody can deny. The wisest of lawyers all swear, they will warrant No money but silver and gold can be current ; And, since they will swear it, we all may be sure on \ : Which nobody can deny. And I think, after all, it would be very strange, To give current money for base in exchange, A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE. 297 Like a fine lady swapping her moles for the mange : Which nobody can deny. But read the king's patent, and there you will find That no man need take them but who has a mind, For which we must say that his Majesty 's kind : ' Which nobody can deny. Now God bless the Drapier who open'd our eyes ! I'm sure, by his book, that the writer is wise ; He shows us the cheat from the end to the rise : Which nobody can deny. Nay, farther, he shows it a very hard case, That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race, Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place : Which nobody can deny. That he and his halfpence should come to weigh down Our subjects so loyal and true to the crown ; But I hope, after all, that they will be his own : Which nobody can deny. This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods, And a very good book 'tis against Mr. Wood's, If you stand true together, he's left in the suds : Which nobody can deny. 298 A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE. Ye shopmen, and tradesmen, and farmers, go read it, For I think in my soul at this time that you need it ; Or, egad, if you don't, there's an end of your credit : Which nobody can deny. SWIFT. A PROSPECT. ' OW justly alarmed is each Dublin cit That he'll soon be transformed to a clown, sir! By a magical move of that conjuror Pitt, The country is coming to town, sir ! Give Pitt, and Dundas, and Jenky a glass, Who'd ride on John Bull, and make Paddy an ass. Through Capel Street soon, as you'll rurally range, You'll scarce recognise it the same street ; Choice turnips shall grow in your Royal Exchange, Fine cabbages down along Dame Street. Give Pitt, &c. Wild oats in the college won't want to be tilled ; And hemp in the Four Courts may thrive, sir ! 300 A PROSPECT. Your markets again shall with muttons be filled By St. Patrick, they'll graze there alive, sir ! Give Pitt, &c. In the Parliament House, quite alive, shall there be All the vermin the island e'er gathers ; Full of rooks, as before, Daly's club-house you'll see, But the pigeons won't have any feathers. Give Pitt, &c. Our Custom House quay full of weeds oh ! rare sport ! But ministers' minions, kind elves, sir ! Will give us free leave all our goods to export, When we've got none at home for ourselves, sir ! Give Pitt, &c. Says an alderman ' Corn will grow in your shops ; This Union must work our enslavement.' * That's true,' says the sheriff, ' for plenty si crops l Already I've seen on the pavement.' Give Pitt, &c. 1 ' Crop,' or ' Croppy, was a common term for the rebels of 1798- A PROSPECT. 301 Ye brave, loyal yeomen, dressed gaily in red, This minister's plan must elate us ; And well may John Bull, when he's robbed us of bread Call poor Ireland ' The land of Potatoes' \ Give Pitt, &c. EDWARD LYSAGHT. LAST NIGHT, AS I SLEPT. JjT/^AST night, as I slept all alone in my bed, Jl^ The full moon was shining just over my head, Such a knocking and thumping I heard at the door That I jumped out of bed in a fright on the floor ; And what should I see, to my dread and surprise, But the Devil himself, when I opened my eyes ! I was sure it was he, by the horns and the tail, His feet they were cloven, his beard like a flail. A coat like the parson's hung down from his back (Sure the Devil has always been painted in black : And since but for him they'd have little to do, These parsons by right wear his livery too !) But when I recovered my wits from the fright, I bid him, ' in God's name,' get out of my sight ; LAST NIGHT, AS I SLEPT. 