w V ^, \ x .,-> * . ^ '+ *p s <<. \ v " ^ v'- oo x *v I *>., -\\ ■';<. A C^ ^ IRISH COM-ALL-YE' A REPOSITORY OF ANCIENT IRISH SONGS AND BALLADS— COMPRIS- ING PATRIOTIC, DESCRIPTIVE, HISTORICAL AND HUMOROUS GEMS, CHARACTERISTIC OF THE IRISH RACE, Compiled and Arranged by MANUS O.'COINOR New York: THE POPULAR PUBLISHING COMPANY, No. 335 Broadway. T H? I leFtABY or QC-NGflESS, Two CoHM KfcCErvtc IAN. 3 1 2 CO^vWOMT 6MTRY /- -/r. Lane 51 Kate of Kenmare D. F. McCarthy 7(i Kate of Killashee Wm. Collins 62 Kathleen Ban Adair Thomas Davis 32 Kathleen's Fetch 15n Kitty Avourneen 97 Katy'e Letter Lady Dufferin 1 30 Kerry Dance 46 Kerry Recruit, The 95 Kill 'or Cure 40 Killarney 81 Kilkenny Boy, The 157 Kilruddery Hunt, The 135 Kitty Neil D. F. McCarthy 55 Kitty of Coleraine 44 Kitty Tyrrell Lovtr 12 Lads who Live in Ireland 47 l.ad\ of Knock, The 7s Lakes of Cold Finn 15 Lament of Granu Wail lluyh Harkin 1 '■'■ ■"> Lamentation of James Rodgers 24 Land of Potatoes, Oh ! The'. 73 Land of the Shillelah, The 15S Lanigan's Ball 100 Lanty Leary Samuel Lorn- ] is Larry Magee's Wedding Lover s:{ Larry McHale Lover 1 15 Larry O'Gaff 55 Larry's On the Force Irwin Russell 140 Limerick is Beautiful Dion Boucicault 12 Loch Ina 148 Love in Reality I F. Waller Lovely Mary Donnelly Lllingha m 96 Lover's Complaint, The 112 Love-Sick Maid, The 158 Love's Warning tduard Kenealy 82 Love's Young Dream Moore 1 10 Low Back Car, The 87 Mac's and the O's, The 79 Maggie's Secret 143 Maid of Ballyhaunis 157 Maid of Castle Craigh, The 140 Maid of Sweet Gorteen, The 31 Mantel So Green 38 Mary Le More 11 .Mary Machree 154 Mary of the Curls Moore 92 Mary of Tipperary Samuel Lover 49 Mary of Tralee J. E. Carpenter 159 McCarthy's Mare 110 McDonald's Return to Glenco 1 36 McPadden's Pic-Nic 39 Meeting of the Waters. The Thomas Moore 54 Memory of the Dead, The 48 .Men of Tipperary. The Thomas Davis 21 Michael Dwyer 44 Mike's Courtship 138 Mister Finagan 42 Mister Michael Murphy 131 Mo Craoibhin ('no Edward Walsh 29 Molleen ( Ige 1 . /'. a raws r,4 Molly Asthore Lover 122 Molly Brallaghan 41 Molly Carew Samuel Lover 107 Molly Muldoon 97 Monks of the Screw, The ■/. /'. Curran 37 Morrisey and the Russian ."> ) Morrissey and the Benicia Boy 44 Morning on the Irish Coast John Locke 135 Mother. He's Going Away .s'. Lover 71 Mrs. Mc Laughlin's Party (il My Bonnie Laboring Boy si My Emmet's No More 14:1 My Good Looking Man 7 My Noble Irish Girl L. Reynolds M D. 35 CONTEN IS. Nancy, the Pride of the West Nell Flaherty's Drake Nora McShane Nora O'Neal Norah Creina Thomas Moore Norah Darling, Don't Believe Them Norah Magee O'Donnell Abu O'Donnell the Avenger < ('Donovan's Daughter Edward Walsh ( ('Farrell the Fiddler Oh, Erin, My Country Oh, Molly, 1 Can't Say You're Honest Lover Oh! Steer My Bark to Erin's Isle F. H. Bayly Oh! the Marriage Thomas Davis Old Bog Hole, The Old Church, The Tyrone Power < )ld Country Party, The Old Farmer's Discourse, The Old Ireland I Adore James Walsh Old Ireland's Hearts and Hands Old Land Marks On the Shannon. J. F. O'Donnell Old Leather Breeches, The Old Plaid Shawl, The One Bottle More One of the Brave Connaught Rangers. H. Wincott One Pound Two ( (range and Green Gerald Griffin < )i angeman's Wife Carroll Malone O'Reilly the Fisherman O, Sons of Erin Rev. Wm. J. McClure Ould Docther Mack Ould Ireland So Green Ould Ireland, You're My Darlin' Paddy at the Theatre Paddy Blake's Echo Lover Paddy Carey Paddy Magee's Dream Paddy McGee Paddy Miles Paddy, Ye Rascal Paddy's Curiosity Shop Paddy's Panacea Joseph Lunn Paddy's Pastoral Rhapsody Pastheen Fion Samuel Ferguson Pat and the Pig J. E. Carpenter Pat and the Priest Pat Malony's Family Pat Malloy Pat O'Hara Pat of Mullingar Pat Roach at the Play Pat's Letter Pat's Love J. D. W. Pater Noster M. J. Heffernan Patrick Riley Pa t rick Shechan Patriots of Ireland Peasant's Bride, The Petticoat Lane Pillar Towers of Ireland, The Poacher, The Chas. G. H alpine Poor Man's Labor Never Done, The Poor Pat Must Emigrate Pretty Girl of Loch Dan, The S. Ferguson Pretty Maid Milking Her Cow, The Pretty Mary, the Dairyman's Daugnter Bakes of Mallow, The 150 14 50 141 144 149 157 98 2," 28 90 93 14 155 7 05 104 95 102 113 142 102 75 84 23 104 20 138 46 49 122 114 98 126 48 94 20 99 84 99 160 145 155 38 47 148 120 128 116 20 10 117 105 96 18 35 72 134 123 18 137 23 31 106 109 58 113 93 Reconciliation, The John Banim 94 Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore. . . Moore 111 Riding Double 132 Rigged Out T. D. Sullivan 1 19 Rising of the Moon, The J. K. Casey 111 River Boyne, The T. D. McGee 152 River Roe, The 47 Robert Emmett Wm. Geoghegan 106 Rock of Cashel, The Rev. Dr. Murray 145 Rocky Road to Dublin 1!) Rory of the Hills 74 Rory O'More Lover 90 Rory'6 Kissing School 14'.) Rosanna Carney OS Rose of Kenmare, The Sheridan 26 Rose of Killarney 142 Rose of Tralee, The 80 Sacret Yez Trusted to Me, The Mrs. Edward Thomas 153 Saint Patrick Was a Gentleman 105 Savourneen Deelish 13 Search the Page of History 76 Shamrock and Laurel, The . . . . Rev. Wm. McClure 50 Shamrock From The Irish Shore, The D. F. MacCarthy 140 Shamrock on Patrick's Day 102 Shamrock Shore, The 74 Shamus O'Brien 160 Shan Van Vogh 32 Shane Dymas' Daughter 142 Shillelah, The 68 Shule Aroon 110 Shaun's Head John Savage 36 Siege of Maynooth, The 108 Skibbereen 8S Slattery's Mounted Fut 83 Smiggy Maglooral 143 Soggarth Aroon Ferguson S2 Song of Innisfail Thomas Moore 67 Song of the Irish Exile John Banim, 133 Sons of Hibernia, The 150 Spinning-Wheel Song J. /■'. Waller 151 Sprig of Shillelah, The 13 " Stamping Out " " Miles O'Reill / " .",7 Star of Glengary, The 11 St. Patrick's Day /. /■'. Waller 144 St. Patrick's Martyrs 12 Sweet Erin, My Country P. A. Carroll 131 Sweet girls of Deny, The J . E. Carpenter 158 Sweet Innisfallen Moore 1 1 5 Sweet Irish Girl is the Darning for Me, A 150 Sweet Kilkenny Town 151 Sweet Kathleen, the Girl I Adore... P. A. Carroll 146 Sweet Songs of Erin Asthore P. A. Carroll 141 Tan Yard Side, The 25 Teddy McGlynn 82 Teddv O'Monaghan's Courtship 02 Teddy O'Neal 14 Terence's Farewell to Kathleen Countess Gifford 89 Terry Malone 151 Terry O'Rann CO Terry O'Roon and His Wonderful Tune J. E. Carpenter 147 That Rogue Reilly 57 Tim Finigan's Wake 136 Tim McCarthy's Daughter 81 Tipperary 67 Tipperary Christening, The 15 6 CONTENTS. Tony Lumpkin's Song Oliver Goldsmith 123 To Sustain the Family Reputation I" True Irish King, The 126 True Lover'6 Discussion, The • ' Twelve Stone Two 79 Up for the Green 50 Valley Lay Smiling Before Me, The Moore 137 Virgin Mary's Hank, The J. J. Callanan 7, Volunteers, The M. 0. B. 117 Waterford Boys, The H5 Wearing of the Green, The 40 Wearing of the Green, The Dion Boucicault 09 Wearing of the Green, The //. O. Cumin 130 Wedding of Ballypon en, The 03 We May Roam Thro' This World Moore 127 What Irish Bovs Can Do 23 What Will You Do, Love Lover 139 Where the Grass Grows Green 144 Whistling Thief, The Samuel Lover 154 Why Can't Paddy Be a Gentleman ? Why Write You a Ditty* Rev. J. P. Lonargan Widow Machree chas - LiV ' r Widow Malone Chow. L< w r Widow McCarty, The Samuel Lover Widow McGee Samuel Luii r Widow's Message to Her Son, The Wild Irish Boy, The Willy Reilly Winnie's Welcome Wirrasthrue Gerald Qriflm Woman of Three Cows. The •/. C. U<">gan Won't You Leave l"s a Lock of Your Hair J. J. V. Woods of Kylinoe. The L. N. F. Written in Letters of Gold Yellow Meal Y'oughall Harbor You Remember, Ellen " oore You're Welcome as Flowers in May J. E. Carpenter 9 9 53 62 9 86 10 26 86 117 lr.l 120 103 114 75 56 95 141 152 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. MY GOOD-LOOKING MAN. Come, all you pretty maids, of courage brave and true, I will teach you how to happy live, and avoid all troubles, too; Aud if you live a wedded life, now plainly understand, And don't you ever fall in love with all good-looking men. When I was sixteen years of age, a damsel in my prime, I daily thought on wedded life, and how I'd be at the time; I daily thought on wedded life, its pleasures I did scan, And I sighed and sobbed, both night and day, to get a nice young man. My wish, it seems, too soon I got, for one Sunday afternoon, As home from church I gaily tripped, I met a fair gossoon; He looked so tine about the face, to win him I made a plan, And that very day I set my cap for that good-looking man. Again, by chance, as out I stepped to take a pleasant roam, I met this handsome gentleman, who wished to see me home; I'd fain say no, but it was no use, to go with me was his plan, So to my home I walked along with my good-looking man. He said to me, as on we walked: My dear and only love, If with me you'll consent to wed, I will ever constant prove; I'll ever be a husband kind and do the best I can, So my heart and hand I then did give to my good-looking man. That night was fixed for us to wed — he bid me have all cheer — He pressed me to his breast, saying: Oh, my Mary dear! He gently pressed me to his breast, saying: " Oh, my Mary dear! And there I tied that dreadful knot with that good-looking man. It was scarce a week, when married I was, one Sunday afternoon, The day went by, the night came on, off went the honeymoon; My gent walked out — so did I — for to watch him was my plan, When soon a ilashy girl I saw with my good-looking man. At once a thought came in my head to entrap my faithless swain, So quickly I did gain on him, and followed on his train; It was then and there I heard him swear his love for her outran, The closest ties for any maid — " Oh, what a nice young man ! " They kissed and toyed, and tales of love to her he then did tell, Thinks I to myself, now is the time to serve you outright well; • He did not me at all espy, so to my home I ran, And there sat down to anxiously wait for my good-looking man. The clock was just striking ten, when my gentleman he walked in, I gently said: My William, dear, where hast thou so long been? I have been to church, my love, said he — Oh ! this I could not stand, So the rolling pin I did let fly at my good-looking man. I blacked his eyes, I tore his hair, in ribbons I tore his clothes, I then took up the poker and laid it across his nose; He just looked like a chimney-sweep, as out the door he ran, And never a lady loved again with my good-looking man. Now, you married folks, take my advice, high and low degree, When a rakish husband you do get, pitch into him like me; When I found out I was deceived, it was my only plan To disfigure the handsome countenance of my good-looking man. A CUP 0' TAY. Och! prate about your wine, Or poteen, mighty foine, There's no such draught as mine, From Ireland to Bombay! And whether black or green, Or divil a shade between, There's nothing I have seen Wid a gintale cup o' tay! Whist! hear the kettle sing, Like birds in early spring; A sup for any king Is the darlint in th< thray. Ould cronies dhroppin' in, The fat ones and the thin, Shure all their hearts I win Wid a gintale cup o' tay! Wid whiskey punch galore How many heads grow sore? Shalalahs, too, a score Most beautifully play. Wid all their hathin ways, Good luck to thim Chinaise, Who sind us o'er the says Such a gintale cup o' tay! OH! THE MARRIAGE. Oh ! the marriage — the marriage, With love and mo buachail for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me; For Owen is straight as a tower, And tender and loving and true, He told me more love in an hour Than the squires of the county could do. Then, oh ! the marriage, etc. His hair is a shower of soft gold, His eye is as clear as the day, His conscience and vote were unsold When others were carried away ; His word is as good as an oath, And freely 'twas given to me; Oh ! sure 'twill be happy for both The day of the marriage to see. Then, oh ! the marriage, etc. His kinsmen are honest and kind, The neighbors think much of his skill, And Owen's the lad to my mind, Though he owns neither castle nor mill. But he has a tilloch of land, A horse, and a stocking of coin, A foot for the dance, and a hand In the cause of his country to join. Then, oh! the marriage, etc. SONUS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. OH I THE MABRIAQE.— Continued. We meet in market and fair — We meet in the morning and night — He sits on half of my chair, And my people are wild with delight. Yet 1 long through the winter to skim, Though Owen longs more. 1 can see, When I will be married to him, And he will be married to me. Then, oh ! the marriage — the marriage, With love and mo buachail for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me, HARPSTR1NGS. Irish eyes of honest blue With their ways of playful tease. Heart and hand, so warm and true, Praise, — whose lips ne'er failed to please. Irish smile, so free of guile Angels, tempting but to bless; Like their bright and verdant isle — Half a dream, and half caress. Irish hearts — so b'.ess'd with love And such tenderness — to feel All but saints in heaven above, For such bliss would fondly kneel. Irish welcome, sweet to share; Strays the stranger to the Land Lone, and lost in deep despair He will grasp a greeting hand. Irish wit, beyond compare Lifts and leaves the bumper kind, When its sparkle, rich and rare, Fills the eye, and Hoods the mind. Irish grief, so weird and wild. When its soul of music breaks — Then the giant is the child As his sob, dread discord wakes. Irish homes — ye gems of grace, Where the light of mirth and prayer, Fitful, gleam from each pure face, Hound its parent fond and fair. Irish curses, long and loud. Fright the tyrant on his throne, Blind the cruel and the proud, Blight the traitor all disown. Irish hope, though gray with years. Wears a look almost divine. Not in vain those priestly tears God for thee hath set a sign. Irish heroes fought and bled. Shamed that I hey could give no more r Erin — and so they tied '.ill pleading to heaven's bright shore. Irish faith, shines undefined, Fervor- blessing every clime; ist iu dying on thee smiled, And its halo hallows time. Irishmen, Cod bless you all, -land together hand in hand; Hate's misrule must surely fall, And Cod bless old Ireland. FATHER TOM O'NEIL. THERE was a woman lived in this place, she had three charming sons, Their father died and left them, when very young ; A long time she endeavored to maintain her darling sons, Until the youngest one became a man at the age of twenty-one. One night he discoursed with his mother, these words to her did say : •• 1 think it will fall on one of us to go far away: Your land is too small to support us all, and if you would agree, 1 am fully bent and well content a clergyman to be. His mother being glad to hear such a thought come in his mind, She says: " 1 will do all I can to help my darling child.' She spoke unto his brothers, and they did soon agree, They'd send him ofF to college, a clergyman to be. He was not long in college when the Rev. Bishop Brown Came to examine the collegians and viewed them all around. He saw this clever young man, marked him above them all — He was the first he did discourse when on them he did call. He says: "Young man, where are you from? come, tell me your name." " I am from the County Armagh, they call me Tom O'Neil; My mother she is a widow of a low degree; She has done her best endeavors to make a priest of me." "As Thomas O'Neil, then, is your name," the Bishop he did say; " Go, study hard, both night and day ; I will have you soon ordained, to help your mother that did so well for thee; I will send you home a credit, your country boys to see." When this young man came home ordained, the neighbors were glad to hear, And all that came to welcome him, came in twos and threes : Particularly his own dear friends to welcome him they ran, And you never saw such welcome as was for the widow's son. There was a man lived in this place, he was as rich as a duke or knight ; He had an only daughter, she was a beauty bright. She says unto her father: " I will go this young man to sic. For before he went to college, he was a schoolboy along with me." She was brought into a parlor, where she drank ale and wine ; She mi) -: " You are a clever young man. I would have you resign. What made you be a clergyman? you know- you are astray, For a clergyman must rise by night, and travel hard by day. "'Come take some noble lady whose fortune will be grand; You will have men to wait on you, and be a gentleman. Come, take myself now, as I stand; you know my fortune is great ; 1 have ten thousand pounds a year, and. at a death, a whole estate." He Bays: " My noble lady, do not explain your mind. For if you oiler ten times more, 1 would not resign; For in this holy station I mean to lead my life; So say no more, my dearest dear, I will never take a wife." It was when he did deny her. this villain, she came home, And in eigh! weeks after, her secret she let know; She swore before the magistrate, that he did her beguile; And for four long weeks before she went to him, she was with child. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. FATHER TOM ONEIL.-Ccmni wakes. The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. PAT OF MULLINGAR. Tih:y may talk of Flying Childers, and the speed of Uarkaway, Till the fancy it bewilders, as you list to what thej say; But for real bone and beauty, though to travel far and near, The fastest mare you'll find belongs to Pat of Mullingar. She can trot along, jog along, drag a jaunting car, No day's so long, when set along with Pat of Mullingar. She was bred in Connemara, and brought up at Castlemaine, She won cups at the Curragh, the finest haste on all the plain; All countries and conveyances she has been buckled to, She lost an eye at Limerick and an ear at Waterloo. — Chorus. If a friend you wish to find, sir, I'll go wherever you want, I'll drive you out of your mind, sir, or a little way beyont ; Like an arrow through the air if you 11 step upon the car, You'll ride behind the little mare of Pat of Mullingar. — Chobus. To Dallymount or Kingston, if the place you wish to see, I'll drive you to the strawberry beds, it's all the same to me; To Donnybrook, whose ancient air is famed for love or war, Or, if you have the time to spare, we'll go to Mullingar. — Chobus. When on the road we're going, the other carmen try (Without the darling knowing), to pass her on the sly; Her one ear points up to the sky, she tucks her haunches in, Then shows the lads how she can fly as I sit still and grin. — t'HORUS. Then should yez want a ear, sirs, I hope you'll not forget Poor Pat of Mullingar, sirs, and his darlin' little pet; She's gentle as the dove, sirs, her speed you can't deny, And there's no blind side about her, tho' she hasn't got an eye. — j Chorus. t THE GREEN LINNET. Curiosity bore a young native of Erin To view the gay banks of the Rhine, When an Empress he saw, and the robe she was wearing All over with diamonds did shine; A goddess in splendor was never yet seen To equal this ("air one so mild and serene, In soft murmurs she says: My sweet linnet so green. Are you gone — will I never see you more? The cold, lofty Alps you freely went over, Which nature had placed in your way. That Marengo Saloney around you did hover. And Paris did rejoice the next day; It grieves me the hardships you did undergo, Over mountains you traveled all covered with snow. The balance of power your courage laid low, Are you gone — will I never Bee you more? Tho crowned heads of Europe, when you were in splendoi Pain would they have you submit, Put the Goddess of Freedom soon lid them surrender. Ami lowered the standard to your wit: Old Frederick's colors in Franco you did bring, Yet his offspring found shelter under your will That year in Virginia you sweetly did sin:. Are you gone- -will I never see you inon Thai numbers of men are eager to slay you. Their malice you viewed with a smile. Their gold through all Europe they sowed to betray you. And they joined the Mamelukes on the Nile. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 1] Like ravens for blood their vile passion did burn, The orphans they slew and caused the widow to mourn ; They say ray linnet's gone and ne'er will return, Is he gone — will I never see him more? When the trumpet of war the grand blast was sounding, You mai-ched to the north with good will, To relieve the poor slaves in their vile sack clothing You used your exertion and skill; You spread out the wings of your envied train While tyrants great Csesar's old nest set in flame, Their own subjects they caused to eat herbs on the plains, Are you gone — will I never see you more ? In great Waterloo, where numbers laid sprawling In every field, high or low, Fame on her trumpets true Frenchmen were calling, Fresh laurels to place on her brow; Usurper did tremble to hear the loud call, The third old Babe's new buildings did fall, The Spaniards their fleet in the harbor did call, Are you gone — I will never see you more. I'll roam thro' the deserts of wild Abyssinia, And yet find no cure for my pain ; Will I go and inquire in the isle of St. Helena? No, we will whisper in vain. Tell me, you critics, now tell me in time, The nation I will range my sweet linnet to find, Was he slain at Waterloo, on Elba, on the Rhine? If he was — I will never see him more. THE STAR OF GLENGARY. The red moon is up o'er the moss-covered mountain, The hour is at hand when I promised to rove With the turf-cutter's daughter, by Logan's bright water, And tell her how truly her Donald tan love! I ken there's the miller, with plenty o' siller, Would fain win a glance, from her beautiful e'e — She's my ain bonny Mary, the star of Glengary, Keeps all her soft smiles and sweet kisses for me — She's my ain bonny Mary, the star of Glengary, Keeps all her soft smiles and sweet kisses for me. Tis long since we trod o'er the highlands together, Two frolicsome bairns, gaily starting the deer; When I called her my wee wife, my ain bonny wee wife, And ne'er was sic joys as when Mary was there; For she is a blossom I wear in my bosom, A blossom I cherish and wear till I dee — She's my ain bonny Mary, the star of Glengary, She is health, she is wealth, and a gude wife to me — She's my ain bonny Mary, the star of Glengary, She is health, she is wealth, and a gude wife to me. MARY LE MORE. As I strayed o'er the common on Cork's rugged border, While the dewdrops of morn the sweet primrose arrayed; 1 saw a poor female, whose mental disorder, Her quick glancing eye and wild aspect, betrayed. On the sward she reclined, by the green fern surrounded, At her side speckled daisies and wild flowers abounded; To its inmost recesses, her heart had been wounded, Her sighs were unceasing — 'twas Mary Le More. Her charms by the keen blasts of sorrow were faded, Yet the soft tinge of beauty still played on her cheek; Her tresses a wreath of primroses braided, And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck. THE CROrPY BOY. " Good men and true ! in this house wk© dwell, To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tell Is the Priest at home? or may he be seen? 1 would speak a word with Father Green." " The Priest's at home, boy, and may be seen; 'Tis easy speaking with Father Green; But you must wait till 1 go and see If the holy father alone may be." The youth has entered an empty hall — What a lonely sound has his light footfall! And the gloomy chamber's chill and bare, With a vested Priest in a lonely chair. The youth has knelt to tell his sins: "Nomine Dei," the youth begins; At " mea culpa '■' he beats his breast, And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest. " At the siege of Ross did my father fall, And at Gorey my loving brothers all ; I alone am left of my name and race, I will go to Wexford and take their place. " I cursed three times since last Easter day — At mass-time once I went to play ; I passed the churchyard one day in haste, And forgot to pray for my mother's rest. " I bear no hate against living thing ; But I love my country above my King. Now, Father ! bless me and let me go To die, if God has ordained it so." The Priest said nought, but a rustling noise Made the youth look up in wild surprise; The robes were off, and in scarlet there Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare. With fiery glare and with fury hoarse, Instead of blessing he breathed a curse — " 'Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive. For one short hour is your time to live. " Upon yon river three tenders float, The Priest's in one if he isn't shot — We hold his house for our Lord the Kin;. And, amen say I. may all traitors swing! " At Geneva Barrack that young man died, And at Passae they have his body laid Good people who live in peace and joy. Breathe a prayer and a tear for the t'roppv Boy. 12 SONUS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. AMRY LA MORE— CoHfi'nued. While with pity I gazed, she exclaimed: "<), my mother! See the blood on the lush! 'tis the blood of my brother — They have torn his poor flesh! and they now Btrip another — Tie Connor — the friend of poor Mary Le More." Though his locks were as white as the foam on the ocean, Those wretches shall lind that my father is brave; My lather! she cried, with the wildest emotion, Ah, no! my poor father now sleeps in the grave. They have tolled his death bell, they've laid the turf o'er him, His white locks were bloody, no aid could restore him; He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him, When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary Le More. A lark, from the gold blossomed furze that grew near her, Now rose and with energy caroled his lay; "Hush! hush! " she continued. " the trumpet rounds clearer, The horsemen approach! Erin's daughters away! Ah! soldiers, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning, And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning — Go hide with the seamew, ye maids, and take warning, Those ruffians have ruined poor Mary Le More. " Away ! bring the ointment — O God ! see the gashes ! Alas ! my poor brother, come dry my big tear ! Anon we'll have vengeance for those dreadful lashes, Already the sereeehowl and raven appear. By day the green grave that lies under the willow, With wild flowers I'll strew, and by night make my pillow, Till the ooze and dark seaweed beneath the curled billow Shall furnish a death bed for Mary Le More." Thus raved the poor maniac, in tones more heart-rending, Than sanity's voice ever poured on my ear, When lo! on the waste, and on the march towards her bending, A troop of fierce cavalry, chanced to appear. "Oli! the fiends! " she exclaimed, and with wild horror started, Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted; With an overcharged bosom I slowly departed, And sighed for the wrongs of poor Mary Le More. ST. PATRICK'S MARTYRS. I WONDKU what the mischief was in her. for the mistress was nivcr countrairy, But this same is just what she said to me, just as sure as me name it is Mary : " Mary," says she, all a-smiling and swate-like, " the young ladies are coming from France, And we'll give them a welcome next Monday, with an illegant supper and dance." "Is it Monday ye're maning?" says I; "ma'am, why, thin I'm sorry to stand in yer way, But it's little of work I'll do Monday, seeing that Monday's St. Patrick's Day; And sure it's incself that promised to go wid Cousin Kitty Malone's brother Dan, And bad luck to Mary Magee," says I, ' if she disappoints such a swate young man! " "Me children hev been away four years" — and she spoke in a very unfeelin' way — Ve (.in. it expect I shall disappoint them either for you or St. Patrick's Day; 1 know nothing about St. Patrick." "That's true for vc. ma'am, more's the pity." says T. I it's niver the likes of Ve has the luck to be born under tile Irish sky." KITTY TYRRELL You RE looking as fresh as the morn, dar- ling, \ou're looking as bright as the day; But while on your charm.-, I'm dilating. You're stealing my poor heart away. But keep it and welcome, ma\ourncen, Its loss I'm not going to mourn; Yet one heart's enough for a body, So, pray, give me yours in return; Mavourneen, mavourneen, O, pray, give me yours in return. I've built me a neat little cot, darling, ['ve pigs and potatoes in store; I've twenty good pounds in the bank, love, And may be a pound or two more. It's all very wr'l to have riches. Hut I'm such a covetous elf, 1 can't help still sighing for something, And. darling, that something's yourself; Mavourneen, mavourneen, And that something, vou know, is your- self. You're smiling, and that's a good sign, dar- ling, Say "yes," and you'll never repent; Or if you would rather be silent Your silence I'll take for consent. Thai good-natured dimple's a tell-tale, Now all that I have is your own; This week you may be Kitty Tyrrell, Next week you'll be Mistress Malone; Mavourneen, mavoumi You'll be my own Mistress Malone. LIMERICK IS BKALTIFUL. Limebick is beautiful, As everybody knows; Tlr> river Shannon, full of fish, Through that city flows. But' tis not the river or the fish That weighs upon my mind; Nor with the town of Limerick I've any fault to find. — Ochone, ochone. i il I love is beautiful And soft-eyed as the fawn ; Sh« lives in ( tarryowen, And is called the Colleen Rawn. And proudly as that river (lows Through that famed city. As proudly, and without a* word, That Colleen goes by me. — Ochone, ochone. If I was made the Emperor Of Russia to command, Or Julius Cesar, or the L>rd Lieutenant of the land, I'd give my plate and golden store, I'd give up my army ; The horses. 1 he rifles, and the foot. And the Royal Artillery.— Ochone, ochonfa. I'd give the crown from off my head My people on their knees; I'd give the lleef of sailing ships Upon the briny seas. A beggar I would go to bed. And happy rise at dawn ; If In my side, for my sweel bride. I had found my Colic n Bawn.— Ochone, 0< :. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 13 ST. PATRICK'S MARTYRS. Continued. Ye see, I was gitting past jokin'— and she sitting there, so aisy and proud, And me thinking of the Third Avenue, and the procession and music and crowd; And it crossed me mind that minit consarning Thady Mulligans supper and dance; Says I, '• It's not Mary Magee, ma'am, that can stay tor the ladies coming from France." " Mary," says she, " two afternoons each week— ivery Wednesday and ivery Monday — Ye've always had, besides yer early Mass, and yer Vispers ivery other Sundav, And yer friends have visited at me house, two or three ot than ivery night." " Indade thin," says I. " That was nothin' at all but ivery dacent girl's right ! " " Very well, thin," says she, " ye can lave the house and be sure to take wid ye yer ' right ' ; And if Michael and Nora think just as ye do, ye can all of ye lave to-night." So just for St. Patrick's glory we wint; and, as sure as Mary Magee is me name. It's a house full of nagurs she's got now, which the same is a sin and a shame. Bad luck to them all ! A poor body, I think, had need of a com- ferable glass ; It's a miserable time in Ameriky for a dacent Irish-born lass. If she sarves the saints,, and is kind to her friends, then she loses her home and her pay, And there's thousands of innocent martyrs like me on ivery St, Patrick's Day. THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH. Ocu, love is the soul of a nate Irishman, He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can, With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green? " His heart is good-humor'd, 'tis honest and sound, No malice or hatred is there to be found. He courts and marries, he drinks and he rights, 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 o'er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied 'round his white 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. At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart light with whisky, his head soft with blows From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries: "Get you gone, Pat! " yet consents all the while; To the priest then they go, and nine months after that A fine baby cries out: " How d'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 neighboring earth, Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green; May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a cannon; United and happy at loyalty's shrine, May the rose, leek, and thistle long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. SAVOURNEEN DEELISH. All! the moment was sad when my love and I parted — Savourneen deelish eileen og; As 1 kissed oil' her tears, I was nigk broken-hearted ! Savourneen dedish eileen og. Wan was her cheek, which hung on my shoulder, Damp was her hand, no marble was colder, 1 felt that again I should never behold her, Savourneen deelish eileen og. When the word of command put our men into motion, Savourneen deelish eileen og; I buckled on my knapsack to cross the wide ocean, Savourneen deelish eileen og. Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder, Pleased with the voyage, impatient for plunder; My bosom with grief was almost torn asun- der, Savourneen deelish eileen og. Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love, Savourneen deelish eileen og; All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you, love, Savourneen deelish eileen og. Peace was proclaimed, escaped from the slaughter, Landed at home, my sweet girl, I sought her; But sorrow, alas! to the cold grave had brought her, Savourneen deelish eileen og. ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE. The long, long wished-for hour has come, But come, asthore, in vain. And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain; My light of life, my only love, Thy portion sure must be Man's scorn below, God's wrath above — Acushla gal machree. 'Twas told of thee the world around, Was hoped for thee by all, That with one frallant sunward bound Thou'd burst long ages' thrall; Thy fate was tried, alas ! and those Who periled all for thee Were cursed and branded as thy foes, Acushla gal machree. What fate is thine, unhappy isle, That e'en the trusted tew Should pay thee back with fraud and guile When most they should be true? 'Twas not thy strength or courage failed Nor those whose souls were free ; By moral force wert thou betrayed, Acushla gal machree. 14 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE-Conftnu«d. Tto given thee my youth and prime, And manhoods waning years; I've blest thee in thy sunniest time, And shed for thee my tears; And mother, tho' thou'st cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wish is still to pray — For Cushla gal maehree. I've tracked for thee the mountain sides And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides On Lua's fairy lake; The rich have spurned me from their door Because I'd set thee free, Yet do I love thee more and more — Acushla gal maehree. OH, MOLLY, I CAN'T SAY YOU'RE HONEST. On, Molly, I can't say you're honest, You've stolen my heart from my breast; I feel like a bird that's astonished When young vagabones rob its nest. My brightest of sunshine at night is, "lis just between midnight and dawn, For then, Molly dear, my delight is To sing you my little cronawn — Weirasthru 1 Phillilewi But I'm kilt — May the quilt Lie light on your beautiful form When the weather is hot, But, my love, when 'tis not, May it rov.i you up cosey and warm! Now, it you are sleepin', dear Molly, Oh, don't let me waken you, dear; Some tindher memorial I'll lave you, To just let you know 1 was here. So I'll throw a big stone at the windy, And if any glass I should brake, Tis for love all the panes I am takin' — What wouldn't I smash for your sake? Weirasthru! Phillilew! But I'm kilt- May the quilt Lie light on your beautiful form When the weather is hot, But, my love, when 'tis not, May it rowl you up cosey and warm! I know that your father is stingy, And likewise your mother the same; 'Tis very small change that you'll bring me, Exceptin' the change o' your name; So be quick with the change, dearest Molly, lie the same more or less as it may, And my own name, my darlin', I'll give you The minnit that you name the day! Weirasthru ! Phillilew! But I'm kilt — May the quilt Lio light on your beautiful form When the weather is hot, But, my love, when 'tis not, May it rowl you up cosey and warm! TKDDY O'NEAL. I dbeamt but last night, oh ! bad cess to the dreaming, Sure I'd die if 1 thought 'twould come truly to pass; I dreamt, while the tears down my pillow were streaming, That Teddy was courting another fair la Oh! didn't 1 wake with a weeping and wailing, The grief of the thought was too much to conceal ; My mother cried, Norah, child, what is your ailing! "But all I could utter was Teddy O'Neal— My mother cried, Norah, child, what is your ailing? But all I could utter was Teddy O'Neal. I went to the cabin he dane'd his wild jigs in, As neat a mud palace as ever w-as seen ; Considering it served to keep poultry and pigs in, I'm sure you'll allow 'twas most decent and clean; But now all around it looks cold, sad, and dreary, All sad, and all silent, no piper, no leelj Not even the sun through the casement shines cheery, Since I lost the dear darling boy, Teddy O'Neal — Not even the sun through the casement shines cheery, Since I losi the dear darling boy, Teddy O'Neal. Shall I ever forget when the big ship was ready, And the moment was come for my love to depart ; How I sobbed like a spalpeen, good-by to you, Teddy, With a tear on my cheek, and a stone on my heart? He said 'twas to better his fortune he wander'd. But what would be gold to the joy I should feel If he'd only come back to me, honest and loving, Still poor, yet my own darling Teddy O'Neil — If he'd only come back to me, honest and loving, Still poor, yet my own darling Teddy O'Neal. NELL FLAHERTY'S DRAKE. My name it is Nell, right candid I tell, And I live near a cool hill I never will deny, I had a large drake, the truth for to spake, My grandfather left me when going to die; He was merry and sound, and would weigh twenty pound, The universe round would I rove for his sake. Bad luck to the robber, be he drunken or sober, That murdered Nell Flaherty's beautiful drake. His neck it was green, and rare to be seen. He was fit for a queen of the highest degree. His body so white, it would you delight, He was fat, plump, and heavy, and brisk as a bee. This dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow, He could Hy like a swallow, or swim like a hake, But some wicked habbage, to grease kis white cabbage, Has murdered Nell Flaherty's drake! May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt, That a ghost may him haunt in the dark of the night. May his hens never lay, may his horse never neigh, May his goat fly away like an old paper kite; May his duck never quack, may his goose be turned black And pull down his stack with her long yellow beak. May the scurvy and itch never part from the briteh Of the wretch that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake! May his rooster ne'er crow, may his bellows not blow, Nor potatoes to grow — may lie never have none — May his cradle not rock, may his chest have no lock, May his wife have no frock for to shade her backbone. That the bugs and the fleas may this wicked wretch tease, And a piercing north breeze make him tremble and shake. May a four years' old bug build a nest in the lug Of the monster that murdered Neil Flaherty's drake. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. NELL FLAHERTY'S DRAKE.— Con tinned. May hia pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke, And to add to the joke may his kettle not boil ; May he be poorly fed till the hour he is dead. May tie always be fed on lobscouse and lish oil. May he swell with the gout till his grinders fall out, May lie roar, howl, and shout with a horrid toothache, May his temple wear horns and his toes corns, The wretch that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake. May his dog yelp and howl with both hunger and cold, May his wife always scold till his brains go astray. May the curse of each hag, that ever carried a bag, Light down on the wag till his head it turns gray. May monkeys still bite him, and mad dogs affright him, And every one slight him, asleep or awake. May wasps ever gnaw him, and jackdaws ever claw him, The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake. But the only good news I have to diffuse, Is of Peter Hughs and Paddy McCade, And crooked Ned Manson, and big-nosed Bob Hanson, Each one had a grandson of my beautiful drake. Oh ! my bird he has dozens of nephews and cousins, And one I must have, or my heart it will break. To keep my mind easy, or else I'll run crazy, And so ends the song of my beautiful drake. THE IRISH GIRL. One evening, as I strayed down the river's side, Looking all around me an Irish girl I spied : So red and rosy were her cheeks, and yellow was her hair, And costly were the robes which my Irish girl did wear. Her shoes of Spanish leather were bound round with spangles gay, The tears came down her crystal eyes, and she began to say: Ochone, and alas! asthore areen machree, Why should you go and leave me, and slight your own Molly? The first time that I saw my love, I was sick and very bad, All the request I asked was that she might tie my head; I asked her if one as bad as me could ever mend again, For love's a sore disorder — did you ever feel the pain? My love she'll not come nigh me for all the moan I make, Nor neither will she pity me if my poor heart should break; But was I of some noble blood and she of low degree, She would hear my lamentation and come and pity me. My only love is fairer than the lilies that do grow, She has a voice that's clearer than any winds that blow; She's the promise of this country, like Venus in the air, And let her go where'er she will, she's my joy and only dear. Be it so, or be it not, of her I take my chance, The first time that I saw my love she struck me in a trance; Her ruby lips and sparkling eyes have so bewitched me, That were I king of Ireland, queen of It she should be. THE LAKES OF COLD FINN. It was early one morning young William had rose, Straightway to his comrades' bed-chamber he goes, Saying: Comrades, royal comrades, let nobody know, For it's a fine morning and a-bathing we'll go. So they walked right along till they came to Long Lane, And the first that they met was the keeper of the game; He advisea them for sorrow to turn back a^ain, For their doom was to die on a watery main. So young William stepped oft" and swam the lake 'round, He swam 'round the island, but not the right ground, Saying: Comrades, royal comrades, don't you venture in, For there's depth in false water, in the lakes of Cold Finn. THE TIPPERARY ( I1RISTENING. It was down in that place, Tipperary, Where they're so airy, and bo contrary, Where they kick up the devil's figarie, When they christened the beautiful boy. In comes the piper, sot thinking, And a-winking, and a-blinking, And a noggin of punch he was drinking, And wishing the parents great joy. When home from the church they came, Father Tom and old Mikey Branigan, And scores of as pretty boys and girls As ever you'd wish for to see; When in through the door, llogan, the tinker, Lather and Lanagan, Kicked up a row, and wanted to know, Why they wasn't asked to the spice. Then the boy set up such a-bawling, And such a-squalling, and caterwauling, For he got such a mauling, Oh, that was the day of great joy. Then the piper set up such a-moamng, And such a-droning, and such a-cronipg, In the corner his comether was turning, When they christened sweet Dennis, the boy. The aristocracy came to the party, There was McCarty, lisrht and hearty, With Florence Berdelia Fogarty, Who said that was French for a name; Dionysius Alphonso Mulrooney, Oh, so spooney and so looney, With the charming Evangeline Mooney, Of society she was the cream. Cora Teresa Maud McCann, Angelina Rocke, and Julia McCafl'erty, Rignold Mormon Duke, Morris McGan, And Clarence Ignatius McGurk; Cornelius Horatio Flaherty's wife, Adolphus Grace, and Dr. O'Rafferty, Eva McLaughlin, and Cora Muldoon, And Brigadier-General Burke; They were dancing the polka-mazurka, 'Twas a worker, not a shirker, And a voice of Vienna, la Turker, And the polka-redowa divine; After dancing, they went in to lunching, Oh, such munching, and such crunching, Thev were busy as bees at a lunching, With their coffee, tea, whisky, and wine. They had all kinds of tea, they had Sho- song, They had Ningnong, and Drinkdong, With Oolong, and Boolong, and Toolong, And teas that were made in Japan ; They had sweetmeats, imported from Java, And from Youver and from Havre, In the fpur-masted steamer " Manarver," 16 SONGS AND BALLADS OF 1KH1.A THE LAKES OF COLD FINN.— Cont, 'Twas next morning, next morning, when his .sister had arose, She straightway to tier mother's bed el amber she did go, Saying: Mother, dear mother, I had a sad dream, That young William was floating on a watery stream. It was early one morning when his mother went there. She had rings on every ringer and was tearing her hair, Crying: Murder! oh, murder! was there nobody by That would venture their life for my line darling boy? So it was early one morning when his uncle went there, He rode 'round the island like one in despair, Saying: Where was he drowned, or did he fall in? For tiiere's depth in false water, in the lakes of Cold Finn. JOHNNY DOl l.l •:. I am a fair maiden, all tangled in love. My case I will make known to the great God above; 1 thought it a credit, yet I fear it a crime For to roam the world all over for you, Johnny Doyle. It was Saturday evening we made up the plan, It was early Monday morning to take a trip along: My waiting maid was standing by, as you can plainly see, She slipped in unto my mamma, and told upon me. My mamma she conducted me into the bedroom high, Where she knew no one could hear me. nor pity my cry; She bundled up my clothes, and she bid me be gone, For she knew well, in her heart, that I loved that young man. A horse and side-saddle my father did provide. In hopes to get me married, and be young Somers' bride; A horse and side-saddle my father did prepare, With six noble footmen to wait on me there. So we rode all along till we came to Belfast town, Our horses being stabled and footmen seated down; While they were at their merriment, 1 had my own toil, For my heart it lies at home v\ ith my young Johnny Doyle. By the eldest brother 1 was conducted home, My mamma she conducted me into my own bedroom ; My own bed being the softest, my head I did lie down, For to seek consoling sorrow — my body it was found. Now close the door, dear mamma, don't you let Somers in, Now close the door, dear mamma, don't you let Somers in; For to-night is the night that lie means to enstrive, But he'll never gain the girl that is intended for his bride. When she saw the minister coming in the door, Her earrings they bursted and fell upon the floor; The gold ring on her finger in a hundred pieces did fly. And her stomach it bursted. and death was drawing nigh. I will send for Johnny Doyle for you, my own darling child, 1 will send for Johnny Doyle for you. my own heart's delight, Yes, you'll send for Johnny Doyle, mamma, but I fear it is too late, For death it is coming, and sad is my fate. Now, death, you are coming, you are welcome to me, H'roin the pains of love I'm sure you'll set me free; There is more trouble on my mind than my poor tongue can tell, And these are my dying words: Johnny Doyle, fare you well! THE TUTKUARY CHRISTENING.— Ctmfmu«i. That sails from beyond llindoostan." Cold ice-cream, and cream that was hot, Romeo punch, snowball, and span grass Pattj 1). Foy, whatever that means, .Made out of goose-liver and grease; Red-headed duck, salmon, and | Bandy-legged frogs, Peruvian ostriches, Bottled noix. woodcock, and snipe, And everything that would please. After dinner, of course, there was speaking, And hand-shaking, and leave-taking, In the corners, old mothers match making, And other such innocent sins: Then they bid a good -by to each other. To each mother, and each brother: When the last rose, I thought i would smother. When they wished the next would be twins. THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON. " Remember, Denis, all I bade you say ; Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord, But of our troubles, since he went away, You'll mind, avick, and never say a word; Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share. The finest summer isn't always fair. " Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May. She died, poor thing; but that you needn t mind; Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay; But tell him God to us was ever kind. And when the fever spread the country o'er. His mercy kept the ' sickness ' from our door. " Be sure you tell him how the neighbors came And cut the corn and stored it in the barn; Twould be as well to mention them by name — Pat Murphy, Ned M'Cabe, and J: M'Carn." And big Tim Daly from behind the hill : But sav, agra — Oh. say I missed him still. " They caine with ready hands our toil tu share — 'Twas then I missed him most — my own right hand: I felt, although kind hearts were 'round me there, The kindest heart beat in a foreign land. Strong hand! brave heart! oh, severed far from me, By many a weary league of shore and sea. THE WIDOWS MESSAGE TO HER SON.- Continued. « An d toll him she was with us-he'll know Mavoun.e.n. hasn't she^wlnson^eyes. The darkest, deepest, brightest, I eveTsaw except in summer skies And such black hair! It is JS1H Sfp« »'« »« k s ° '"'" -Ml him old Hncher WW-^ a day. And moped, poor dog, twas wen u CrouclS'by the road-side how he watched And'snifl^'the travelers as they passed BW? raCor sunshine, sure, 'twas all H?5Sa for the foot that never came. «Tell him the house is lonesome-like and ■Bato? itself seems robbed of half its For^l'that tell him 'twas my self that ThJXrts you bring, and stitched them every one. "Give him my blessing, morning, noon, and Telltfmmy prayers are offered for his Trie^o his name, his country, and his Fatthful at home, and steadfast still abroad." KATE KEARNEY. on' did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney? she lives on the banks of Killarney ; From the glance of her eye shun danger and For Sal's the glance of Kate Kearney; Fnr that eve is so modestly beaming, Sune'r think of mischief she's dreaming, Yet oh' I can tell, how fatal's the spell, That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney. Oh' should vou e'er meet this Kate Kearney, mo lives on the banks of Killarney, Beware of her smile, for many a wile Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney. Though she looks so bewitchingly simple, Yet there's mischief in every dimple ; And wlio dares inhale her sigh s spicy gale, Mult die by the breath of Kate Kearney. 2 Concerning your mWJJ ™ „„. ir re bel peon, The worth, ... of m»J*j*S •&£££,■ r*?! To sustain hi. count r> £"\,' , »il them ou. d For each platoon to fo rm, * e ™ * M darlingj never fear, In the .earful ho.r -J*^ £ S""^ ""* We'll think upon our loves that ^we ™ d ils fear8 ^«elS°» r o t !»So^w^,tn?S i .nvo 1 un.ee re . fv , me .„ T e worthy gentle,™. +£Ztf£Z£Z2&Z, Be kind onto '''""'^""ous those gallant '«»""'»• SWS a^Tn SWSffiW- volunteers. FATHER MOLLOY. PADDY MCCABE was ^O^^, -SSECgissi?.— •■' First tell me your sins, u "J -«~ - d ^ ... "S^yfS|C™tetSeyeni^% So 1 «e P me q . S worse than not makin' confession a all_ £, ril say in a word I'm no > very good ^boy And therefore your blessin, sweet ran <« Well I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy, S" to be throublej my eonseie.ee begr as, ,„„ vou, Eevere.ee : should k-JWj^ H re small, 'i'V.at vmir Reverence snouiu u»»c ■•".• --- n - l3 E t4S"^sK» -ore, s„ I'll "iv in a word, I'm no very good b ">- fj therYio °e you, Olessin', sweet Father Malloy. 18 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. FATHER MOLLOY.— Continued. " 1 forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, "Except that big vagabone Micky Malone; And him I will murdher if ever I can — " "Tut, tut! Bays 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 bard 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 — 'Rut since I'm hard press'd and that 1 >nust forgive, I forgive — if 1 die — but as Bure as I live That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy! — So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy! " PETTICOAT LANE. When to Dublin I came from the sweet County Down, 1 called on a friend for to show me the town; He brought me thro' streets, lanes, and alleys so grand, Till my brogues were most wore and I scarcely could stand. He showed me fine houses, were built up so high, And a man made of stone almost up to the sky, Rut the names of them places went out of my brain, Show him up to the college in Petticoat Lane! Ri tu ral, ru ral, ri tu ral, ru ral le, etc. Convenient to Petticoat Lane there is a place, And as we walked through it we couldn't get peace; The shops were all frill of fine clothes, black and blue, But the fellows outside nearly tore me in two. One dragged me this way to get a good frieze, Another had corduroy breeches my size; But one chap bawls out, when I wouldn't remain, Show him up to the college in Petticoat aLne! We got loose from this spot, myself and my friend, I couldn't do less than a teaster to spend ; * But we spied boys and girls in a laughable group, Sitting cross-legged and they licking up soup. Says 1: Are these what you call your poorhouse recruits? Ax the divil! says one, and his howl at me shoots; They roared with pleasure, while I roared with pain, Arrah, Paddy, you're welcome to Petticoat Lane! My friend thought to drag me away by the sleeve, When a tartar dropped over my head an old sieve; I turned for to strike her, but got in the eye A plaster of what they called hot mutton pie. I kept groping about, like a man that was blind, Till I caught hould of somebody coming behind; I prayed that I might get the strength of a Cain, To be able to whale him in Petticoat Lane. I walloped away, and I got walloped, too, While all sorts of ructions were raised by the crew; You would swear it was raining brick-bats and stones, Till I heard my antagoaist giving some groans. Run and be d d to you! some one did cry, Sure, 1 can't for the mutton that's stuck in my eye; J was led through the crowd, and heard somebody saying, There's a peeler most killed in Petticoat Lane. These words like a thunderbolt fell on my ear, So I scooped all the fat from my eye pretty clear; My friends tould the crowd that was 'round to be mute. While we slipped to a house, called " The sign of the boot,"" There I called for a sup, and we both took a seat, Two or three that had hacked us came in for a treat: When the reckoning was called for, my pockets were clean, For pounds, shillings, and pence were in Petticoat Lane.' PATER NOSTER. Father of all! who reiiin'st supreme, Beyond yon blue, o'er-arehing sphere, .