303 But there he stood staring, nor minded it more Than his tithe-hunting friend thought about it before. Suspecting from this 'twas the parson himselt, Come to rob me of tithe (though detesting the pelf), To oust the intruder I seized on his coat, But soon was set right by a puck from the goat : By my mother's old petticoat solely perplexed And entangled, no wonder the creature was vexed ; Let alone that I called him 'Your Rev'rence,' I believe, When I bid him 'get out for a robber and thief. ' To make such a mistake I confess was a shame, Where the parson or Devil was neither to blame ; But if people for kicking up rows are well known, They are oftentimes charged when the fault 's not their own ; So the only excuse I will offer you now, Is a fact that occurred not long after the row, For the parson came down at the dawn of the day, And all he could seize on he carried away. ANON. LARRY O'GAFF. . ) ARRY O'Gaff was a brave boy for marching, His instep was large but his income wag small ; So he set up one day as a soldier of fortune The meaning of which is no fortune at all. In battles, bombardments, and sieges he grew up, Till he didn't much care if towns flourish'd or blew up ; And his maxims in life for he pick'd one or two up Were short, sweet, and simple, for Larry O'Gaff. 1 If your purse it is slender/ says Larry, ' 'tis better To owe a small trifle than want a great deal ; If, .soliciting cash, a solicitor's letter, Or your mercer maliciously make an appeal LARRY O'GAFF. 305 Look sad, and say, " Sir, your account shall be paid, Now my uncle is dead, and my fortune is made ; " Then order some mourning proceedings are stay'd And black 's genteel wearing,' says Larry O'Gaff. Says Larry, ' Love all men except an attorney : The ladies without an exception at all ; But beware of a widow on love's mazy journey For mostly they've seven small children that squall : And then from those eyes that love's glances have darted, They sometimes rain showers and sham broken- hearted : Deploring the loss of " the dear man departed" ; Oh ! them widows are sarpints !' says Larry O'Gaff. * But if with some charming young creature you'd run away, Court her fat mother a middle-aged dame While her daughter, up stairs, is then packing like fun away A small change of clothes, before changing her name; Mamma smiles resistance but yields in amaze : You rush for a licence to save all delays ; But go round the corner with Miss in a chaise, And then, " Heigh for Gretna ! '" says Larry O'Gaff x 306 LARRY O'GAFF. ' Your wife is cut off with a shilling/ says Larry ; But Providence spares her an old maiden aunt, Who hates all the brazen young women who marry, Tho' she, all her life, has been grieving she can't. Round her you must flatter, and wheedle, and twist ; Let her snub you in company, cheat you at whist But you'll win the odd trick when the Legacy list Shows her will all in favour of Larry O'Gaff.' \ LOVER. PADDY O'RAFTHER. ADDY, in want of a dinner one day, Credit all gone, and no money to pay, Stole from a priest a fat pullet, they say, And went to confession just afther ; * Your riv'rince,' says Paddy, ' I stole this fat hen.' * What, what ! ' says the priest, ' at your ould thricks again ? Faith, you'd rather be staalin' than sayin' amen, Paddy O'Rafther ! ' * Sure, you wouldn't be angry,' says Pat, ' if you knew That the best of intintions I had in my view For I stole it to make it a present to you, And you can absolve me afther.' c Do you think,' says the priest, ' I'd partake of your theft? Of your seven small senses you must be bereft You're the biggest blackguard that I know, right and left, Paddy O'Rafther ! ' 308 PADDY O'RAFTHER. 1 Then what shall I do with the pullet,' say Pat, ' If your riv'rince won't take it ? By this and by that I don't know no more than a dog or a cat What your riv'rince would have me be afther.' * Why, then,' says his rev'rence, ' you sin-blinded owl, Give back to the man that you stole from his fowl : For if you do not 'twill be worse for your sowl, Paddy O'Rafther.' Says Paddy, ' I ask'd him to take it 'tis thrue As this minit I'm talkin', your riv'rince, to you ; But he wouldn't resaive it so what can I do ? ' Says Paddy, nigh choken with laughter. 'By my throth,' says .the priest, 'but the case is ab- sthruse ; If he won't take his hen, why the man is a goose : 'Tis not the first time my advice was no use, Paddy O'Rafther.' * But, for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise To some one in want you would give your supplies Some widow, or orphan, with tears in their eyes ; And then you may come to me afther.' So Paddy went off to the brisk widow Hoy, And the pullet between them was eaten with joy, And, says she, ' 'pon my word you're the cleverest boy, Paddy O'Rafther ! ' PADDY O'RAFTHER. 