\-< Thy forever glorious name Is hallow'd there, so be it here; Grant that our numbered hours may be So many hymns of praise to Thee! "'Thy kingdom come!" ah, yes, my God! That hope is sweet, indeed, to those Who, in this co'd world, feel the rod Of Jeep affliction, and the throes Of pain: blesl are they when the tomb Receives them ; " oh, Thy kingdom come ! " Yet, Father! shouldst Thou deem it right To shower on me from year to year Those miseries which crush and blight Young hope, no murmurs shait Thou hear From me, for I will utter none; No — then as now — "Thy will be done! " " Give us this day our daily bread! " That thus our hearts he always free From sordid cares: and so be led To think more on Thy works and Thee. Lord! keep our souls fed constantly With Faith, and Hope, and Charity. judy Mccarty. Come, all my hearty, roving blades, Some fun you are expecting, And 1 will prove without any noise That I am not, neglecting; You've heard the song of Biddy McGee, And how she coaxed poor Paddy, But another one you'll get from me About charming Judy MeCarty. Whack fal la, etc. At Donnybrook fair 1 met her, Along with Michael MeCarty, He handed her into a scat with care, Then soon 1 followed after; I asked her up to dance a fig, She danced it nate and hearty, It wax then with love I felt quite big For charming Judy MeCarty. Whack fal la, etc. I asked her would she be my wife, Or, would she be my darling! The best of husbands 1 would make. And plaze her night and morning; She said she would, and glad she was I took her from the party, That night was spent in devilment Hugging Judy MeCarty. Whack fal la, etc. To go home then we did prepare, We jogged il all the wav. sir': We slept together that very night, Until the break of day, sir: Next morning to the priest we went, Who tied us neat and hearty. That night was spent in devilment Hugging Judy MeCarty. Whack fal la, etc. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 19 PETTICOAT LANE.— Continued. The reckoning it came to a hog and a groat, For which the landlord he took the lend of my coat; 1 started without, still cursing the town, Says he: You have killed C. 100 — Arrah, be aisy, sir, 1 want none of your tricks! But the sergeant and twenty more swore it was plain That I was the bully of Petticoat Lane. They all swarmed about me, like flies on a cask, But to prison to take me was no easy task; W hen I got there I was charged with the crime, "Twas my own brother Darby I bate all the time. Whin he seen me he let out a thundering curse, On the day that he first went to join in the force; He released my ould coat and he got me oil' clean, To go home and say prayers for sweet Petticoat Lane. ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN. In the merry month of June, when first from home I started, And left the girls alone, sad and broken-hearted, Shook hands with father dear, kissed my darling mother, Drank a pint of beer, my tears and grief to smother; Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born. I cut a stout black-thorn to banish ghost or goblin: With a pair of bran new brogues, I rattled o*er the bogs — Sure I frightened all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin. CHORUS. For it is the rocky road, here's the road to Dublin; Here's the rocky road, now fire away to Dublin ! The steam-coach was at hand, the driver said he'd cheap ones, But sure the luggage van was too much for my ha'pence, For England I was bound, it would never do to balk it, For every step of the road, bedad ! says I, I'll walk it. I did not sigh or moan until I saw Athlone. A pain in my shin bone, it set my heart a-bubbling ; And fearing the big cannon, looking o'er the Shannon, I very quickly ran on the rocky road to Dublin. In Mullingar, that night, I rested limbs so weary, Started by daylight, with spirits light and airy; Took a drop of the pure, to keep my spirits from sinking. That's always an Irishman's cure, whenever he's troubled with thinking. To see the lassies smile, laughing all the while At my comical style, set my heart a-bubbling, They axed if I was hired, the wages I required, Until I was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin. In Dublin next arrived, I thought it was a pity To be so soon deprived of a view of that fine city; Twas then I took a stroll, all among the quality, My bundle then was stole in a neat locality, Something crossed my mind, thinks I, I'll look behind. No bundle could I find upon my stick a-wobbling. Inquiring for the rogue, they said my Oonnaught brogue, It wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin. A coachman raised his hand as if myself was wanting, I went up to a stand, full of cars for jaunting; " Step up, my boy! " says he; "Ah, ah! that I will with pleasure," " And to the strawberry beds, I'll drive you at your leisure.'' " A strawberry bed? " says I, " faith, that would be too high! On one of straw I'll lie, and the berries won't be troubling; He drove me out as far, upon an outside car. Faith! such jolting never wor on the rocky road to Dublin. JUDY McCARTY.— Continued. Twelve months after we were wed, What do you think she brought, sir! But a pair of twins as like their Uad, As ever soup's like broth, sir. And now I'll finish my little song, My song so gay and hearty ; The Irish boys such devils are For getting the young MeCartys. Whack fal la, etc. DRIMM1N DUEH DIIEELISH. Oh, 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 1 thoughl mj poor uriminin dubh Never would fail. Agus cvo. drimmin dubh Oro, a!i. Oro, drimmin dubh Miel asjra. Returning from mass. On a morning in May, I met my poor drimmin dubh Drowning by the way. I roared and I brawled, And my neighbors did call To save my poor drimmin dubh, She being my all. Ah, neighbor! 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 T 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? 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 sco»e, But now it's black water Since drimmin dubh's gone. 20 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN.— Continued. I soon got out of that, my spirits never failing, 1 landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing. The captain at me roared, swore that no room had he, But when I leaped on board, they a cabin found for Paddy. Down among the pigs 1 played such rummy rigs, Danced some hearty jigs, with water round me bubbling, But when off Holyhead, 1 wished that I was dead, Or safely put in bed, on the rocky road to Dublin. The boys in Liverpool, when on the dock I landed, Called myself a fool, I could no longer stand it; My blood began to boil, my temper I was losing, And poor old Erin's Isle, they all began abusing. •■ Eurrah! my boys." says I. my shillelah I let Hy, Some Galway boys were by, they saw I was a hobble in; Then with a loud hurrah] they joined me in the tray. Faugh-a-ballagh ! clear the way for the rocky road to Dublin. ONE POUND TWO. MAGGIE dear, I come to hear that you've been on a spree, Where is my whole week's wages, I pray come tell to me; When I come home at night 1 find no smell of drink on you, Yet I would like to know how you laid out my one pound two. Oh ! Johnny dear, I have it here, penned down in black and white, Come, count it now right after me and you will say I'm right : You've been told that I've been on a spree, but you'll find it is not true, For, I will let you know how I laid out your one pound two. In the first place, there's one shilling paid for two stone of meal, Served four of us around the week — I'm sure it ain't a great deal: And four stone of potatoes, for you know no less would do, That's three and twopence halfpenny out of your one pound two. For two hundred weight of coal three shillings I did pay, Fourpenny loaf each morning, and two on the Sabbath day; And every morning for the child — it's a baby son, it's true, That's seven and eleven pence out of your one pound two. Seven pence for sugar, seven pence for tea. Seven pence for tobacco, that's one pennyworth each day; And one shilling for beef, you know no less would do, That's ten and ninepenee halfpenny out of your one pound two. Six pence for a pound of ham. and seven pence for a steak, And six pence for vegetables it every week does take; Four pence for two eggs this day I paid for you, 'Unit's eleven and eleven pence hapenny out of your one pound two. Twenty pence for butter. John — you know it's of the best, And four pence more for buttermilk — now add that to the rest; oh! Johnny dear, you ask whal with your money I do, 'I list's (hir)een and ten pence hapenny out of your one pound two. There is four shillings for rent that's all we do require, And nine pence for sticks for to kindle up the tire; And one shillii:.L r for milk, soap, soda, starch, and blue. Add that up and you will exactly find your one pound two. Maggie dear, your neighbors on you do complain, They tell me my whole wages you every day do spend; That a virtuous woman is worth gold 1 find it to be true, You've exactly counted up my one pound two. PADDY CAREY. Twas at the town of nate Clogheen That Sergeant Snapp met Paddy Carey; A claner by was never seen, Brisk as a bee, light as a fairy; His brawny shoulders, four feet square, His cheeks like thumping red potatoes; His legs would make a chairman stare, And Pat was loved by all the ladies; Old and young, grave and e Deaf and dumb, dull or mad ; Waddling, twaddling, limping, squinting. Light, brisk and any. ( HOBl S. All the sweet faces at Limerick races, From Nullinavelt to Magherafi At Paddy's beautiful name would melt, The sow 1 would cry and look so shy. Och ! Cushlamachree, did you ever - The jolly boy, the darling boy, the ladies' toy, Nimble footed, black-eyed, rosy-cheeked. Curly-headed Paddy CareyT Oli, sweet Paddy, beautiful Paddy, Xate little, tight little Paddy Carey? His heart was made of Irish oak, Yet soft as streams from sweet Killarney: His tongue was tipped with a bit ot the brogue. But the deuce a bit at all of the blarney. Now Sergeant Snapp, so sly and Keen — While Pat was coaxing duck-legged Mary — A shilling slipped so rate and c'ane, By the powers! he listed Paddy Carey; Tight and sound, strong and light, Cheeks so round, eyes so bright : Whistling, humming, drinking, drumming, Light, tight, and airy. — CHORUS. PAT O'HARA. 1 AM an [rish boy. and my heart is full of joy, I owe my health to famous Limerick city: I can handle well the twig, or Hitter an Irish jig, Or give you a stave of a native ditty. My heart is seldom sad. 1 like to make folks glad, And the girls' eyes a twinkling like a star, oh! I'm always at my ease, for my friends I love to i. I'm the rattling, rowlimr, teasing Pat O'Hara. CHORUS. Hurrah! mv Irish boys, that's fond of fun and noise. There's not from Dublin down to Conne- niara, Or from Limerick to Kildare, a boy that can compare With the rattling, rowling, teasing Pat O'Hara. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 21 PAT (> JIARA.— Continued. And on a pattern day my heart is light and gay, I frisk across the green sod light and gaily ; I am always up to fun, but was never known to run, For that would be disgrace to my shilla- lah. If a colleen, too, you see that's looking after me, And faix, her name is Kilty McNamara; With two eyes as black as sloes, that wher- ever 1 may go, They are always chasing after Pat O'Hara. — Chobtjs. I love the emerald sod where in childhood lirst I trod, With its hills and valleys clothed in shamrock green; And its colleens sweet and fair, few with them can compare, For their equal's mighty seldom to be seen, sure. Tho' the times have changed this while in dear ould Erin's isle, And many have had to wander near and far, oh; Arrah! just keep up your heart, you'll find that the better part, >Tis the style that always pleases Pat O'Hara.*— Chorus. CORPORAL CASEY. When I was at home I was merry and frisky, My dad kept a pig, and my mother sold whisky; My uncle was rich, but would never be aisy, Till I was enlisted by Corporal Casey. Och! rub a dub, row de row, Corporal Casey ! My dear little Shelah I thought would run crazy When I trudged away with tough Corporal Casey. I marched from Kilkenny, and as I was thinking On Shelah, my heart in my bosom was sinking; But soon I was forced to look fresh as a daisy, For fear of a drubbing from Corporal Casey. Och! rub a dub, row de row, Corporal Casey ! The devil go with him! I ne'er could he lazy, He stuck in my skirts so, old Corporal Casey. We went into battle, I took the blows fairly, That fell on my pate, but they bothered me rarely ; And who should the first be that dropt? why, so please ye. It was my good friend, honest Corporal Casey. Och! rub a dub, row de row, Corporal Casey ! Thinks I, you are quiet, and I shall be aisy, So eight years I fought without Corporal Casev. IRISH MARY. Fab away from Erin's strand, and valleys wide and Bounding waters, Still she is, in every land, one of Erin's real daughti is; Oh, to meet her here is like a dream of home and natal mountains, On our hearts their voices strike, we hear the gushing of their fountains Yes! our Irish Mary dear! our own, our real Irish Mary! A flower of home, fresh blooming come, art thou to us, our Irish Mary! Round about us here we see bright eyes like hers, and .sunny fares Charming all! if all were free of foreign airs, of borrowed graces. Mary's eye it flashes truth! and Mary's spirit, Mary's nature, Irish lady, fresh in youth, have beam'd o'er every look and feature, Yes! our Irish Mary dear, when La Tournure doth make us weary, We have you to turn unto for native grace, our Irish Mary. Sighs of home! her Erin's songs o'er all their songs we love to listen ; Tears of home! her Erin's wrongs subdue our kindred eyes to glisten. Oh! should woe to gloom consign the clear fireside of love and honor, You will see a holier sign of Irish Mary bright upon her! Yes, our Irish Mary dear, will light that home, though e'er so dreary, Shining still o'er clouds of ill, sweet star of life, our Irish Mary! THE MEN OF TIPPERARY. Let Britain boast her British hosts, about them all right little care we ; Not British seas nor British coasts can match the man of Tip- perary. Tall is his form, his heart is warm, his spirit light as any fairy. His wrath is fearful as the storm that sweeps the hills of Tip- perary. Lead him to fight for native land, his is no courage cold and wary, The troops live not on earth would stand the headlong charge of Tipperary. Yet meet him in his cabin rude, or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, You'd swear they knew no other mood but mirth and love in Tipperary. You're free to share his scanty meal, his plighted word he'll nev r vary ; In vain they tried with gold and steel to shake the faith of Tip- perary. Soft is his cailin's sunny eye, her mien is mild, her step is airy, Her heart is fond, her soul is high — oh! she's the pride of Tip- perary ! Let Britain, too, her banner brag, we'll lift the green more proud and airy : Be mine the lot to bear that flag and head the men of Tipperary. Though Britain boasts her British hosts, about them all right little care we : Give us, to guard our native coasts, the matchless men of Tip- perary ! 22 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. I'M NOT MYSELF AT ALL. On, I'm not myself at all, Molly dear, Moily dear, I'm not m\ .-^-11 at all. Ndthin' earin', 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 eonfessin', And 1 ask'd the father's blessin'; " But," says 1. "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! Oh, I'm not myself at all, Molly dear, Molly dear, My appetite's bo 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, \ou'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 1 — (di, I'm not myself at all! Oh, my 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, Molh- 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; So just let Father Taatl' Make you my betther half, And vou 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 ou a 1 call ! Since a change o'er me there came Sure you might change your name — And 'twould just come to the same, Molly dcai'. 'Twould just come to the same; For it you and I wore one, All confusion would 1"- gone, And 'twould simplify the matther intirely; And 'twould save us so much bother, When we'd both !"• one another — So listen now to rayson, Molly Brierly; Oli, I'm not myself at all! ELLEN BAYVN. Kllex Bawn — oh, Ellen Bawn, you darling — darling dear, you, Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless I'm near you! lis lor you I'd swim the Suir and breast the Shannon's waters; For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Galway's blooming daughters! Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to mete and measure, Wore Loughhrea's abundance mine, and all Portumna's treasure. These might lure me, might insure me many and many a new love, But oh! no bribe could pay your tribe for one like you, my true love ! Blessings be on Connaught! that's the place for sport and raking! Blessings, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and a-waking! I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went under, But, woe! the flooding Shannon broke across my path in thunder. Ellen! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's parks and arbors, Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in Minister's harbors, Could I blot from Time the hour I first became your lover, For, oh! you've given my heart a wound it never can recover! Would to God that in the sod my corpse to-night were lying, And the wild birds wheeling o'er it, and the winds a-sighing, Since your cruel mother and your kindred chose to sever Two hearts that love would blend in one forever and forever! BOLD JACK DONAHOE. Come all you valiant highwaymen and outlaws of disdain. Who've cause to live in slavery and wear the hand and chain; Attention pay to what I say and rally if you do, While 1 relate the history of bold Jack Donahoe. This bold, undaunted highwayman, as you understand he was, Banished from his native land, for his natural life: In Dublin city of renown, where his first breath he drew. The deeds of honor title him brave, valiant Donahoe. Young Donahoe wis taken in the middle of his prime. Ami was sentenced to he hanged for that out -daring crime; The police and constables him they did pursue, And before they arrived in Sydney safe, they lost bold Donahone. When he effected his escape he took to the highway, Where tyrants dare not walk the road by night or by day. Every morning in the newspapers then' is something published new. Concerning of that hero bold, they call Jack Donahoe. Be had not been twelve months on the Australian shore, Till he turned out on the highway as many done before; ■ was MeXamara, Andrew Ward. Welch a-, 1 Walim sl< y. too — Those were the bold associates of brave Jack Donahoe. As Donahoe and his companions walked out one afternoon, Not thinking that pains of death it should effect so soon; The horse police they did advance all horrors to subdue, And in quick time they did advance to take Jack Donahoe. He said to his companions, If you prove true to me. This day we'll fight with all our might and gain our liberty; Said Ward and Webber, We will not fight, our comrades 'are so few, Begone from me, yon cowardly dogs, cried hold Jack Donahoe. If you would prove true to me. I would record your name, i tti people they will look on you with scorn and' with shame For to hang on the gallows tree I do not intend to do. So this day I'll light with all my might, cried bold Jack Donahoe. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 23 BOLD JACK DONAHOE.— Continued. It never shall be said that Donahoe, the brave, Should yield unto the British crown, or live to be their slave; I'd sooner range the forest like a wolf or kangaroo, Than to work one hour for the government, cried bold Jack Donahoe. Said the sergeant unto Donahoe, Discharge your carbine, Do you intend to fight with us, or unto us resign? Unto such cowardly dogs I never intend to do, So this day I'll fight with all my might, cried bold Jack Donahoe. WHAT IRISH BOYS CAN DO. They insult an Irishman and think naught of what they say, They'll call him green, an Irish bull; it happens every day; Kow to these folks I'll say a word, to sing a song I'll try, And answer to those dirty words, no Irish need apply! So, if you'll give attention, I'll sing my song to you, And the subject of this song shall be: What Irish boys cam do. If you'd come to Ireland they'd treat you well, I'm sure, Pat would share his last potato with the destitute and poor; If you were sick and weary, and had no place to rest, The bed you'd get, though poor perhaps, would be Pat's best. He'd nurse you, too, he would that, and give you whisky, too, And you cannot find a nobler act than Irishmen can do. Did you ever know an Irishman from any danger flinch? In fighting, too, he'd rather die than give his foe an inch; Among the bravest in the world are the sons of Erin's green isle, Sure, the Iron Duke of Wellington was a native of the soil ; And didn't he badly whip the French on the plains of Waterloo? Which plainly showed to the whole world what Irishmen can do. Old Ireland had her warriors who fought both true and brave, Pat's assisted every nation on the land and on the wave; And poets, too, she's had, yes, many and many a score, Where can you find much brighter stars than Lover or Tom Moore ? Old Ireland's had her actors, and authors not a few, And things of wit and humor the Irish all can do. Did you ne'er hear of Sheridan or of lamented Catherine Hays? Did you ne'er see fun in Irish songs, or laugh at Irish plays? Old Ireland's had her statesmen, their fame the wide world rings, She's likewise had musicians to tune her old harp's strings! Not all Irish girls are beautiful, but then they're always true, And, for faith and generosity, the Irish girls will do. And then, too, in the present war between the North and the South, Let no dirty slur on Irish ever escape your mouth; Sure, did you ne'er hear tell of the 69th who bravely fought at Bull Run? And Meagher, of the seven days' fight, that was in front of Rich- mond? With General Shields who fought so brave for the flag, red, white and blue. And anything like a bayonet charge the Irish boys can do. Then, why slur upon the Irish? why are they treated so? What is it you have against them? is what I want to know; Sure, they work for all they get, and that you cant deny! Then, why insult them with the words: No Irish need apply? If you want to find their principles go search the wide' world through, And you'll find all things that's noble the Irish folks can do. ONE BOTTLE MORE. Assist 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 bot- tle more. One bottle more, etc. At Candy's in Church Street, I'll sing of a set Of six Irish blades who together had met; Four bottles apiece made us call for our score, For nothing remained but just one bottle more. One bottle more, etc. 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, bottles more. And the whack from shillalah brought six One bottle more, etc. Swift Phoebus now shone through our win- dow 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, etc THE POACHER. ORyan was ;i man of might Whin Inland was a nation, But poachin' was his heart's delight And constant occupation. He had an ould militia gun. And sarlin sure his aim was; He gave the keepers many a run And wouldn't mind tin' 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. " O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick! To praich at Thurles I'm goin', So let me have a rasher quick, And a diirop of Innishowen." 24 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. TIIK POACHER.— Continued. " No rasher will 1 cook for you, V, bile be.tther is to spun', air, But here's a jug of mountain dew. And there's a rattlin' hare, sir." St. Pathriek he looked mighty sweet, And, says he, " Ciood luck attind you, when you're in your windin' sheet, It's up to heaven I'll sind you." in gave his pipe a whiff — "i'hem tidin's 1- thransportin'; !' il may I ax your saintship if There's anv kind of sport in".'' ' S' Patrick said, -A lion's time. Two bears, a bull, and cancer" — "Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare; St. Patrick, I'm your man, sir." So, to conclude my song aright, fear I'd tire your patience, see O'Kyan any night .\rl the constellations. And Venus follows in his track, Till Mars grows jealous raally. B t. faith, he fears the Irish knack Oi handling the shillaly. THE BELLS OF SHANDON. With deep affection and recollection 1 often think of those Shandon bells, ■ sound so wild would, in days of child- pood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant, waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine; While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate. [thine; But all their music spoke nought like For memory dwelling on each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon, Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling " old Adrian's Mole " in, Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter, than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. ()! the bells of Shandon, Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko In St. Sophio the Turkman gets, I loud in air, calls men to prayer From the tapering summit of tall min- arets. Such empty phantom, I freely grant them; But (here's an anthem more dear to me, "I'is the bells of Shandon, That. Bound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. LAMENTATION OF JAMES RODGPRS. Come all you tender Christians, I hope you will draw near, And likewise pay attention to those few lines 1 have here; h'or the murder of Mr. Swanton I am condemned to die On the twelfth day of November, upon the gallows high. My name is James Rodgers — the same I never denied, Which leaves my aged parents in sorrow for to cry; It's little they ever thought, all in my youth and bloom, I came into New York to meet my fatal doom. My parents reared me tenderly, as you can plainly see, And constantly good advice they used to give to me : They told me to shun night-walking and all bad company, Or State's prison or the scaffold would be the doom for me. In bad houses and liquor I used to take delight, And constantly my companions they used me there invite; They all persuaded me the use of knives wire free, 1 might commit a murder, and hanged I would not be. Upon the fatal night, as you may plainly see, My companions advised me to go and have a spree; My passion got the best of me, as you may plainly know, I drew the fatal knife, and it proved my overthrow. Mr. Swanton and his wife were passing through the street, And in my drunken passion I chanced them for to meet; They surely did not injure me — the same I'll ne'er deny. But Satan being so near to me, I could not pass them by. I staggered up against them, and then he turned around, And demanded if the sidewalk had not enough of ground; It's then I drew the fatal knife and stabbed him to the heart, Which leaves the loving wife from her husband for to part. To Woodbridge then I quickly fled, thinking to escape, But the hand of Providence was before me — indeed I was too late; There I was taken prisoner and fetched unto my doom, To die upon the gallows all in my youthful bloom. My trial came on quickly, and condemned I was to die, Mv companions and associates they were standing by'; 1 told them to take warning by that my humble fate, To shun night-walking and bad company ere it be too late. Farewell, my aged father! T ne'er will see you more, And my broken-hearted mother, my lose you do deplore; My sisters and brothers, to you 1 bid adieu, Upon this fatal forenoon I have to part with you. The morning of my execution was most heart-rending for to see, My sister came from Jersey to take the last farewell of me; She flew into my arms and bitterly did cry, 8aj ing: " My dear and loving brother, this day you are to die! " Thanks to the Sheriff for his kindness to me, Also my noble counselor who thought to gel me free; And likewise my faithful clergy who brought my mind to bear, For now I die a true penitent. I solemnly declare. My life is now ended — from this world I must part, For the murder of Mr. Swanton I am sorry to the heart; Let each wild and vicious youth a warning take by me. To be ruled by their parents and shun bad company. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 25 DONAL KENNY. " Come, piper, play the ' Sliaskan Reel,' Or else the ' Lasses on the heather,' And Mary, lay aside your wheel Until we dance once more together. At lair and pattern oft before Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many; But ne'er again this loved old floor Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny." Softly she arose and took his hand, And softly glided through the measure, While, clustering round, the village band Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure. Warm blessings Mowed from every up As ceased the dancers' airy motion; Oh! Blessed Virgin guide the ship Which bears bold Donal o'er the ocean! " Now God be with you all! " he sighed, Adown his face the bright tears flowing — "God guard you well, aviv" they cried, " Upon the strange path you are going." So full his breast, he scarce could speak, With burning grasp the stretched hands taking, He pressed a kiss on every cheek, And sobbed as if his heart was breaking. " Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone, For sake of all the days passed over, The days you spent on heath and bawn, With Donal Ruadh, the rattlin' rover. Mary, agra, your soft brown eye Has willed my fate" (he whispered low- iy); "Another holds thy heart: good-by! Heaven grant you both its blessings holy! " A kiss upon her brow of snow, A rush across the moonlit meadow, Whose brown-clad hazels, trembling slow, The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow; Away o'er Tully's bounding rill. And far beyond the Inny river; One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill, And Donal Kenny's gone forever. The breezes whist'.ed through the sails O'er Galway Bay the ship was heaving, And smothered groans an 1 bursting walls Told all the grief and pain of leaving. One form among that exiled band Of parting sorrow gave no token. Still was his breath and cold his hand; For Doral Kenny's heart was broken. THE TAN- YARD SIDE. I am a rambling hero, by love I am ensnared ; Near to the town of Bollinglass there dwells a comely maid; Mies fairer than Diana bright, she's free from earthly pride, She s a lovely maid — her dwelling place lies near the tan-yard side. I stood in meditation, I viewed her o'er and o'er, I thought she was Aurora bright, descending down so low: " No, no, kind sir, I'm a country girl," she modestly replied, " 1 labor daily for my bread down by the tan-yard side." Her golden hair, in ringlets rare, hangs o'er her snowy ne\i nighl as I slumbered in sweet, peaceful i Tired ou1 from a long day of toil, Mj thoughts, like a bird, over the ocean's white crest, Wandered back to mj own native soil; But a greal change had come since the time when a boy, I played 'round my old mother's km And my In art seemed to leap in my bosom with joy, i dreamed that old Ireland was free. Chorus. The days of her freedom at last had arrove, The time thai we all long to see; For which our great ancestors nobly had strove I dreamed that old Ireland was free. I thought the chains that had bound her were broke, And the dear little isle of my birth At last from her slumbers of years had awoke, Ami again was a power on earth; The green flag of Erin was proudly unfurled Over the emerald isle of the sea, And loudly announced to the wondering world, At last dear old Ireland was free— Chobtjs. I awoke and found that 'twas only a dream, A dream that had fled with the night, For when through the window the morning sunbeam Shone in my visions took flight; I sank on my knees by my bedside to pray, That the time may not far distant be When my vision shall come in the broad light of day, And will welcome old Ireland free. — Chorus. THE WILD IRISH BOY. Farewell to the dear land I leave far behind, Farewell to my father, although he be blind; Shall I ever forget him while my heart beats with joy? For he called me his darling, the wild Irish boy — For he called me his darling, the wild Irish boy. When I came to this counfry I had brogues on my feet, And corduroy breeches, although I looked neat, Yet the boys they all laughed at me, which to me was a joy, I'm- they called me the hero, the wild Irish boy- fur they called me the hero, the wild Irish boy. There is one they'll remember and never forget, 'Tia Washington's dear triend, the bold Lafayette; Who gave tort une and all. not wishing for fame. I ni he dearly loved freedom and Washington's name — For he dearly loved freedom and Washington's name. ,'11 send for my parents and they will come here. land filled with plenty, and a land they love dear: For I know they will bless me. while their hearts beat with joy, For they eall me their own son, their wild Irish boy. I There's the land of my kindred I'll never forget, for the time it may eome when it will be happy yet; Would to Cod it were now. for 'twould give me great joy For to gaze once more on it. though a wild Irish boy — i/.e once more on it, though a wild Irish boy. There's a gar len spot on earth, to me ' 1 1, the swetesl plai e I've -een ; Where childhood's happy moments passed — I see it in my dreams ; But I left it and came to roam, 'Twas hard to say good-by; Ofttimes 1 fancy 1 can hear My poor old mother cry: Chorus. Come back ! come back ! Come hack here to your Irish home. Then come back ! come back ! Come back, Kate, och hone. I've been away one year to-day, And my heart feels lonely yet . Ofttimes they write and seem to fear That 1 will soon forget; But 1 can't forget where'er I roam, No matter how I try. And in my sleep I seem to hear My poor old mother cry: — Chorus. BRIGHT EMERALD ISLE OF THE SEA. My heart wanders back o'er the waters To the land that I left long ago; I loved one of Erin's fair daughters, And she's faithful to me. I well know. Her form is as neat as the fairy. And her smile, 'tis a blessing to me; Oh! I'll never forget you. dear Mary, Or the bright emerald Isle of the sea. Thev forced me in sorrow to leave thee, But. my own. there are bright day* in store; When hands of the tyrant shall grieve you, Lovely land of my birth, never more. Though dark is the present, my fairy, Oh! how sweet is the dawn that will be; And I'll never forget you. dear Mary. Or the bright emerald Isle of the sea. The cot and the brook where we parted, Oh! I see every night in my - I wander almost broken-hearted, When 1 think of the past 1 weep. I'll toil on for your sake, my fairy. For there'- hope in the years that will be; I'll come and I'll we ar Mary, In the brigi Id Isle of tin- sea. THE ROSE OF KENM \ I've been in :i small way On the girleens of Galway, And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare : Hut theres no use denyin' No girl -I've set < - e on Could compare w id Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 27 THE ROSE OF KENMARE— Continued. 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 ! Her hair mocks the sunshine, And the soft silver moonshine Her while 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, etc. 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, etc. If y' inquire why the nightingale. Still shuns the invitin' gale That wafts every song-bird but her to the West, Faix, she knows, I suppose, Child Kenmare has a rose That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest. Oh, where, etc. When her voice gives the warnin' For the milkin' in the mornin', Ev'n the cow known for hornin' comes runnin' to her pail ; The lambs play about her And the small bonnecns snout her, Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail. Oh, where, etc. When at noon from our labor We draw neighbor wid neighbor From the heat of the sun to the shilter of the tier, Wid spuds fresh from the bilin' And new milk you come smilin', All the boys' hearts beguilin', Alanna machree ! Oh, where, etc. 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, etc. DONNELLY AND COOPEK. Come all you true-bred Irishmen, I hope you will draw near, And likewise pay attention to those few lines you hear; It's of as true a story as ever you did hear, It's about Donnelly and Cooper, that fought all on Kildare. 'Twas on the 3d of June, brave boys, this challenge sent o'er From Britannia to old Grauna to renew her sons once more; To renew her satisfaction, and her credit to recall, For they're all in deep distraction since Donnelly conquered alL Old Grauna read the challenge received and she smiled. Saying: •"You'd better hasten to Kildare, my well-beloved child, There you will reign victorious, which you often did before, And your deeds will shine so gloriously around old Erin's shore." The challenge was accepted, these heroes did prepare To meet brave Captain Kelly on the Curragh of Kildare; When these two bully champions were stripped oil' in the ring, They both were still determined on each other's blood to spill. From 6 to 9 parried their time, till Donnelly knocked him down, Old Grauna smiled: " W r ell done, my child, that is ten thousand pound ! " The second round that Cooper fought he knocked down Donnelly, Likewise true game was Donnelly, he rose most furiously. Right active then was Cooper, he knocked Donneih down again ; Those Englishmen then gave three cheers, saying: "The battle's all in vain.'' Long life to brave Hiss Kelly, she's recorded on the plain, She boldly stepped into the ring, saying: " Dan, my boy, what do you mane? My Irish boy," said she, " my whole estate I've bet on you, brave Donnelly." Donnelly rose again, and meeting with great might. And to stagnate those nobles all, continued to his fight: Cooper stood in his own defense, exertion proved in vain, He soon received a temple blow that knocked him on the plain. Now, you sons of proud Britannia, your boasting now recall, Since Cooper now by Donnelly he met a sad downfall ; Out of eleven rounds, gave nine knock-downs and broke his jaw- bone; " Shake hands," said she, " brave Donnelly, the battle's all our own." O'DONNELL, THE AVENGER. Come all true sons of Erin's isle, and listen unto me, I'm sure, when you have heard my song, with me you will agree: To condemn those English juries who, with faces grim and bold, Do send poor innocent Irishmen to dungeons dark and cold. Of that great crime in Phoenix Park, no doubt you all have hea At the trial of the prisoners, you all know what oecuin d ■ James Carey turned informer, and those precious lives he sold, And sent them to their dreadful doom for a bit of English gold. To escape a speedy vengeance, James Carey had to roam, And with his ruined family he left his native home ; And thought to seek seclusion in lands quite far away. So he sailed on the Melrose Castle for the shores of Africa. On the 29th day of July, as the ship was nearing shore, Some passengers near the forecastle heard a terrible uproar; They rushed toward the cabin, but ere they reached the spot, The base informer Carey had received a fatal shot. 28 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. O'DONELL, THE AVENGEB.— Continued. Those noble lives had been avenged, the traitor now is dead, The avenger, Pat. O'Donnell, soon slept on a prison bed; Cast there by English tyrants until his day of trial, When he was tried, like other Irishmen, in the unjust English style. •On the 30th of November, for this murder he was tried, When he saw Judge Denham on the bench, ail hopes within him died ; His counsel, who were able men. to save aim hard did try, But the jury found him guilty, which ineant that he should die. On the 1st day of December, he was sentenced to be hung, Soon over the' whole universe the doleful tidings rung; In every cot in Erin's isle great sorrow did prevail, Tor the friends of Pat. O'Donnell his misfortune did bewail. The day of his execution was a terrible sight to see, His comrades at the prison gate were weeping bitterly; At the loathsome sight of the -allows he ne'er did cringe or cry, As a martyr for his native land quite bravely did he die. Although he's dead and laid to rest, all honored be his name, Let no one look upon his act with contempt or disdain; His impulse was but human, that no one will deny, And I hope he'll be forgiven by the Infinite One on high. If every son of Erin's isle had such a heart as he, Soon would they set their native land once more at liberty; Unfurl their flag unto the breeze, their rights they would redeem, If unity and friendship in their land did reign supreme. O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. One midsummer's eve. when the Bel-fires were lighted, And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens delighted, 1 joiii"d a gay group by the Aragiin's water, And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's daughter. Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in Kerry? Have you mark'd on the Galteys the black whortleberry? Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Blackwater? They're the cheek, eye and neck of O'Donovan's daughter! Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh's round mountain? The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue fountain? Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir taught her? They've the step, grace, and tone of O'Donovan's daughter ! Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing of the raven? The rose-buds that breathe in the summer-breeze waven? The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic water? They're the teeth, lip, and hair of O'Donovan's daughter! Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers departed, 1 taught her a song of some maid broken-hearted; .And that group, and that dance, and that love-song I taught her, Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Donovan's daughter! God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that wooes me, God giant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that pursues me. That my soul lost and lone has no witchery wroughl her, While ! dream of dark groves and O'Donovan's daughter! If, spellbound, I pine with an airy disorder, Saint Gobnate lias sway over Muagry's wide border; She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer i'\e besought her, That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's daughter. THE BOYS OF WEXFORD. In com< s tl Ln's daughter. The captain of tin- Yeos, Saying: " Brave United men, We'll ne'er again be for-. A thousand pound- I'll give thee. And fly from h ime with th And dros myself in man'.- a And fight tor liberty! " We are the boys of Wexford. Who fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain, And free our native land! And when we left our cabins, boys, We hit with right good will, To see our friends and neighl That were at Vinegar Hill. A young man from our ranks. A cannon lie let go ; He slapped it into Lord Mountj >y — A tyrant he laid low. We are the boys of Wexford. We fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain, And free our native land. We bravely fought and conqueie 1 At Ross and Wexford town ; And, if we failed to keep them, Twas drink that brought us down. We had no drink beside us On Tubber'neering's day, Depending on the long bright pike, And well it worked its way! We are the boys of Wexford, We fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain, And free our native land. They came into the country Our blood to waste and spill ; But let them weep for Wexford, And think of Oulart Hill! 'Twas drink that still betrayed us — Of them we had no fear ; For every man could do his part Like Forth and Shelmalier! We are the boys of Wexford We fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain, And free our native land. My curse upon ail drinking, It made our heart s full si For bravery won each battle, But drink lost ever more; And if. for want of leaders, We lost a* Vinegar Hill. We're ready for another fight, And love our country still ! We me the hoy. ^ unrivaled scenery. t Cappoquin. A romantically situated town on tbe Black water, in the country of Waterford. The Irish name denotes the The Head af the Tribe of Conn. | Amhan-Wior — The Great Fiver. The water, which Hows into the sea a! Youghal. The Irish name is uttered in two sounds, Oan lore. FATHER O'FLYNN. Of 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 s'ainte agin; Poverfnlest preacher, and Tinderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 30 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. FATHER O'FLTNN.— Continued. 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, Down from mythology Into thayology, Troth! and eonchology, if he'd the call. Here's a health, etc. Oeh ! 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 i he lazy ones wid the stick. Here's a health, etc. And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivol- ity, 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 f Cannot the clergy be Irishmen too?' Here's a health, etc. COLLEEN BAWN. By the clear lakes of Killarney Walked a youth one fine summer morn, Who softly was whispering blarney To one whom he called Colleen Bawn; He promised her jewels so rare, He promised her gold in galore, And said that a maiden so fair Deserved all she wished for and more. Then beamed on the sweet face of Eily A smile like the first flush of dawn, And she said, while glancing so slyly: You'll marry your own Colleen Bawn; You'll marry your own Colleen Bawn. He spoke of his family's pride— She told him at once to be gone, And said: Sir, unless as a bride, In vain you will seek Colleen Bawn. I h wild flowers that grow by the lake Are jewels sufficient for me. And all the gold from you I'd take, 1m a plain, simple ring it must be. Then bright grew the sweet face of Eily, For he promised the very next morn To speak to the priest, Father Riley. And marry his dear Colleen Bawn; And marry his dear Colleen Bawn. MORRISEY AND THE RUSSIAN. Come all ye gallant Irishmen, wherever that you be, 1 hope you'll pay attention and listen unto me Till I sing about the battle that took place the other day Between a Russian sailor and gallant Morriscy. 'Twas in Terre-del-Fuego, in South America, This Russian challenged Morrisey — these words to him did say: " 1 hear you are a fighting man, and wear a belt, 1 se , Indeed I wish you would consent to have a round with me." Then out spoke brave Morrisey, with heart both brave and true, " I am a valiant Irishman that never was subdued, For I can whale the Yankee. I lie Saxon buli or bear: In honor of old Paddy's land I still the laurel wear." Those words enraged the Russian boy upon the Yankee land, To think that he should be put down by any Irishman. Says he: "You are too light a frame, ai;d that without mistake, I'll have you resign the belt or else your life I'll take." To fight upon the 10th of March these heroes did agree, And thousands came from every part the battie for to see ; The English and the Russians their hearts were tilled with glee, They swore this Russian sailor-boy would kill brave Morrisey. Those heroes stepped into the ring most gallant to be seen And Morrisey put on the belt, bound round with shamrock green; Full sixty thousand dollars then, as you may plainly see, Was to be champion's prize who would gain the victory. They shook hands and walked around the ring, commencing then to fight, It filled each Irish heart with pride for to behold the sight. The Russian he floored Morrisey up to the eleventh round, With Yankee, Russian, and Saxon cheers the valley did resound. The Irish offered four to one that day upon the grass, No sooner said than taken up, and down they brought the cash. They parried away without delay to the thirtj'-secoud round, When Morrisey received a blow that brought him to the ground. Up to the thirty-seventh round 'twas fall and fall about, Which made the foreign tyrants to keep a sharp lookout; The Russian called his second for to have a glass of wine. Our Irish hero smiled and said : " This battle will be mine." The thirty-eighth decided all, the Russian felt the smart — Morrisey with a dreadful blow struck the Russian on the heart; Ihe doctor he was called upon to open up a vein. Ho said it was quite useless, he would never light again. Our hero conquered Thompson, the Yankee ( lipper, too, The Benicia Boy, and Sheppard he nobly did subdue; So let us fill a iiowing glass, and here is health galore To noble Johnny Morriscy and Paddies evermore. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 31 THE MAID OF SWEET GORTEEN. Come all you gentle Muses, combine and lend an ear, While I set forth the praises of a charming maiden fair ; It's the curling of her yellow locks that stole away my heart, And death, I'm sure, must be the cure if she and I must part. The praises of this lovely maid I mean for to unfold, Her Hair hangs o'er her shoulders like lovely links of gold; tier carriage neat, her limbs complete, which fractured quite my brain, Her skin is whiter than the swan that swims on the purling stream. Her eyes are like the diamonds bright that shine in crystal stream, So modest and so tender, she's tit to be a queen; Many pleasant hours 1 spent in the garden held, In hopes to get another sight of the maid of sweet Gorteen. It was my cruel father that caused ray grief and Avoe, He locked her in a room and would not let her go; Her windows I have daily watched, thinking she might be seen, In hopes to get another sight of the maid of sweet Gorteen. My father arose one day and thus to me did say: O, my dear son, be advised by me, don't throw yourself away, To marry a poor servant girl whose parents arc so mean, So stay "at home and do not roam, but always with me remain. O, father, dearest father, don't part me from my dear, I would not lose my darling for 1,000 pounds a year; Was I possessed of England's crown I would make her my queen, In high renown I'd wear the crown with the maid of sweet Gor- teen My father in a passion Hew and thus to me did say: Since it's the case within this place no longer she shall stay, Mark what I say, from this very day you never shall see her face, For I will send her far away unto some lonesome place. 'Twas a few days after a horse he did prepare, And sent my darling far away to a place I know not where; I may go view my darling's room, where ofttimes she has been, Thinking to get another sight of the maid of sweet Gorteen. Now to conclude and make an end I take my pen in hand, John O'Brien is my name, and flowery is my land, My days are spent in merriment since my darling I first seen, But her abode is on a road at a place called sweet Gorteen. THE POOR MAN'S LABOR'S NEVER DONE. I 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 women's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labor's never done. The very first year chat 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 1 should run; For women's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labor'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 vou 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. CAOCH THE PIPER. One winter's day, long — long ago, When I was a little fellow, A piper wandered to our door, Gray-headed, blind, ajid yellow—- And oh, how glad was my young heart, Though earth and sky looked dreary — To see the stranger and his dog — Poor " Pinch " and Caoch O'Leary. And when he stowed away his " bag," Cross barred with green and yellow, I thought and said : "In Ireland's ground There's not so tine a fellow/' And B'ineen Burk and Shane Magee, And Eily, Kate, and Mary, Rushed in, with frantic haste to "see" And " welcome " Caoch O'Leary. Oh, God be with those happy times, Oh, (lod be with my childhood, And often when 1 walked and (lanced With Eily, Kate, and Mary, We spoke of childhood's rosy hours, And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. Well — twenty summers had gone past, And June's red sun was sinking, When I, a man, sat by my door, Of twenty sad things thinking. A little dog came up tne way, His gait was slow and weary, And at his tail a lame man limped — 'Twas " Pinch " and Caoch O'Leary. Old Caoch! but oh! how woebegone! His form is bowed and bending, His fleshiest hands are stiff and wan, Ay — Time is even blending. The colors on his threadbare " bag " — And " Pinch " is twice as hairy, And " thin-spare " as when first I saw Himself and Caoch O'Leary. " Cod's blessing here," the wanderer cried, "Far — far be hell's black vijer; Does anybody hereabouts Remember Caoch the Piper?" With swelling heart I grasped his hand; The old man murmured: " Deary t When T, bare headed, roamed all day Bird-nesting in the wild-wood — I'll not forget those sunny hours, However years may vary ; I'll not forget my early friends, Nor honest Caoch O Leary. Poor Caoch and " Pinch " slept well that night. And in the morning early He called me up to hear him play " The wind that shakes the barley." And then he stroked my flaxen hair, And cried: "God mark my deary" And how he wept when he said: "Farewell, And think of Caoch O'Leary." And seasons came and went, and still Old Caoch was not forgotten, Although I thought him "dead and gone," Aim in the cold clay rotten, "Are you the silky headed child That loved poor Caoch O'Leary ? " 32 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. CAOCH THE PIPER.