309 Then Paddy went back to the priest the next day, And told him the fowl he had given away To a poor lonely widow, in want and dismay, The loss of her spouse weeping afther. ' Well now,' says the priest, ' I'll absolve you, my lad, For repentantly making the best of the bad, In feeding the hungry and cheering the sad, Paddy O'Rafther ! ' LOVER. THE ANATOMY OF THE OYSTER. F all the conchiferous shell-fish The oyster is surely the king : Arrah, Mick, call the people who sell fish, And tell them a dozen to bring. For it's I that intind to demonstrate The creature's phenomena strange : Its functions to set every one straight, And exhibit their structure and range In sweet rhyme ! Now, boys, I beseech, be attentive On this Carlingford fasten your eyes, As I spread it before you so pensive, Its gape opened wide with surprise. See that small purple spot in the centre, That's its heart, which is all on the move ; THE ANATOMY OF THE OYSTER. 311 For though looking as deep as a Mentor, It is tenderly beating with love All the while. Like a Chesterfield pea-coat, its liver, Of fusty brown Petersham made, It folds round its stomach to give a Supply of fresh bile when there's need ; And though we, when we swallow our oyster, Like it raw and by cooks undefiled, The creature itself is much choicer, Preferring its condiments biled It's so nice. The fringes that circle its body, Which epicures think should be cleared, Are the animal's lungs for, 'tis odd, he, Like a foreigner, breathes through his beard! And among all its memorabilia, Than this structure there's none half so queer, Though Sharpey may say they are cilia, A wiser contrivance to ' speer ' Let him try ! Now, these are the facts in the history Of an oyster, I'd on you impress ; I've sarved them up plain without mystery To cook them would just make a mess. 3 I2 THE ANATOMY OF THE OYSTER. So now, boys, we'll fetch in the whisky, Since the water is hot on the hob, Whilst we stir up our native so frisky By sticking a knife in his gob, Dear ould fish ! EDWARD FORBES. [The above song was sung by the author at a morning entertainment given by Lord Mountcashel at Mount Rivers, Fermoy, to the British Association, August, 1843.] ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. \ T. PATRICK was a gentleman, and came of decent people ; In Dublin town he built a church and on 't he put a steeple ; His father was O'Houlihan, his mother was a lady, His uncle was O'Shaughnessy, and his aunt a Widow Grady. Then success to bold St. Patrick's fist, He was a saint so clever, He gave the snakes and toads a twist, And banished them for ever ! Oh ! Feltrim Hill is very high, so is the Hill of Howth, too, But there's a hill that is hard by, much higher than them both too ; 3 H -ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. 'Twas on the top of this high hill St. Patrick preached a sarmin, He made the frogs skip thro' the bogs, and banished all the varmin ! Success, &c. There's not a mile in Ireland's Isle where the dirty varmin musters ; Where'er he put his dear fore-foot, he murdered them in clusters : The toads went hop, the frogs went pop, slap-haste into the water, And the snakes committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter. Success, &c. Nine hundred thousand vipers blue he charmed with sweet discourses, And dined on them at Killaloe, in soups and second courses ; When blind-worms crawling on the grass disgusted the whole nation, He gave them a rise, and opened their eyes to a sense of their situation. Success, &c. ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN. 315 Oh, then, should I be so fortunate as to get back to Munster, Sure I'll be bound that from that ground I ne'er again will once stir ; 'Twas there St. Patrick planted turf, and plenty of the praties, With pigs galore, machree asthore ! and buttermilk and ladies ! Success, &c. No wonder that we Irish lads should be so free and frisky, Since St. Patrick taught us first the knack of drinking of good whisky ; 'Twas he that brew'd the best of malt, and understood distilling, For his mother she kept a shebeen shop in the town of Inniskillen ! Oh, success, &c. LONDON : PRINTED BY SPOTTISVVOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE" AND PARLIAMENT STREET LOAN DEPT. Low, or AUTO. DISC' QECTj^L YB 77446 GENERAL LIBRARY -U.C. BERKELEY