— Con tinued. •• yea— yea," 1 said— the wanderer wept Aa if his heart was breaking — "And where, a vhic machree," he sobbed, ■• l> all the merry-making I found here twenty yeara ago* " — •• My tale" I Bighed, " might weary, Enough to - 13 tnere's none but me To welcome Ci h O'Leary." >• Vo Vo — Vo ! " the old man cried, And wrung his hands in sorrow, "Pray lead me in, asthore machree, \nd I'll go home to-morrow. My 'peace ia made'— I'll calmly leave 'l his .oild so cold and dreary, And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch Leary. ' With " Pinch," I watched his bed that night, Next day. his wish was granted; He died- i' James was brought, And the Requiem mass was chanted — The neighbors came; we dug his grave. Near Eily, Kate, and Mary, And there lie sleeps his last sweet sleep; God rest you! Caoch O'Leary. GARRYOWEX. Let Bacchua'a 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, etc. We'll break windows, we'll break doors, The watch knock down by threes and fours; Then let the doctors work their cures And tinker up our bruises. Instead of Spa, etc. 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, e.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, etc. Johnny Connell'a tall and straight, And iii his limbs he is complete; He'll pitch a bar of any weight From Garryowen to Thomond Gate. Instead of Spa, etc. Garryowen is gone to wrack, Since Johnny Connell went to Cork. Though Darby O'Brien leapt over the dock, In suite of all the soldiers. Instead of Spa, etc. SHAN VAN VOGH. Oh! the French are on the sea. says the Shan Van Vogh; The French are on the sea, says the Shan Nan VOgn; Oh! Pie lie n.h are in the bay, they'll be here without delay, And the orange will dei-ay. saya the Shan \ an \ ogh. Oh! the French are in the bay, they'll be here by break of day, And the orange will decay, s^ the Shan Van Vogh. And where will they have their camp! Shan Van Vogh; Where will they have their camp': Bays 1 He Mia:. Van \ogh; on the Curragh of Kildare, the boya the\ will be there. With their pikes in good repair, says the Shan \ an \ Ogn. To the Curragh of Kildare. the boya they will repair, And Lord Edward will be there, says the Shan \ an \ ogh. Then what will the yeomen do? says the Shan Van Vogh; What will t he yt omen do .' >ays the Shan \ an \ ogh : What should the veomen do. but throw oil' the red and blue, And swear that they'll be true to the Shan Van \ ogh? W hat should, etc. \nd what color will they wear? says the Shan Van Vogh; What color will they wear.' say the Shan Van \ ogh ; What color should be seen where our fathers homes have been, But our own immortal green? says the Shan Van ^ ogh. What color, etc. And will Ireland then be free? says the Shan Van Vogh; Will Ireland then be free? says the Shan Van \ ogh : Yes! Ireland shall be free, from the center to the sea, Then hurrah for liberty! says the Shan Van Vogh. Yes! Ireland, etc. KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR. The battle blood of Antrim had not dried on freedom's shroud And the rosy ray of morning was but struggling thro' the cloud; When, with lightning foot and deathly cheek, and widly waving hair, O'er grass and dew, scarce breathing, flew young Kathleen ban Adair. Behind, her native Antrim in a reeking ruin lies; Before her. like a silvery path. Kell's sleeping waters rise; And many a pointed shrub has piere'd those feet so white and bare, But, oh! thy heart is deeper rent, young Kathleen ban Adair. And Kathleen's heart but one week since was like a harvest morn; When hope and joy are kneeling •round the sheaf of yellow corn; But where's the bloom then made her cheek so ripe, so richly fair? Thy stricken heart hath fed on it. young Kathleen ban Adair. And now she trains a thicket, where the slee and hazel rise: But why those shrieking whispers, like a rush of worded sighs? Ah, low'- and lonely bleeding lies a wounded patriot there. And every pang of his is thine, young Kathleen ban Adair. "I see them, oh! I see them, in a fearful red array; The yeomen, love! the yeomen come — ah, heaven! away — away! 1 know — I know they mean to track my lion to his lair: Ah! save thy life — ah! save it for thy Kathleen ban Adair.'' "May heaven shield thee, Kathleen! when my soul has gone to real ; May comfort rear her temple in thy pure and faithful breast: But to fly them — oh! to fly them, like a bleeding, hunted hare; No! not to purchase heaven, with my Kathleen ban Adair. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 33 KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR— Continued. "I loved I love thee, Kathleen, in my bosom's warmest core; IS ^Cr^T^\^Tt^l S5.TS thro' their Nor noT^hough eating at my heart, my Kathleen ban Adair - With feeble hand his blade he grasp'd, yet dark with spoilers' And then?" though with dying bound, once ™« «™J v h «* K)d '' Rut scarcely had he kiss'd the cheek, so pale, so purely lair, When flashed their bayonets 'round him and his Kathleen baa Adair ! Then up arose his trembling, yet his dreaded hero's hand, ind up P arose, in struggling sounds his cheers for ™ '^^^ A thrust-a rush— their foremost falls; but, ah! good God! see Thy loveSquivering at thy feet, young Kathleen ban Adair! But, heavens! men, what recked he then your heartless taunts and blows, . , , When from his lacerated heart ten dripping bayonets rose T And, maiden, thou with frantic hands, what boots it kneeling The winds heed not thy yellow locks, young Kathleen ban Adair! Oh ! what were tears, or shrieks, or swoons, but shadows of the When 'torn was frantic Kathleen from the slaughtered hero's breast? . And hardly had his last-heaved sigh grown cold upon the air When, oh! of all but life they robb'd young Kathleen ban Adair! But whither now shall Kathleen fly?— already is she gone; The water, Kell, is tempting fair, and thither speeds she on; A moment on its blooming banks, she kneels in hurried prayer— Now in its wave she finds a grave, poor Kathleen ban Adair. GOOD-BY, MIKE, GOOD-BY, PAT. The ship will sail in half an hour, to cross the broad Atlantic, My friends were standing on the pier with grief and sorrow fran- tic ; „ _ My trunks were stowed down below in the great ship, Dan O'Leary;" . The anchor's weighed and the gangway is up, 1 m leaving lip- perary. CHORUS. Good-by, Mike, good-by, Pat, good-by, Kate and Mary, For the anchor is weighed, the gangway is up, I'm leaving Tip- perary ; See, there's the steamer blazing up, I can no longer stay, For I am bound for New York City, boys, three thousand miles away. My portmanteau I have got packed with potatoes, greens and bacon, If you don't think I'll look after that, in troth you are mistaken. If the ship pitch and toss, for a half a dozen farthings, I'll take my trunk upon my back and walk to Castle Garden. Give my respects to Mr. Mack, and likewise to Mrs. Hagan, And I'll come back to the christening, when she marries Patsy Fagan ; I'm deep in love with Mollie Burke, as a jackass is in clover, When I am settled, if she will come, I'll pay her passage over. GROVES OF BLARNEY. THE groves of Blarney they are *o charming, All by the purling of swate silenl brooks, All decked with roses, which spontaneous grow there, Planted in order by the swate rocky nooks. Tis there the daisy and swate carnation, The blooming pink and the rose so fair, Besides the lily and the dafl'y-down-dilly Flowers that scent the swate fragrant air. 'Tis Lady Jefl'ers that owns this station, Like Alexander, or Queen Helen fair, There's no commander throughout this nation For emulation can with her compare. There's castles round her that no nine- potinder Could dare to plunder her place of strength ; But Oliver Crummell he did her pummell And made a breach in her battlement. There's grand walks there for contempla- tion, And conversation in swate 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 for to take a walk in their shady bower 'Tis there her courter he might transport her, To some dark fort or under ground. There is the stone that whoever kisses, He never misses to grow eloquent — 'lis he may clamber to a lady's chamber. Or become a member of Parliament. A clever spouter, he'll sure turn out, or "An out-and-outer ' to be let alone; Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him — Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone. 'Tis there's the kitchen, hangs many a flitch With the maids a-stitching upon the stair: Och, the bread and the bis'kie, the beef and the whisky, Faith! they'd make you frisky if you was but there. 'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter A--vashing praties foment the door, With Nancy Casey and Aunt Delany, All blood' relations to my Lord Donough- more. There's statues gracing this noble place in, All heathen goddesses so fair; Bold Neptune, Plutarch and Nieodemus, All mother naked in the open air. So now to finish this brave narration, Which I have not the genii for to entwine, But were I Homer or Nebuchadnezzar, 'Tis in every feature that I'd make it shine. 31 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. GILLE MACHREE. Gille Maohbee,* sit down by me, We now are joined and ne'er shall sever; This hearth's our own, our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever ! When I was poor, your father's door Was closed against your constant lover; With care and pain, 1 tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said: "To other lands I'll roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love; " 1 said: "Farewell, my own old home!" And I said: "Farewell to thee, love!" Shi'; Gille in" lirce, etc. I might have said, my mountain maid, Come live with me, your own true lover; I know a s] ot, a silent cot, \our friends can ne'er discover; Where gently liows the waveless tide By one small garden only; Where the heron waves his wings so wide, And the linn, t sings so lonely! Sing Gille machrec, etc. I might have said, my mountain maid, A father's right was never given True hearts to curse with tyrant force, That have been blest in Heaven. Put then, I said : " In after years, When thoughts of home shall find her! My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends thus left behind her." Sing Gille machrec, etc. 0, no, I said, my own dear maid, For me, though all forlorn, forever, That heart of thine shall ne'er repine O cr slighted duty — never From home and thee though wandering far A dreary fate be mine, love ; I'd rather live in endless war, Than buy my peace with thine, love. Sing Gille machrec, etc. Far, far away, by night and day, I toiled to win a golden treasure ; And golden gains repaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, Thy fa* her welcomed me, love; I poured my gold into his hand, •And my guerdon found in thee, love. Sing Gille machree, sit down by me, We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever ; This hearth's our own, our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever. *Crille macltree,—brightener of my heart. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea, And the tempest was swelling 'round the fisherman's dwelling — And she cried: " Dei mot, darling, oh! come back to me." Her beads while she number'd, the baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; "Oh! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. " And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me— And say thou wouldst rather they'd watch o'er thy fa'her, For 1 know that the angels are whispering with thee." The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing her child with a blessing, Said: "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." 1 ME BATTLE OF FONTENOY. Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, tl e lin ;s of Saint Antoine. the Dutch in vain - For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Berri's wood, the British soldiers 'burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed, The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy— on Fontenoy, how fast bis generals ride! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds ai eventide. Six thousand Engl is',, veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head: Steady they step i down the slope — steady they' (limb the hill; Steady they load — steady they lire, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast. Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets show fast : And on the open plain above they 'rose and kept their course, With readj fire and grim resolve," that mocked at hostile force; Past Fontenoy — past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks — They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush 'round ; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-shell and grape, and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired — Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry! " King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock— not unavenged they died. ' On through the camp the column trod— King Louis turns his rein: "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops remain! " And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy. had been a Water]..!. Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. "Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes! " The marshal almost smiled to see, so furiously he gees' How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so e&y The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day— The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, tluir women's part- ing cry — ' Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their i over- thrown, Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him alone Un fontenoy, on Fontenov. nor ever vet elsewhere Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 35 THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY.— Continued. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, " Fix bay-nets " — " charge," — like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands! Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet, ruust'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant j show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle wind — l Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men behind! One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging i smoke, | With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish i broke. I On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenagh! " Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang; Bright was their steed, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore ; Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, stag- gered, lied — The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead; Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy — on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought and won! PATRICK RILEY. My name is Patrick Riley, the truth I will make known, And I was born near Clonis, in the County of Tyrone; My parents reared me tenderly, having no child but me, And with them I lived contented to the age of twenty-three. Alas! I took a notion to cross the raging sea, In search of some promotion unto America ; To seek employment in that land, a fortune to obtain, And when I had secured it to return straight home again. Alas! I had a sweetheart, McCormick was her name, When she heard we were for parting, straightway to me she came, Saying: Pat, can this be possible, you're going to prove unkind, And leave me broken-hearted in sorrow here behind? Dear Ann, I said, be not afraid, it's you I do adore, My daily thoughts shall be of you while on Columbia's shore; And when I do return again, if God spares me my life, Here is my hand in promise I will make you my wife. With this she seemed quite reconciled, and home straightway she went, And early the next morning to Captain Pilot went; She swore that I waylaid her and used her barbarously, And robbed her of her purse of gold, which proved my destiny. The police then soon surrounded me, as you shall understand, And marched me off to Liffy jail by the Magistrate's command; It's there I lay in irons until my trial day, Oh, little was my notion she'd swear my life away. On the twenty-first of July last my trial it came on, This maid being void of scripture before the Judge did stand ; She swore that I waylaid Yier and robbed her of five pound, And thought to force her to a pool where she would soon be drowned. Trie Judge then charged the jury with words that were severe, Saying: This maid must now be rightified for all that she did swear ; The jury gave their verdict, aloud the Judge did cry: For your cruelty unto this maid, young Riley, you must die. When I received my sentence the tears from my eyes did flow, Thinking to leave my mother in sorrow, grief, and woe; And she being far advanced in years, having no child but me, How will she stand to see her son upon the gallows tree. MY NOBLE IRISH GIRL. I love thee — oh, that word is tame To tell how dear thou art ; No seraph feels a holier flame Than that which fills my heart. How mild and innocent the brow, Where thy dark ringlets curl; Thy soul is pure as virgin dawn, My noble Irish gill. I love to gaze upon thy smile, Thine eyes so bright ami gay; For there's no stain of art or ;:uile In aught you think or say. The happiest hour that e'er I know. Though it my peace may peril. Is when thee to my heart 1 drew, My noble Irish girl. I need not in the herald's book My loved one's lineage trace — I read her lineage in her lo >k. Her record in her face; I hear it in each touching I That lloats thro' row ii; Thou art my queen — my heart's thy throne, My noble Irish girl. I feel the impress of thy woi And strive to be like thee; Thou art to me what Heaven's to earth, What sunshine's to the se.i ; And if from me some luster beam, 'Mid sin and passion's whirl, Tis thy light shines on my life's stream, My noble Irish girl. ADIEU, MY OWN DEAR ERIN. Adieu, my own dear Erin, Receive my fond, my last rdieu; I go, but with me bearing A heart still fondly turn'd to you. The charms that nature gave thee W T ith lavish hand, shall cease to smile, And the soul of friendship leave thee, E'er I forget my own green isle. Ye fields where heroes bounded To meet the foes of liberty; Ye hills that oft resounded The joyful shouts of victory. Obscured is all your glory, Forgotten all your former fame, And the minstrel's mournful story Now calls a tear at Erin's name. But still the day may brighten When those tears shall cease to flow, And the shout of freedom lighten Spirits now so drooping low. Then should the glad breeze blowing Convey the echo o'er the sea, My heart with transport glowing, Shall bless the land that made thee free. 36 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE BLACKBIRD. It was one tine morning for soft recreation, I heard a fair damsel making a Bad moan; Sighing and sobbing with sad lamentation, Saying my Blackbird mosl royal has down. My thoughts they deceived me, reflection it grieves me, I i am o'erburdened with sad misery; But if death should blind me, as true love inclines me, My Blackbird I'll seek out wherever I be. Once in fair England my Blackbird did ilourisli. lie was the chief ilower that in it did Bpring; ! air Indies of honor his person did nourish, Because thai lie was the true son of a king. But, oh! that false fortune has proved so uncertain, That caus'd the parting between you and me; Bui if he i main in France or in Spain, I'll be true to my Blackbird wherever he be. In England he seems but a stranger to j;e'.her, When lie was the most noble and gen'rous of heart, But woe to the time when ho arrives there, Alas! he was son forced from me to part. In Italy he beam'd and was highly esteemed, In England he seems but a stranger to me : But if he remain in France or in .Spain, All blessing- on my Blackbird wherever he be. But if by the fowler my Blackbird is taken, Sighing and sobbing will be all the tunc; 'ii if lie is safe, and I'm not mistaken, I hope I will see him in May or in June. The birds of the forest they all flock to- gether, The turtle was chosen to dwell with the dove : So I'm resolved in fair or foul weather, i ince in the spring to seek out my love. he is my treasure, my joy and my pleasure, lie's justly beloved, though my heart fol- low thee; How constant and kind, and courageous of mind, Deserving of blessing wherever he be. [t's not the wide ocean can fright me with danger, Although like a pilgrim I wander forlorn; For I'll find more friendship from one that's a stranger, More than from one that in Britain was born. SHAUN'S JIKAD. God's wrath upon the Saxon; may they never know the pride Of dying on the battle-field their broken spear beside; When victory gilds i he glory shroud of every fallen brave, Or death no tales of conquered elans can whisper to his grave. May every light from cross of Christ that saves the heart of man, 15c hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon clan : For sure, oh, God, and You know all? who-. all sufficed, To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want another ( i Is it thus, oh, Shaun, the haughty! Shaun, the valiant, thai meet? Have my cms been lit by heaven but to guide me to defeat S 1 no chief, or you no clan, to give us both del, n Or must I. too, be statuted here with thy cold eloquence? Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle to Thy shaggy hair is wind tossed, and thy brow seems rough with power : Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest treachery stung. Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue. That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkill. Whose warrior words fenced round with spears the oaks of Derrv Hill; Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves, And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves. The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears. And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stormy cheers ; Ay, Shaun, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it your tongue, Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court among. Just think, O Shaun! the same moon shines on LifTey as on Foyle, And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsman to despoil; And you the hope, voice, battle-ax. the shield of us ami ours, A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dublin towers. Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is paler still — My heart? I had no heart — 'twas yours — 'ticus yours! to keep or kill. And you kept it safe for Ireland, chief — your life, your soul, your pride — But they sought it in thy bosom, Shaun — with proud O'Neill it died. You were turbulent and haughty, proud and keen as Spanish steed ; But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's chief— O'Neill ? Who reared aloft the " Bloody Hand " until it paled the sun, And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had never done* He was •• turbulent " with traitors — he was " haughty " with the foe — He was "cruel," say ye Saxons! Ah! he dealt ve blow for blow! lie was "rough" and "wild," and who's not' wild to see his hen I thstone razed? lie was " merciless as fire "—ah. ye kindled him— he blazed; He was "proud! " yes, proud of birthright, and because he Hung away "iour Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mocking spray, He was wild, insane for vengeance — ay! and preached it tilfTv- rone Was ruddy, ready, wild, too, with " Red Hands " to clutch their own. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 37 SHAUN'S HEAD— Continued. "The Scots are on the border, Shaun! "—ye saints, he makes no breath — I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from deatnj \vt truly dead and cold? U, chief! art thou to Ulster lost? : - Dost hear— dost hear? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle have crossed! lie's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his ghost about— And yea no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout! The pale face droopeth northward— ah ! his soul must loom up there, By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or Bann the fair! I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, proud Shaun, In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its hate again. THE " HOLLY AND IVY " GIRL. "Come, buy my nice, fresh Ivy, and my Holly sprigs so green; I have the finest branches that ever yet were seen. Come, buy from me, good Christians, and let me home, I pray, And I'll wish you ' Merry Christmas Times, and a happy New Year's Day.' "Ah! won't you take my ivy? — the loveliest ever seen! Ah! won't you have my Holly boughs? — all you who love the Green! Do! — take a little bunch of each, and on my knees I'll pray, That God may bless your Christmas, and be with you New Year's Day. " This wind is black and bitter, and the hail-stones do not spare My shivering form, my bleeding feet, and stiff, entangled hair ; Then, when the skies are pitiless, be merciful, I say — So heaven will light your Christmas and the coming New Year's Day." 'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, while the cold hail rattled down, And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er Dublin's dreary town: — One stiff hand clutched her Ivy sprig's and Holly boughs so fair, With the other she kept brushing the haildrops from her hair. So grim and statue-like she seemed, 'twas evident that Death Was lurking in her footsteps— while her hot, impeded breath Too plainly told her early doom — though the burden of her lay Was still of life and Christmas joys, and a Happy New Year's Day. 'Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas Street, I heard the wanderer sing, I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the ragged ring — My heart felt cold and lonely, and my thoughts were far away, Where I was many a Christmas-tide and Happy New Year's Day. I dreamed of wanderings in the woods among the Holly Green ; I dreamed of my own native cot and porch with Ivy Screen ; I dreamed of lights forever dimm'd — of Hopes that can't return — And dropped a tear on Christmas fires that never more can burn. The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no one came to buy; The hurrying crowd passed to and fro, but did not heed her cry ; She uttered one low, piercing moan — then cast her boughs away — And smiling, cried — "I'll rest with God before the New Year's Day! " On New Year's Day I said my prayers above a new-made grave, Dug recently in sacred soil, by Liffoy's murmuring wave; The Minstrel maid from Earth to Heaven has winged her happy way, And now enjoys, with sister saints, an endless New Year's Day. " JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING." All, Jenny, I'm not jest in;;. Believe what I'm protesting, And yield what I'm requesting These seven years through.' '■ .Mi, Laurence, I may grieve you, Yet. if 1 can't relieve you, Sure, why should 1 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 Kilty. So charming and so witty, She'd wed you out of pity, Kind Kate." "Fie! Jenny, since I knew you, Of all the lads that, won 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?" " 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." " Well, since it seems that marriage Is still the safest carriage. And all the world disparage The spinster lone ; Since you might still forsake me, I think I'll let you take mo, Yes ! Larry, you may make me Your own! " THE MONKS OF THE SCRLVV. When 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 ohas 1 " — 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 o glass in the convent, Except on a festival, found ; And, this rule to enforce, 1 ordain it A festival all the year round! 38 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. ERIN'S GREEN SHORE. Owe evening, so late, as I rambled On the bunks of a clear purling stream, i sat myself down on a bed m primroses, Anil so gently fell into a dream. 1 dreamt i beheld a fair female, Her i qu. Is l ii.' i ire, As she sighed for the wrongs oi b sr country, As s ; ;c strayed along Erin's green shore. 1 quickly addressed this fair female, "My jewel, i o;ne tell me your name, Eor here in this country, I know, you're a stranger, Or 1 wouid nut have askid you the same.'' She resembled the Goddess of Liberty, And oi I reedom the mantle she wore, As she sighed for the wrongs of her country. As she strayed along Erin's green shore. ''I know you're a true son to Granue, And my secrets to you I'll unfold; For here in the midst of all dangers, Not knowing my friends from my foes, I'm the daughter of Daniel O'Connell, And from England I lately came o'er, I've come to awake my brethren That slumber on Erin's green shore.'' Her eyes were like two sparkling diamonds Or the stars of a cold trusty night; Her cheeks were two blooming roses. And her teeth of the ivory so white. She resembled the Goddess of Freedom, And green was the mantle she wore, Bound 'round with the shamrock and roses That grew along Erin's green shore. PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY. When Molly, th' other day, sir, Was makin' of the hay. sir. 1 ask'd her for to be my bride, And Molly she began to chide: Says she " You are too young, dear Pat." Says I, " My jew'l, I'll mend o' that." " \ou are too poor," says she, beside; When to convince her, then, I tried, That wealth is an invintion The wise should never miniion, And flesh is grass, and Bowers will fade. And it's better be wed than die an owld maid. The purty little sparrows Have neither plows nor harrows, Yet they live at aise, and are contint, Bekase, you see, they pay no rint; They have no care nor flustherin' ul diggin' or industherin' ; Nd foolish pride their comfort hurts — For thej" eat the flax, and wear no shirts— Eor wealth is an invintion, etc. Nature clothes the hills, dear, Without any tailor's bills, dear; And the bees they sip their sweets, my BOWl, Though they never h; d a sugar-bowl; The dew it fei of dune, But 'tis not with a silver spoon: Then let us pal I hern I ake : rom 1 1 The birds and b >se — For wealth is an invintion, etc. MANTLE SO GREEN. As I went a-walking, one evening in June, To view the fair fields and meadows so green, I -pied a young damsel, she appeared like a queen, With her costly tine robes and her mantle bo green. 1 stood in amaze — I was struck with surprise — 1 thought her an angel that fell from the skies: Her eyes like the diamond, her cheeks like the i se, She is une of the lan est that nature composed. Said I, Pretty fair maid if you come with me, We will join in wedlock, and married will be; I'll dress you in rich attire, and you'll appear like a queen, With your costly fine robes and your mantle so green! She answered ine, Young man you must be refused, For, I'll wed with no man, you must me excuse; To the green hills I'll wander to shun all men's view, For, the lad that I love lies in famed Waterloo. Since you are not married tell me your love's name, 1 have been in battle, 1 might know the same; Draw near to nvy garment . and there you will see His name is embroidered on my mantle so green! On the raising of her mantle, it's there I behold His name and his surname, in letters of gold, Young William O'Reilly appeared in my view, He was my chief comrade in famed Waterloo. We fought so victorious where bullets did fly, And, in the field of Nervon, your true lover does lie; We ought for three days to the fourth afternoon, He received his death summons on the 18th of June. As he was a-dying, I heard his last cry. Were you here, lovely Nancy, content 1 would die- Peace is proclaimed, and the truth I'll declare, Here is your love's token, the gold ring 1 wear. I stood in amazement, the paler she grew, She flew from my arms with her heart full of woe: To the green hills I'll wander for the lass thai 1 love! Rise up! lovely Nancy, your grief I'll removi . Oh! Nancy lovely Nancy it was 1 won your heart In your father's garden, that day we did paw : In your father's garden, within a green shadow tree, Where I rolled you in ni\ arms in your mantle BO green! This eouide has gol married; I heard people say teir wedding day, nd the war is all o'er, i , arms, lovetj Nancy, once more! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 39 THE BANKS OF CLAUDY. It was on a summer morning, all in the month of May, Down by yon flowery-garden, where Betsey she did stray, I overheard a damsel in sorrow to complain, All for her absent lover, that plows the raging main. I went up to this fair maid and put her in surprise, I own she did not know me, I being in disguise Said I: My charming creature, my joy and heart's delight, How far do you travel this dark and rainy night? The way, kind sir, to Claudy, if you please to show, Pity a maid distracted, for I have to go; I am in search of a faithless young man, Johnny is his name, All on the banks of Claudy I am told he docs remain. If Johnny was here this night, he would keep me from all harm, He's in the field of battle all in his uniform; And he's in the field of battle, his foes he will destroy. Like a ruling king of honor he fought in the wars of Troy. It's six weeks and better since your true love left the shore, He is cruising the wide ocean where foaming billows roar; He is cruising the wide ocean for honor and for gain, I was told the ship was wrecked all off the coast of Spain. When she heard the dreadful news she fell into despair, To wringing of her hands and tearing of her hair: Since he has gone and left me no man I will take. In some lonely valley I will wander for his sake. His heart was filled with joy, no longer he could stand, He flew into her arms, saying, Betsey, I am the man; I am the faithless young man whom you thought was slain, And since we are met on Claudy's banks, we'll never part again. THE GRAVE OF WOLFE TONE. In Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave, And wildly along it the winter winds rave; Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there, When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare. Once I lay on that sod — it lies over Wolfe Tone — And thought how he perished in prison alone, His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed — " Oh, bitter," I said, " is a patriot's meed. " For in him the heart of a woman combined With a heroic life, and a governing mind — A martyr for Ireland — his grave has no stone, His name seldom named, and his virtut s unknown." I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread Of a band, who came into the home of the dead ; They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone, And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone. There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave, And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave, And the children who thought me hard-hearted ; for they On that sanctified soil were forbidden to play. But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said: " We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid, And we're going to raise him a monument, too — A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true." My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand. And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band. "Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain." In the Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave, And freely around it let winter winds rave; Far better they suit him — the ruin and gloom — Till Ireland, a nation, can build him a tomb. McFADDEN'S PICNIC. Near the beautiful town of Killybeys, In the county of Donegal, The McFaddens, the Maloneys, With their children large and small, Gave over their daily labor, Sorra stroke of work would they do; But betook themselves to tne fields and wood - For to kick up a hubbubaloo. There was all the McFaddens, both young anH old. And Terence O'Flaherty's niread. The same that generally covered the limis Of the young McFaddens in bed. Then they p them; Sunday hose and coat, an old gray mare to ride on, Saddle and bridle to boot, which you may ride astride on: I've got an old Tom cat, although one eye is staring, I've got a Sunday hat, a little the worse for wearing; I've got some gooseberry wine, the trees have got no riper on, I've got a fiddle so fine, which only wants a piper on: I've got an acre of ground, I've got it set with praties, I've got of backey a pound, and got some tea for the ladies: I've got the ring to wed, some whisky to make us gaily, A mattress and feather bed, and a handsome new shellelah: Y'ou'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 every one is knowing, You've got a decent tongue whene'er 'tis set a-going: For a wife till death I am willing to take ye, But, och! I waste my breath, the devil himself can't wake ye; 'Tis just beginning to rain, so I'll get under cover, I'll come to-morrow again and be your constant lover: THE CELTIC CROSS. Through storm, and fire, and gloom, I see it stand. Firm, broad, and tall— 'I'll:' Celtic Cross that marks our Fa land. Amid them all ! Druids, and Danes, and Saxons vainly rage Around its base; It standeth shock on shock, and age •> Star of a scattered 1 < 0, Holy Cross! dear symbol of !!:«' Death of our Lord, Around thee long have slept our Martyr- dead, Sward over sward! An hundred Bishops I myself can count Among the slain ; Chiefs, Captains, rank and file, a shining mount Of Cod's ripe grain. The Monarch's mace, the Puritan's clay- more, Smote thee not do .vn : On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar. In mart and town; In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, We find thee still, Thy open arms still stretching to thine own, O'er town, and lough, and I And they would tear thee out of Irish s . The guilty fools! How time must mock their antiquated toil and broken tools! Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp re- tired, Baffled and thrown; William and Anne to sap thy site con- spired — The rest is known! Holy Saint Patrick, Father of our Faith, Beloved of God 1 Shield thy dear church from the impending scaith, Or, if the rod Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise To emprise high, Men like the heroic race of other days, Who joyed to die! Fear! Wherefore should the Celtic prop.'e fear Their Church's fate? The day is not — the day was never near — Could desolate The Destined Island, all whose seedy day Is holy ground — Its cross shall stand till that predestined day, When Erin's self is drowned! 46 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE ORANGEMAN'S WIFE. I wander by the limpid shore When fields and llow'rets bloom; But, O! my heart is sad and sore — My soul is sunk in gloom — All day I cry ochone ! ochone! I weep fioni night till morn — I with that I were dead and gone, Or never had been born. er dwelt beside Tyrone, ; nd with him children live; T to Charlemont had gone, At soi vice there to live. O brothers fond! O sister dear! How ill I paid your love! O father! father! how I fear To meet thv soul above! My mother left us long a§ A lovely corpse was she — But we had longer days of woe In this sad world to be. Mj weary days will soon be done — I pine in grief forlorn; 1 wish that I were dead and gone, Or never had been born. Jt was tho yp?r of Ninety-Eigh . Wreckers came n!oi:t: iitey burn d my father's stack of wheat, And drove my brothers out; fo:ced my sister to their lust — God grant my father rest! ' or the Captain of the Wreckers thrust .v baycnet through his breast. It was a dreadful, dreadful year; And I was blind'y leL In love, aid loneliness, and fear, A loyal man to wed; And still my heart 's his alone, It breaks, but cannot turn; I wish that I were dead and gone, Cr never had been born Next year we lived in quiet love, And kissed our infant boy; And peace had spread her wings above Our dwelling at the Moy. And then my wayworn brothers came To share our peace an 1 rest ; And poor lost Rose, to hide her shame And sorrow in my breast. They came, but soon they turned and fled- Prescrve my soul. (lod! It was my husband's hand, they said, That shed my father's blood. All day I cry ochone! ochone! 1 weep from night till morn; And O, that I were dead and gone, Or never had been born! KERRY DANCE. Oh ! the days of the Kerry dancing, oh ! the ring of the piper's tune, Oh! for one of those hours of gladness, gone, alas! like youth, too soon! When the boys began to gather in the glen of a summer night, And the Kerry piper's tuning made us long with wild delight. CIIOKUS. Oh! to think of it, oh! to dream of it, fills my heart with (ears: Oh! the days of Kerry dancing, oh! the ring of th< \ iper'a tune; Uli ! for one of those hours of gladness, gone, alas! like youth, too soon. REFRAIN. Time goes on, and the happy years are dead, And one by one the merry hearts are tied ; Silent now is the wild and lonely glen. Where the bright glad laugh will echo ne'er again. Only dreaming of days gone by, in niy heart I hear Loving voices of old companions, stealing out of the past once more — And the sound of the dear old music, soft and sweet as in days of yore, When the boys began to gather in the glen of a summer night, And the Kerry piper's tuning made us long with wild delight. Was there ever a sweeter colleen in the dance than Eily More? Or a prouder lad than Thady, as he boldly took the floor? •' Lads and lasses to your places, up the middle, down again," Ah! the merry-hearted laughter ringing through the happy glen. I'm lonesome since I crossed the hills and o'er the moor that's sedgy ; With heavy thoughts my mind is filled, since I have parted with Peggy. Whene'er I turn to view the place, the tears doth fall and blind me, When I think on the charming grace of the girl I left behind me. The hours I remember well, when next to see doth move me: The burning flames my heart doth tell, since first she owned she loved me. In search of some one fair and gay, several doth remind me; I know my darling loves me well, though I left her far behind me. The bees shall lavish, make no store, and the dove become a ranger ; The fallen water cease to roar, before I'll ever change her. Each mutual promise faithfully made by her whom tears doth blind me, And bless the hour I pass away with the girl I left behind me. My mind her image full retains, whether asleep or waking; I hope to see my jewel again, for her my heart is breaking. But if ever I chance to go that way, and that she has not resigned me, I'll reconcile my mind and stay with the girl I left behind SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 4T THE LADS WHO LIVE IN IRELAND. My name is Ned O'Manney, I was born in sweet Killarney, I can fight, dance, or sing, I can plow, roup, or mow; And, if 1 met a pretty girl, I never practise blarney, I've something more alluring, which perhaps you'd like to know. I'm none of your Bulgrudderies, nor other shabby families, But can unto my pedigree a pretty title show: Oh! I'm of the O's and Mac's, and likewise the sturdy Whacks, That live and toil in Ireland where the apple praties grow, That live and toil in Ireland where the apple praties grow. I could a deal relate if I could but trace my pedigree: My mother w;;s a Hogan, but my father I don't know; I've ninety-nine relations in a place they call Roscarberry, And each unto their name has a Mac or an O. My uncle was a Brallaghan, my aunt she was a Callaghan, And as to my character, why, I can plainly show. I'm rantin' rovin' blade, and I never was afraid, For I was born in Ireland where the apple praties grow, For I was born in Ireland where the apple praties grow. May Heaven still protect our hospitable country, Where first I drew my living breath and heard its cocks to crow! Adieu to its green hills and its lovely bay of Banty, Where many a pleasant evening my love and I did go — Where shoals of fish so pleasantly did sport about so merrily. Beneath its glassy surface their wanton tricks to show — Oh! those scenes I did enjoy like a gay, unthinking boy, With the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow, With the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow, St. Patrick was our saint, and a blessed man in truth was he, Great gifts unto our country he freely did bestow; He banished all the frogs and toads that sheltered in our country, And unto other regions it's they were forced to go. There is one fact, undoubtedly, that cannot contradicted be, For, trace the Irish history, and it will plainly show: Search the universe all round, tighter fellows can't be found Than the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow, Than the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow. THE RIVER ROE. As I went out one evening, all in the month of June, The primroses and daisies and violets were in bloom; I espied a lovely fair one, and her I did not know. I took her for an angel that was bathing in the Roe. Her teeth were like ivory, her skin a lily white, Her cheeks as red as roses, her eyes like diamonds bright; Her surname I'll not tell, lest you might her know, But her master's habitation is on the river Roe. I quickly stepped up to her, and this to her did say: Are you a goddess, or what brought you this way? She answered me right modestly, and said: I am not so. I'm but a servant maid that was bathing in the Roe. 1 said: My pretty fair maid, if with me you'll agree, We'll join our hands in wedlock and wedded we will be: My father, he's a nobleman, the country well does know, And his dwelling lies convenient to the river Roe. She quickly made me answer, and this to me did say: Inly mistress she is waiting, I have no time to stay: I'll meet you to-morrow and my mistress won't know, We'll have some conversing on the river Roe. They both shook hands and parted, from each other did go, In hopes to meet next morning along the river Roe; She dressed herself in private, away then she did go, Her true love he was waiting along the river Roe. PASTHEEN FION. O, 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, O! 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 as red as the rose's sheen, But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen! en, Oro. come with me! come with me! come with me ! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, O! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet! Were I in the town where's mirth and glee, Or 'twixt two barrels of barley br< e, With my fur Pastheen upon my knee, "lis I would drink to her pleasantly! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come with me! Ore. come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, O! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet! Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain, Thinking to see you, love, once again; But whistle and call were all in vain! Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, O! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet! I'll leave my people, both friend and foe; From all the girls in the world I'll go : But from you, sweetheart, never! O, no! Till I lie in the coffin stretched, cold and low : Then, Oro, come with ma! come with me! come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And. 0! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet: SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE RIVER ROE.— Continued. When she came up to him he thus to her did say: I'm glad to meet you here, my love, on this very day. I'm glad to meet you here, love, the way thai 1 will know If you're going to wed with me and dwell beside the river Roe. She modestlj did answer, and said she was content, 1 kissed and embraced her, and away both went: We were married next ev< Ding, as 3 OU Will shortly know She has servants to attend her, and she dwells upon the Roe. It was within ten miles of Newton, convenient to the tide, You'll find my habitation convenient to the soil, You'll see ships from Limerick sailing down the silvery tide, And the lads and the lassies sparking along the river side. Farewell to friends and parents, and to the flowing quay. Likewise my old acquaintance, and 1 have no time to stay; Here is health to my own sweetheart, the girl thai you know, And we will sing to' the maid that dwells along the river Roe. PADDY AT THE THEATER. From the county of Monaghan lately I came, I'm a tinker by trade, Larry Dooly's my name; My cousin, Tim Murphy, I met yesterday, Says he, Mr. Dooly'll come to the play .' Derry down, down, down, Deny down. Is it the play that you mean, are you sure that you're right? They're treating the town to Pizzaro to-night; But the treat, as he called it, and the one that I mean, Bad luck to his treat, it cost me all my tin. Derry down, down, down, Derry down. Well, the green curtain drew up, and a lady I spied, When a man came to kiss her she scornfully cried: Get out, you big blackguard, I'll bother your jig! When in comes Pizzaro with a grunt like a pig. Derry down, down, down, Derry r dow x n. In the days of ould Goury, a long time ago, The Spaniards claimed war 'gainst Peru, you know; They demanded its cash, its jewels and keys. When a boy, they called Rowler, says: No, if you please. Derry down, down, down, Derry down. Then Rowler came in, like a day-star appeared, He made a long speech and the sojers all cheered: Says he, Beat well the Spaniards, and do the neat thing, And then, boys, stand up for your country and king. Derry down, down, down, Derry down. Then Mr. Murphy Alonzo somehow went to jail, He got out by a back door without giving bail ; While Rowler was jumping o'er bridges and greens, He was shot by some blackguard behind the big screens. Derry down, down, down, Derry down. Then Rowler came forward, and with him a child. Looking all for the world like a man that was wild: Here's your gossoon, dear Cora, it's my own blood that's spilt In defense of your child, blood an' ounds, I'm kilt! Derry down, down, down. Deny down. Then Alonzo and Pizzaro had a terrible tight. Pizzaro got killed, that seemed perfectly right; For the audience came down with showers of applause, They were all enlisted in the Peruvian's cause. Derry down, down, down, Derry down. Then Alonzo came forward and handsomely bowed, Saying: Ladies and gentlemen, meaning the crowd, By your kind permission, to-morrow, then, We will murder Pizzaro over again. Derry down, down, down, Derry down. BRIAN THE BRAVE. Remember the glories of Brian the brave. Tho' the days of the hero are o'er ; Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkora no more. That star of the field which so often hath pour'd Its beam on the battle, is - Bui enough of its glory remains on sword, To light us to victory yet. Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the lint Of thy Holds and thy mo tntains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? Xo! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, ( lo, tell our invaders, the D. lis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains. Forget not our wounded companions, who stood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with heir blood, They stirr'd not, but eonquer'd and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; — O! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night. To rind that they fell there in vain. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? Who blushes at the name'.' When cowards mock the patriot's fate. Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thui But a true man. like you. man Will till your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave. The faithful and the few — Some lie far off beyond the wave — Some sleep iu Ireland, too; All all are gone — but still lives on Th ■ fame of those who died — All true men, like you. men Remember them with pride Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made; But. though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam — In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 40 THE MEMORY OF THE DEW. -Continued. The dust of some is Irish earth, Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start, Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze, That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that Might can vanquish Right — They fell and pass'd away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory — may it be For us a guiding light To cheer our strife for liberty. And teach us to unite. Through good and ill be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight. MARY OF TIPFERARY. From 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 her sweet foot and ankle the dew- drops bespangle, 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, 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 dimples? Heaven's light in her eye — the soft blue of the sky — Heaven's light in her eye, and a blush like a rose! O'REILLY THE FISHERMAN. As I roved out one evening fair, down by the river side, I heard a lovely maiden complain, the tears fell from her eyes; This is a cold and .stormy night, those words she then did say, My love is on the raging sea, bound for America. My love he was a fisherman, bis age was scarce eighteen. He was as nice a young man as ever yet was seen ; My father he had riches great, and Riley he was poor, Because I loved this fisherman they could not him endure. John O'Riley was my true love's name, reared near the town of Bray, My mother took me by the hand and these words to me did say: If you be fond of Riley, let him quit this country, Your father says he'll take his life, so shun his company. Oh, mother, dear, don't be severe, where will you send my love? My very heart lies in his breast as constant as a dove. (Ill, daughter, dear, I'm not severe, here is one thousand pound, So send Riley to America to purchase there some ground. When Ellen got the money to Riley she did run, Saying: This very night, to take your life, my father charged a gun. Here i.s one thousand pound in gold, my mother sent to you, So sail away to America and I will follow you. When Riley got the money, next day he sailed away. And when he put his foot on board those words she then did sayr Here is a token of true love, and we'll break it now in two, You'll have my heart and half my ring until I find out you. It was three months after, as he was waiting by the shore, When Riley he came back again to take his love away; The ship was wrecked, all hands were lost, her father grieved full sore. And found Riley in her arms, and they drowned upon the shore. He found a letter on her breast, and it was wrote with blood, Saying: Cruel was my father that thought to shoot my love! So let this now be a warning to all fair maids so gay, To never let the lads they love go to America. THE IRISH HURRAH. Have you hearkened the eagle scream over the sea? Have hearkened the breaker beat under your lee? A something between the wild waves in their play, And the kingly bird's scream is the Irish Hurrah. I low it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail; How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale, Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way. And the echoes' voice cracks with the Irish Hurrah. How it sweeps o'er the mountain when hounds are on scent, How it presses the billows when rigging is renl ; Till the enemy's broadside sinks low in dismay, As our boarders go in with the Irish Hurrah. (lh! there's hope in the trumpet and glee in the fife, But never such music broke into a strife; As when, as its bursting, the war-clouds cjave way, And there's cold steel along with the Irish Hurrah. What joy for your deathbed, your banner above, And round you the pressure of patriot love, As you're lifted to gaze on the breaking array l Of the Saxon reserve at the Irish Hurrah. 50 SONGS AND BALLADS OF ICELAND. THE BLARNEY. There's a castle in Dublin, convenient to Cork And Killarney, Killarney; There's a stone in its tower that a wonder can work And that's blarney, that's blarney. There's a neat little village in which stands a mill, That goes grinding out cloth and that's grinding there still ; Ami a plaising discoorse you can lain, if you will. And "that's blarney, that's blarney. There are tie-ups and strikes in all parts of the land. Let them warn yer, yes, wain yer. That the rich and* the poor must each one understand. And no blarney, no blarney. For when labor and capital each has their right, There's no striking by day or no 1 turning by night : We wall all live in peace without dynamite. And no blarney, no blarney. Uncle Sam got his dander rize way up on end, And says, darn yer. y s. darn yer; A stout helping hand to ould Ireland I'll lend, And no blarney, no blarney. I've helped with cash, and I've helped with corn, An 1 I've helped her while starving, dis- tressed and forlorn; And I'll help her a nation once more to be born. That's no blarney, no blarney. The great statue of Liberty enlightening the world, Is all blarney, all blarney; Though the star-spangled banner is boldly unfurled, It don't consarn yer, consarn yer. Tho' Liberty's torch may light Bedloe's lone isle, 'Tis a will-o'-the-wisp that burns but to be- guile ; • For 'tis boodle that wins in the end all the while, And no blarney, no blarney. NORA McSHANE. I've left Ballymornach a long way behind me, To better my fortune I've crossed the big sea ; But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind me. And faith, I'm as wretched as wretched can be. I funk of the buttermilk, fresh as the daisy, The beautiful hills and the emerald plain. And, ah! don't 1 oftentimes think myself crazy About that black-eyed rogue, sweet Norah McShane. UP FOR THE GREEN. the green, oh, the green is the color of the true, we'll back it 'gainst the orange and we'll raia ise it o'er the 'Tis And we'll back it gainst blue; For the color of old Ireland alone should here be seen, "lis the color of the martyr'd dead, our own immortal green. Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green, Oh, 'tis down to the dust, and a shame to be seen ; But we've hands, oh, we've hands, boys, full strong enough, 1 ween, To rescue and raise again our own immortal green. They may say they have powers 'tis vain to o] pose, 'Tis better to obey and live than sure to die as fo But we scorn all their threats, whatever they may mean. For we trust in God above us ami we dearly love the green. So we'll up for the green, hoys. an. I we'll up for the green! Oh! to die is far better than to 1. And we've hearts, oh, we've heart-, boys, full i Igh, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green. They may swear, as they often did. our wretchedness to cure, lint we'll never trust John Bull again, nor le1 his i - allure; No, we won't — no. we won't, Bull, for now n ire! For we've hopes on the ocean and we've trust on the shore. Then up for the green, boys, and up lor tie' green! Shout it back to the Sassanach: we'll never sell the green! For our Tone is coming back, and with men enough, I ween, To rescue and avenge us and our own immortal gre n. Oh, remember the days when their reign we did disturb. At Limerick and Thurles, Blackwater and Benburb; And ask this proud Saxon if our blows he did enjoy, When we met him on the battle-field of Frame — at Fontenoy. Then we'll up for the green, boys, and up for the green! Oh, 'tis still in the dust, and a shame to be seen; But we've hearts and we've hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own unsullied green! THE BARD OF ARMAGH. On, listen to the lay of a poor Irish harper, And scorn not the strains of his old withered hands, But remember those fingers they once could move -harper In raising the merry strains of his dear native land; It was long before the shamrock, dear isle, lovely emblem, Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw. And all the pretty colleens around me would gather. Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh. How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood, Though fourscore and three years have Hew by them, It's king's sweet reflection that every young joy. For the merry-hearted boys make the best of oid men. At a fair or a wake I could twist my shillelah, And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw, There all the pretty maidens around me would gather, Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh. In truth I have wandered this wide world over. Yet Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me. And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover He cut from the land that is trod by the free ; And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace, Ami lulls me to sleep with old Erin-go-bragh I By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh, place me, Then forget Phelim Brady, the hard of Armagh. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. il NORAII McSHANE— Continued. I sigh for the tirrf pile so cheerfully burn- ing. When barefoot I trudged it from toiling afar; When 1 tosa'd in the light the thirteen I'd been earning, And whistled tne anthem of Erin-go- bragh. In truth, I believe thai I'm half broken- hearted, To my country and love I must get back again. For I've never been happy at all since I parted From sweet Ballymornach and Norah McShane. Oh! there's something so sweet in the cot I was born in, Though the walls are but mud and the roof is but thatch ; How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the mornin', What music in lifting the rusty old latch. 'Tis true I'd no mom y. but then I'd no sorrow, My pockets were light, but my head had no pain ; And if I but live till the sun shine to- morrow I'll be off to ould Ireland and Norah McShane. KATE OF ARRAGLEN. When first I saw thee, Kate, That summer ev'ning late, Down at the orchard gate Of Arraglen, I felt I'd ne'er before Seen one so fair, asthore, I fear'd I'd never more See thee again — I stopped and gazed at thee, My footfall luckily Reach'd not thy ear, though we Stood there so near; While from thy lips a strain, Soft as the summer rain, Sad as a lover's pain Fell on my ear. I've heard the lark in June, The harp's wild plaintive tune, The thrush, that aye too soon Gives o'er his strain- I've heard in hush'd delight The mellow horn at night, Waking the echoes light Of wild Loch Lene. But neither echoing horn, Nor thrush \ipon the thorn, Nor lark at early morn. Hymning in air, Nor harper's lay divine, E'er witch 'd this heart of mine, Like that sweet voice of thine, That ev'ning there. DARLING OLD STICK. My name is bold Morgan McCarthy from Trim, My relations all died except one brother, Jim ; He is gone a-sojering out to Cow Bull, I dare say he's laid low with a kick in the skull. But let him be dead or be living, A prayer lor his corpse I'll be giving, To send him soon home or to heaven, For he left me his darlin' ould stick. If that stick had a tongue it could tell you some tales, How it battered the countenances of the O'Neils; It made bits of skull fly about in the air, And it's been the promoter of fun at each fair. For 1 swear by the toenail of Moses It has often broke bridges of noses Of the faction that dared to oppose us — It's the darlin' kippeen of a stick. The last time I used it 'twas on Patrick's Day, Larry Fagan and I got into a shilley; We went on a spree to the fair of Athboy, Where I dance d. and when done, I kissed Kate McEvoy. Then her sweetheart went out for his cousin, And by Jabers! he brought in a dozen; A doldhrum they would have knocked us in If I hadn't the taste of a stick. War was the word when the factions came in, And, to pummel us well, they peeled off to their skin; Like a Hercules there I stood for the attack, And the first that came up I sent on his back. Then I shoved out the eye of Pat Clancy, (For he once humbugged sister Nancy) : In the meantime poor Kate took a fancy To myself and a bit of a tick. I smathered her .sweetheart until he was black, She then tipped me the wink — we were off in a crack;' We went to a house t'other end of the town, And we cheered up our spirits by letting some down. When I got her snug into a corner, And the whisky beginning to warm her: She told me her sweetheart was an informer, Oh, 'twas then I said prayers for my stick. We got whiskificated to such a degree, For support my poor Kate had to lean against me ; I promised to see her safe to her abode, By the tarnal, we fell clean in the mud on the road. We were roused by the magistrate's order Before we could get a toe further — Surrounded by peelers for murther, Was myself and my innocent stick. When the trial came on, Kate swore to the fact That before I set to I was decently whacked ; And the Judge had a little more feeling than sense- He said what I done was in my own defense. But one chap swore again me, named Carey, (Though that night he was in Tipperary) ; He'd swear a coal porter was a canary To transport myself and my stick. When I was acquitted I leaped from the dock, And the gay fellows all around me did flock; I'd a pain in my shoulder, I shook hands so often, For the boys all imagined I'd see my own coffin. I went and bought a gold ring, sir, And Kate to the priest I did bring, sir; So next night you come, I will sing, sir, The adventure of me and my stick. 52 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. KATE OF ABBAGLEN.— Continued. And when some rustling, dear, Fell on i h y listening ear, You thought your brother near, And named his name. I could not answer, though, As luck would have it so, His name and mine, you know. Were both the same — Hearing no answering sound, You glanced in doubt around, "With timid look, and found It was not he; Turning away your head, And blushing rosy red. Like a wild fawn you lied Far, far from me. The swan upon the lake, The wild rose in the brake, The golden clouds that make The west their throne, The wild ash by the stream, The full moon's silver beam, The ev'ning star's soft gleam, Shining alone; The lily robed in white, All, all are fair and bright; But ne'er on earth was sight So bright, so fair, As that one glimpse of thee, That I caught then, machree, It stole my heart from me That ev'ning there. Aud now you're mine alone. That heart is all my own — That heart that ne'er hath known A flame before. That form of mould divine, That snowy hand of thine — Those locks of gold are mine For evermore. Was lover ever seen As blest as thine, Kathleen? Hath lover ever been More fond, more true? Thine is ray every vow! Forever dear, as now! Queen of my heart be thou! .l/o c'liVm ruadh ' THE GIRL OF DUNBWY. 'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy Stepping the mountain siatelily — Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet, No lady in Ireland to match her is meet. Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies — Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her e\ es ; child of a peasant — yet England's proud Queen Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff, And love, and devotion, and energy speak From her beauty-proud eye, and her pas- sion-pale cheek. IRISH MOLLY, 0! As I walked out one morning, all in the month of May, I met a pretty Irish girl, and thus to her did say; I put my hand in my pocket, as it happened so, And pulled out a guinea to treat my Molly, O. CHORUS. She is young, she is beautiful, Bhe i> the fairest one I know, The primrose of Ireland before my guinea go, And the only one that me is my Irish Molly, O. I said: My pretty fair maid, will you go along with me? 1 will show you the straight way across the country. My parents would be angry if thej should ome 10 know, They will lay all the blame to my Scotch laddie, O. — CHORUS. When Molly's own father he came to know, That she had been courted by a Scotch laddie, (). He sent for young .McDonald, and these words to him did say: If you court my daughter, Mary, I will send you far away. — Chorus.. . Since Molly has deceived me, all by her father's ways, Through some lonely woods and valleys, it's there I'll spend my days; Like some poor forlorn pilgrim I wander to and fro, It's all for the sake of my Irish Molly, 0. — CHoitrs. There is a rose in Dublin, I thought she would be mine. For to come to my funeral is all I do require: My body shall be ready by the dawning of the day, It is all for the sake of my bonny Irish maid. — CHORUS. When that I'm buried, there is one thing more I crave. To lay a marble tombstone at the head oi > • : And on this tombstone a prayer shall be said, That young McDonald lies here for his poor Irish maid — Chokus. Come all you pretty, fair maidens, a warning ta' • danein' there. oh. my Molleen, ( )h. my colleen, We'll dance to Pat, And after that Collogue upon one chair. Molleen. ('car. I'd not presume To encroach into your room. But I'd forgo! a fairin' I'd brought you from Macroom; So open, and 1 swear Not one peep upon you — there! 'Tis a silver net to gather As the ulass your golden hair. Oh, my Moil-- n. i MoUccn pet — my Molleen pet, Faix, I'm fairly in a fret At the time you're tittivatin'. Mollehx, aren't you ready yet? Now net. and gown, and brogue, Are you sure you're quite the vogue? But, bedad, you loo's mi lovely, I'll forgive you, Molleen oge. Oh. my Molleen. Ob. my colleen, We'll dance to Pat, And after that Upon one chair collogue. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet : Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must de- part. Ere the bloom from that valley shall fade from heart. Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green, It was not her soft magic of streamlet or hill — Oh. no: it was something more exquisite still. "f\vas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, Wel'e n< ir. Who made every scene of e enl move dear, Ami who fell how the besl charms of nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we lo\ e. Sweel vale of ^voca, how calm could I real In tl. of shade, with the friends I love vVh re 'he storms that we fee: \n this cold Id should cease. Anil our hearts, like thy waters, le mingled in peace. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 55 KITTY NEIL. " Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from your 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 be- ginning. " The sun is 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 alley." With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up, the while Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing. 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues ; So she could not 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 ; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil — Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing! Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion ; With a cheer and a liound 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 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? Poor Pat feels his heart, as he ga/.es, 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! ' THE FENIAN'S ESCAPE. Now, boys, if you will listen to the story I'll relate, I'll tell you of the noble men who from the foe escaped; Though bound with ^ixon fetters in the dark Australian jail. They struck a blow for freedom, and lor Yankee land set sail, On the 17th of April last the Stars and Stripes did lly On board the bark "Catalpa," waving proudly to the sky: She showed the green above the red, as she did calmly lay Prepared to take the Fenian boys in safety o'er the sea. When Breslin and brave Desmond brought the prisoners to the shore They gave one shout for freedom — soon to bless them evermore — And manned by gallant hearts, they pulled toward the Yankee flag, For well they knew, from its proud folds no tyrant could (hem drag. They have nearly reached in safety the " Catalpa," taut and trim, When fast approaching them they saw a vision dark and dim; It was the steamer " Georgette," and on her d ek there stood One hundred hired assassins, to shed each patriot's blood. The steamer reached the bounding bark and fired across her bow, Then in loud voice commanded that the vessel should heave to; But noble Captain Anthony, in thunder tones did cry : You dare not fire a shot at that bright flag that floats on highj My ship is sailing peacefully beneath that Hag of stars, It's manned by Irish hearts of oak, and manly Yankee tars: And that dear emblem at the fore, so plain now to be seen, 'Tis the banner I'll protect, old Ireland's flag of green. The Britisher he sailed away — from the stars and stripes he ran — He knew his chance was slim to tight the boys of Uncle Sam : So Hogan, Wilson, Harrington, with Darragh off did go, With Hassett and bold Cranston, soon to whip the Saxon Foe. Here's luck to that noble Captain, who well these men did free, He dared the English man-of-war to fight him on the sea. And here's to that dear emblem which in triumph shall be seen, The flag for which those patriots fought, dear Ireland's flag of green. LARRY O'GAFF. Neak a bog in sweet Ireland, I am told, sure there lorn 1 was, Well I remember a bright Monday morn it was; My daddy, poor man, would cry: What a greenhorn I was — Three months I am married, hurrah! how thej laugh. Says he to my mother: Troth, Judy, I'll leav u joy. Says Judy to him: Oh! the devil may car< , my boy. By St. Patrick, I'll leave you both here to v ' cry, What shall we do for our daddy O'Gaff? With my didrewhack off I am, none of your blarney, man, Keep your brat to your chat all the day so you may; By the powers! I won't tarry; so he left little Larry, I never saw more of my daddy O'Gaff. Ocli! it's then I grew up, and a sweet looking child I was, Always the devil for handling the stick I wis; But somehow or other, my numbskull so thick it was. Go where I would, all the folks they did laugh. I rambled to England, where I met with a squad of boys. They got me promoted to carry the hod, my boys; I crept up a ladder like a cat newly shod, my boys, A steep way to riches, says Larry O'Gaff. With my didrewhack in and out. head turning round about, Ladder crack, break your back, tumble down, crack your crown. My dear Mr. Larry, this hod that you carry Disgraces the shoulders of Mr. O'Gaff. 56 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. LARRY O'GAFF.— Continued. They made me a master, then dressed like a fop I was, Bran new and span new from bottom to top 1 was; dial the old fellow popt iii as taking a drop 1 was, Says he: Mr. Larry, you bog-trotting calf, Get out of my house, or I'll lay this about your back; With the twig in his hand like the mast of a herring smack, Over my napper he made the switch for to crack: Said ) : This don't suit you, Mr. O'Gaff. With my didrewhack hub bub bo, drums beating row de row, do's my life plays the fife, Patrick's day, lire away; in the army so frisky, we'll tipple the whisky, With the whack for ould Ireland and Larry O'Gaff. Then they made me a soldier, inut, oh! how genteel I was! 3i arlet and tapes from the neck to the heels I was; Larry, says I, when brought into the field I was, This sort of fighting don't suit you by half. We foughl like the devil, as Irishmen ought to do, So sweetly we beat Mr. Bony at Waterloo; But now the wars are over, and peace we've brought home to you, Welcome to old Ireland and Larry O'Gaff. With my didrewhack save my neck, round and sound free from wound, With a wife io spend my life, sport and play, night and day; Arrah with your blarney, for the breed of the Carneys, Would fight for old Ireland and Larry O'Gaff. YELLOW MEAL. As I walked one morning down by the Sligo dock, 1 overheard an Irishman conversing with Tapscott; Good morning, Mr. Tapscott, would you be after telling to me, Have you ever a ship bound for New York in the State of Amer- ikee? Oh, yes, my pretty Irish boy, I have a ship or two, They're laying at the wharf there, waiting for a crew; They are New York Packets, and on Friday they will sail, At present she is taking in one thousand bags of meal. Straightway then I started, 'twas on the yellow-grog road, Such roars of mille-murder ! oh, the like was never known; And there I paid my passage down in solid Irish gold. It's often times that I sat down and wished myself at home. The very day we started, 'twas on the first of May, The Captain he came upon the deck, these words to us did say: Cheer up, my hearty Irish blades, don't let your courage fail, To-day I'll serve you pork and beans, to-morrow yellow meal. One day as we were sailing- in the Channel of St. James, A northwest wind came up to us and drove u^ back again; Bad luck to the Josh. A. Walker, and the day that she set sail, Likewise to Captain Tapscott, and his dirty- yellow meal. And then I went to Liverpool, walking thro' the street. a penny in my pocket, not a mouthful lor to cat ; Bad luck to the Josh. A. Walker, and the day thai she set sail, the dirty sailors broke open my chest and stole my yellow meal. Bu1 now I'm in America, and working upon the canal. To cross the stream in one of these boats, I know I never shall; But I'll cross if in a greal big ship that carries both meat and sail. Where I'll get lashings of corned meat and none of your yellow meal ! HURLING OF THE GREEN. 'Twas night. On Antietam's height The weary warriors lav. Tired, where the long and bloody fight Had tried their worth that day. Darkness had stilled the strife's alarm, Though streams of life-blood yet were warm, Where the drowsy out-post sank, And shook his sleeping comrade's arm: " You're surely dreaming, Frank.'' The startled sleeper gazed toward The camp-fire's waning glow; "Where are we?" "Here on the sloping sward; And the beaten foe below." "'Thunder! I dreamed of Ireland, lad, And a hurling-match." " Well, our foes have had Full plenty of that I ween." " But I dreamed we to^ed the ball like mad On a fair broad Irish green." " Ah, Frank, full many a ball we've hurled, And many a head to-day. The game we've played with our flag unfurled Is the game / love to play ; When that glorious flag at our front floats out, And with rifle clubbed, and with ringing shout, We spring 'neath its emerald sheen. And scatter the foes like a rabble-rout, On the crimson-dappled green! " " Shall we ever again see Ireland, Frank, And play upon Irish ground, This glorious game, where our brethren sank In the death of the starved hound? On our side Erinn,* our island mother. Each hurler true as a sworn brother; Blither game had ne'er been seen Than I hope to play some day or other To the goal of an Irish green! " The foe was gone with the morning's light, And the flag of emerald hue Waved proudly above the wooded height, Begemmed with the morning's dew". And o'er many a fight did that banner wave, And o'er many an Irish warriors grave Its mourning folds were seen : — But how many of all that phalanx brave Will again see an Irish green? * Lire ar taev-ne ; a frequent cry at Irish hurline matches ° THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL. Tiiere's a lofty love abounding In the emblem of a land ; There's fellowship confounding The evil mind and hand : In the token of a nation. In the llow'rel of a race: And a multiform oblation Is uplifted by the grace And patriotism of millions — To the hearthstones and hamlets Where gush the native fountains; To the valleys and the streamlets, The cities and the mountains — With a pride as high as I lion's! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 57 THE SHAMRI »CK AND LAUREL— Continued. As the lily was the glory 01 the olden Hag of France; As the rose illumes the story Of the Albion's advance — In the shamrock is communion Of all Irish faith and love; And the laurel crown-, the union Of grandeurs interwove 'Round the temple of the chain! - To the laurel fill libation.-, The cup with shamrocks wreathing; And before the monarch-nations Raise the symbol, breathing: "Equal Rights"— to lordlings gainless! Interweave the lowly shamrock, Freedom's laurel to endow ; Ay ! unite with Ireland s shamrock Columbia's laurel bough — For there's hope and help unchary Columbia's skies beneath, And from every cliff and prairie, To Erin's hills of heath, Salutations, clear and cheerful, Resound across the ocean ; And Celts, in might increasing. With patriot emotion, Vow in their souls unceasing: " We'll avenge thee, Mother Tearful ! " THE DEAR IRISH BOY. May Connor's cheeks are as ruddy as morn ; The brightest of pearls but mimic his teeth; While nature with ringlets his mild brow adorn, His hair's Cupid's low strings, and roses his breath. Chortjs. Smiling, beguiling, cheering, endearing, Together oft o'er the mountain we've strayed ; By each other delighted, and fondly united, I've listened all day to my dear Irish boy. No roebuck more swift can flee o'er the moun- tain, No Briton bolder 'midst danger or scar; He's sightly, he's rightly, he's as clear as the fountain, His eye's twinkling love, and he's gone to the war. The soft tuning lark its notes sh'al cease to mourning, The dull screaming owl shall cease its night's sleep ; While seeking lone walks in the shades of the evening. If my Connor return not, I'll ne'er cease to weep. The war is all over, and my love is not return- ing, I fear that some envious plot has been laid; Or some cruel goddess has him captivated, And left r.,c to mourn here, a dear Irish maid. THAT ROGUE, REILLY. There's a boy that follows me every day, although he declares that 1 use him vilely, But all 1 can do he won't go away, this obstinate, ranting Reillyj In every streel 'tis him I meet, in vain the byway path 1 try, The very shadow of my feet, 1 might as well attempt to fly, As that boy that follows me every day, although he declare: J usi' him vilely. Yet all 1 can say he won't go away, that raking, ranting l: ■ My mother she sent me ten miles away in hopes that the t How would never find me ; But the verj' next day we were making hay the villain stood close behind me; For this, says I. you shall dearly pay, how dare you such a free- dom take? Says he, I heard you were making hay, and I thought, my dear, you'd want a rake ; And therefore I followed you here to-day with your diamond eye and your point, Like a needle concealed in a bundle of hay, but I found you out, said Reilly. I told him at last, in a rage, to pack, and then for a while he fought more shyly ; But, like a bad shilling, he soon came back, that counterfeit rogue, that Reilly. To hunt me up he takes disguise, one day a beggar wem-h appears. 'Twas that rogue himself, but I knew his eyes, and didn't I box the rascal's ears? Yet still he keeps following every day, plotting and planning no cute and slyly, And there isn't a fox more tricks can plav than raking, ranting Reilly. A nunnery, now, my old maiden aunt, declares for young women the best protection, But shelter so very secure I can't consider without objection. A plague on the fellows, both great and small, they bother us so till they find a wife. Yet if we should never be bothered at all I think 'twould be rather a stupid life ; So the rogue still follows me every day and I continue to use him vilely, But the neighbors all say till I'm turn'd to clay I'll never get rid of Reilly. THE IRISH WEDDING. Sure won't you hear what roaring cheer was spread at Paddy's wedding, O? And how so gay they spend the day from churching to the bed- uing, 0? First, book in hand, came Father Quipes with the bride's dadda, the bailie, 0, While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O. Tiddery, teddery, etc. Now there was Mat and sturdy Pat and merry Morgan .Miir;>liy ". And Murdock Maggs, and Tirlogh Shaggs, McLoughlin and Di .. Durfy, 0; And then the girls, rigged out in white, led on by Ted O'Rily. ' While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lill - gaily. O. When Pal was asked if his love would last, the chapel echoed v. ' laughter, O. By my soul, says Pat, you may say that to the end of the world a nd after, O. Then tenderly her hand lie gripes and kisses her genteely, O. While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O. 53 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE IRISH WEDDING— Continued. Then a roaring sel at dinner met, so frolicksome and so frisky. <>. Potatoes galore a skirrig or more with a flowing madder of w hisky, 0. ; Then around, to be sure, didn't go the wipes, at the bride- e\ pense so freely, 0, While the chaunter with the merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily O. And then at night, oh, what delight to see them capering and prancing, 0, An opera or ball were nothing at all compared to the style ol their dancing, 0; And then to see old Father Quipes beating time with his shillelan, While the chaunter with the merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, C. And now the lot so tipsy are got, they'll go to sleep without rock- ing. ('. While the bridesmaids fair so gravely prepare for the throwing of the stocking, O; Decadorous we'll nave, says Father Quipes, then the bride was kissed round, genteely, O; While to wish them good night, the merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O. THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. Full often when our fathers saw the red above the green, They rose in rude but fierce array, with saber, pike, and skian, And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead, They proudly set the Irish green above the English red. But in the end, throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen — The English red in triumph high above the Irish green; But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled, Still saw the* green maintain its place above the English red. And they who saw, in after times, the red above the green, Were withered as the grass that dies beneath the forest screen; Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed. That, in some day to come, the green should nutter o"er the red. Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene — Because they could not bear to leave the red above the green; And 'twas for this Owen fought and Sarsfield nobly bled — Because their eyes were hot to see the green above the red. So when the strife began again, our darling Irish green Was down upon the earth, while high the English red was seen; Yet. still we hold our fearless course, for something in us said, Before the strife is o'er you'll see the green above the red. And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean, That we may pull the English red below the Irish green; And leave our sons sweel liberty and smiling plenty spread, Above the land once dark with blood — the green above the red. The jealous English tyrant now has banned th'' Irish green, And forced us to conceal it like a so aetl ing foul ami mean; But yet, bj heaven! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead. Than force our hearts to leave the green and cotton to the red. We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blessi s those who lean i'u their brave hearts, and not upon an earthlj king or queen; And, freely as we lift our hands we vow our blood to shed, Once and forever more to raise the green above the red. •■ STAMPING OUT." Ay. stamp awaj ! I an you stamp it out— This quenchless fire of a nation's freedom! Your feet are broad ami youi >'t» But stouter for this you'll ni You have -tamped away for -i\ hundred years, But again and again the Old Cause rallies, Bikes gleam in the hands of our mountains - And with scythes come the men from our valleys ; The st( el-clad Norman as he roams Is faced b\ our naked gallowglasses, We lost the plains and our pleasant homes, But we held the hills and passes! And still the beltane fires at n If not a man were left to feed em — Bv widows' hands piled high and bright, 'Flashed far the llame of Freedom! Ay. stamp away! Can you stamp it out, *0r how have' your brutal arts been baffled? You have wielded the power of rope and knot, Fire, dungeon, sword and scaffold. But still, as from each martyr's hand The Fiery Cross fell down in fighting, A thousand sprang to seize the brand. Our beltane fires relighting! And once again through Irish night-. O'er every dark hill redly streaming, And numerous as the heavenly li Our rebel tires wen- gleaming! And though again might fail that flame, Quenched in the blood of its devoted. Fresh chieftains 'rose, fresh clansmen came, And again the Old Flag floated! > That fire will burn, that ilag will float. By Virtue nursed, by Valor tended — Till with one fierce clutch upon your throat Your Moloch reign is ended! It may be now. or it may be then, That the hour will come we h; ve hoped for ages — But. failing and failing, we try again. And again the conflict rages. Our bate though hot is a patient hate. Deadly and patient to catch you tripping — And your years are many, your crimes are great. And the scepter is from you slipping. But stamp away with your brutal hoof, While tin' tires to scorch you are upward cleaving. For. with bloody shuttles, the warp and wool" Of your shroud the Fates are weaving! THE PRETTY MAID MILKING HER COW. Ir being on a fine summer's morning, A- birds sweetly tuned on each bough, I heard a fair maid sing most charming. As -hi' sit a -milking h.r cow. Ho is enchanting — melodious, Which left me scarce able to goj My hear! it was soothed in solace, Bj the pretty maid milking her cow. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 50 PRETTY MAID MILKING HER COW.— Continued. With courtesy I did salute her; " Good-morrow, most amiable maid, I am your captive slave for the future." " Kind sir, do not banter," she said, " I am not such a precious rare jewel, That I should enamour you so; I am but a plain country girl! " Said this pretty maid milking her cow. " The Indies afford no such jewel, So precious and transparent clear; Oh! do not refuse to be my jewel, But consent and love me, my dear. Take pity and grant my desire. And leave me no longer in woe; Oh! love me or else I'll expire, Sweet colleen dhas cruthin amoe." " I don't understand what you mean, sir, I never was a slave yet to love ; These emotions I cannot experience, So, I pray, these affections remove. To marry, 1 can assure you, That state I will not undergo; So, young man, I pray, you will excuse me ! " Said this pretty maid milking her cow. "Had I the wealth of great Omar, Or all on the African shore ; Or had I great Devonshire's treasure, Or had I ten thousand times more; Or had I the lamp of Aladdin, And had I his genius also, I'd rather live poor on a mountain With colleen dhas cruthin amoe.'' * I beg you withdraw and don't tease me, I cannot consent unto thee ; I prefer to live single and airy Till more of the world I see. New cares they would me embarrass, Beside, sir, my fortune is low; Until I get rich I'll not marry! " Said the colleen dhas cruthin amoe. " A young maid is like a ship sailing, She don't know how long she may steer; For in every blast she is in danger, So consent and love me, my dear. Tor riches I care not a farthing, Your affection I want, and no more; In wedlock I wish to bind you. Sweet colleen dhas cruthin amoe." ERIX. When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, ■God bless'd the green island, and saw it was good; The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone. In the ring of the world, the most precious stone. In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest, With her back towards Britain, her face to the West, Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore, And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar. BRENNEN ON THE MOOR. It's of a fearless Irishman, a long story I shall I ell, lli> name is Willie Brennen, in Ireland he did dwell; It was on the Calvert Mountains he commenced his hellish career, Where many a wealthy gentleman before him shook with fear. CHORUS Brennen on the moor, Brennen on the moor, Bold and undaunted, stood Brennen on the moor. A brace of loaded pistols he carried with him each day; He never robbed a poor man upon the Queen's highway ; For what he'd taken from the rich, like Turpin and black Bess, He always did divide it with the widows in distress. One night he robbed an Irishman by the name of Juler Bawn, They traveled on together till the day began to dawn ; The Juler found his money gone, likewise his watch and chain,. He at once encountered him and robbed him back again. When Willie found the packman was as good a man as he, He took him on the highway his companion for to be; The Juler threw away his pack without any more delay, And he proved a faithful comrade amidst his Agnus-dei. One day upon the highway, as Willie he sat down, He met the Mayor of Cashil a mile outside the town ; The Mayor he knew his features — I think, .young man. said he, That your name is Willie Brennen, you must toaie along witl me. Willie's wife, she being in town provisions for to buy, When she saw her Willie she began to weep and cry; I wish he handed me the temperers ; as soon as Willie spoke, She handed him a blunderbuss from underneath her cloak. It's with this loaded blunderbuss, the truth I will unfold, He made the Mayor to tremble and robbed him of his gold; One hundred pounds he offered for his apprehension there, And he with horse and saddle to the mountains then repaired.. Willie, being an outlaw upon the mountains high, With cavalry and infantry to take him they did try; He laughed at them with scorn, until at length did say: Ah ! a false-hearted young woman did basely me betray. In the county of Tipperary, in a place called Clonmoro, Brennen and his comrade was made to suffer sore; He lay amongst the briars, that grew thick upon the field, And he received nine wounds before that he would yield. They were taken prisoners, in irons they were bound, Conveyed to Clonmel jail, and strong walls did them surrouml ; The jury found them guilty, the Judge made this reply: For robbing on the Queen's highway, you're both condemned to die. Farewell unto my wife, and you my children three! And you my aged father, that may shed tears for me! And you my loving mother, tore her gray locks and cried: It were better, Willie Brennen, in your cradle Agall Chigh! <50 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. ERIN.— Contimu d But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to A PRIVATE STILL. we< p, The dark chain of Lie c is thrown o'er the dei At the thought of the j ast the tears gush from her i\ es, And the pulse of her heart makes her while bosom rise. O! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the times, When religion was war, and our country a crime, When man, in God's image, inverted his plan, And moulded his God in the image of man. When the int'rest of state wrought the gen- eral woe, The stranger a friend, and the native a foe; While the mother rejoie'd o'er her children op- pressed, And clasped the invader more close to her breast. When with pale for the body and pale for the soul Church and state joined in compact to conquer the whole; And as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, Ey'd each other askance and pronounced it was good. By the groans that ascend from your fore- fathers' grave, For the country thus left to the brute and the slave, Drive the Demon of Bigotry home to his den, And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make men. Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, A partition of sects from one footstalk of right, Give each his full share of the earth and the sky. Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die. Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen, Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to Green ; Yet, oh! when you're up and they're down, let them live, Then yield them that mercy which they would not give. Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as brave! And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save! Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle. I I cause it is good, and the men they are 1 rue, And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue! triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share, i h the full swelling chest, and the fair ilow- liair. ; o c a heaves high for the worthy and brave. : rd shall rest in that soft-swel i' in! awake, and make haste to the bli st, > ( i of the Ocean and Queen of the West! An exciseman, once, in Dublin, at the time that 1 was there, acied that a private still was being worked somewhere; He met me out one morning, perhaps he fancied that I knew, But 1 didn't: Never mind that, says he, Pat, how do you Saya 1 : I'm very well, your honor, but allow me for to B i\ . I don't know you at all, by jove! But, says he, but, perhaps, you may! I want to find a something out, assist me if you will, Here's fifty pounds if you can tell me where's a private still. Give me the fifty pounds, says I, upon my soul ! I can, I'll keep my word, the devil a lie, as I'm an Irishman! The fifty pounds he then put down, I pocketed the fee. Said !: Now, button up your coat and straightway follow me. i took him walking up the street, and talking all the while, He little thought I'd got lo take him a thund'ring many miles. Says he: How much further, Pat? for I am getting very tired. Said I: Then let us have a car. And a jaunting ear he hired. As soon as we got in the car, said he: Now tell me. Pat. Where is this blessed private still? don't take me for a Hat. A flat! jour honor, no! says I, but hear me. if you will. And I, at once, will tell you, sir, where there's a private still. Go on at once, says he. Says 1 : All right, now mark me well, I nave a brother that is close by here, in the barracks he does dwell ; I assure you he's a soldier, though he went against his will. The devil take your brother! says he, where's the private still? Hold your wist ! say r s I, old chap ! and I will plainly show That in the army, why, of course, promotion is very slow. Said the exciseman, Yes, I'm sure it is they're only meant to kill; But never mind your brother, tell me where's the private still? Said I, I'm coming to it; the barrack's close at hand, And, if you look straight thro' the gates you'll see and hear the band, And when the band's done playing, you'll see the soldiers drill. The blazes take the soldiers! tell me, where's the private still? Half a minute more, says I, I'll point him out to you. Faith! there he is, says I, old chap, standing 'twixt them two! Who the blazes do you mean? said he. I said: My brother Bill. Well! says he. Well, says I, they won't make him a corporal, so he's a private still! The exciseman stamped and — and said he'd have his money back, But I jumped in the car myself, and off was in a crack! And the people, as he walked along, tho' much against his will. Shout after him: Exciseman, have you found the private still? TERRY O'RANN. Terry O'Raxn was a fine young man, and from a boy it was his joy To tipple and drink, and lovingly wink at all the gay lasses in Derry; And when his first love he was making, the girls for him hail such a taking, if he'd just wink his eye. och, wouldn't they sigh, you'd think all their backs was a-breaking. He took whisky punch every night to his lunch, all the. thoughts of his love to bury. And then he would roam far away from hi>. home, to the g of the lasses of Deny. Pay and night 'twas his delight to play this game, without any shame. Till stopped by death, which took his breath, and killed him with whisky in Derry ; liis loss to the lasses was grievous, but from death there is nothing can save us, SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. CI TERRY O'BANN.— Continued. And every soul in terror did howl, saying, Och, Terry, why did ye hive US? That night at the wake every head it did ache, and when they went with the coffin to bury, A crowd was seen that covered the green in the black-looking churchyard in Derry. The Mayor of the town was a man of renown, he was a shoe- maker, a tailor, A baker, a doctor besides, and undertaker to all the people in Derry ; And when they were all merry making, himself to his bed he was taking. When Terry's dead ghost stood at his bedpost, says he: Tis a shame to the waking. Nor I don't ask your lave to come from the grave, your conduct is shocking, och, very. 1 say to your face, you must alter my case, or I'll tell all the people in Deny. I was buried to-day, but where I lay the ground was damp and gave me the cramp. All over my body the wet did get, there was water enough for a ferry ; And besides my feelings to harrow, I was doubled up as if in a barrow, I was wedged in tight-bound, I couldn't turn 'round, my coffin was too devilish narrow. It was made of bad stuff, not half long enough, and as sure as my name it is Terry, I will not lay quiet, but I'll kick up a riot, I'll haunt all the people in Derry. Pray, says the Mayor, now take a chair, if you'll allow, I'll meas- ure you now, For a new coffin, longer and broader and stronger, if that'll make your heart merry; Then the ghost brightened up in a jiffy, his frolicksome spirits grew frisky. Says he: With pleasure, you make take my measure, and I'll take a measure of whisky ; For you needn't be told that the grave's very cold, and doesn't agree with poor Terry. I'm a comical elf, so I'll drink a good health to all the live lasses in Derry. While the bottle and glass merrily pass, and Terry was ripe for a song or a fight, The clock struck one, and ended the fun of the frolicksome corpse of poor Terry; For the sound of the clock was a warning that no ghost e'er was scorning. So tipsy and drunk away he slunk to get into his grave before morning. But the old women say that he missed his way, for the coffin they did bury Was quite empty found in the turned-up ground, to the grief of the lasses in Derry. The truth to suppose, for there's nobody knows, the ghost ran hard to gain the churchyard. But to his distress he got into a mess by meeting some black- guards in Derry ; Surrounded in every direction, no shillelah had he for protection, So they, in a crack, popped him in a sack and carried him off for dissection. He told all the house he was but a poor ghost, but they wouldn't believe him, poor Terry. With hearts hard as stones, cut the flesh off his bones, and an- atomised Terry of Derry. MRS. MCLAUGHLIN'S TARTY. Ould Ireland is the place for a frolic, The boys and the girls are frisky; They never can feel melancholic, They're the divils for tippling the whisky. For a row or a ruction, oh, murther! The boys they go in strong and hearty ; Now I'll tell yez, before I go further, Of Mrs. McLaughlin's party. Chorus. Whoo! it's welt the flure, Peter O'Dohcrty, Shake your leg, Biddy McCarty; Dance to your partners, ye divils, At Mrs. McLaughlin's party. Moll Dolan, a buxom young eraythur, Had lately been raising my dandher; 1 met her going down to McGuffin s To bony the loan of a gandher. The gandher the geese had been eoorting, She sould it to Paddy McCarty; To buy her a pair of white slippers To go to McLaughlin's party. For a week or two I was preparing, Determined in style for to shank it ; Put a pair of new tails to my coat With a piece I cut off the blanket. I turned the corduroy breeches I borrowed from Phelim O'Flaherty; And I put a new patch on the sate, For to cut a big swell at the party. They hired a fiddler and piper, An' stuck them on top of a barrel, With a jug full of whisky between 'em, To kep them from having a quarrel. When the piper struck up " G-arryowen," Faix! the tiddler another tune started : And they welted the soles oft' their brogues, Whoo! at Mrs. McLaughlin's party. Tim Fagin got up for a reel, But he jigged it on every one's corns; To try for to stop him was worse Than to take a mad bull by the horns. He skinned Dinny Haggerty's shins. Tore the skirts off Winny O'Doherty; And exposed the dear crathur's fat limbs To all the gay boys at the party. Now while they were dancing and jigging, Tom Cassidy burst in the dure, sir; Thin the ducks and the dhrakes and the pigs, They came all Hying in on the flure, sir. The ould sow it set up a-grunting, The girls laughed merry and hearty: While the pig balancayed down the middle, At Mrs. McLaughlin's party. Thin the party was brought to an ending, The fiddler fell drunk from the table; Thy carried him home on a shutter, Tore off the dure of the stable. 'We'd an elegant fight on the way With a faction from Ballvkillartv; And I'll be d — d if we hadn't to pay For the frolic we had at the party. 62 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. BACON AND GREENS. I have lived long enough to be rarely mistaken, | And had my full share of life"s changeable scene ; But my woes have been solaced by good greens and bacon, And my joys have been doubled by bacon and greens. What a thrill of remembrance e'en now they awaken Of childhood's gay morning and youth's merry scenes — When one day, we had greens and a plateful of bacon, When one day we had greens and a plateful of greens ! Ah! well I remember, when, sad and forsaken. Heart-wrung by the scorn of a miss in her teens, How I fled from her sight to my loved greens and bacon, And forgot my despair over bacon and greens. When the banks refused specie, and credit was shaken, I shared in the wreck, and was ruined in means; My friends all declared I bad not saved my bacon, But I lived — for I still had my bacon and greens. If some fairy a grant of three wishes could make one So worthless as I and so laden with sins ; I'd wish all the greens in the world — then the bacon — And then wish for a little more bacon and greens. Oh! there is a charm in the dish, rightly taken, That from custards and jellies an epicure weans ; Stick your fork in the fat, wrap your greens round your bacon, And you'll vow there's no dish like good bacon and greens. KATE OF KILLASHEE. Bright are the heath-blossoms on Beara's mountain brown, And bright the waves of Camolin that roll past Longford town ; But the brighter still than flower or rill, and lovelier far is she, The pride and boast of Longford, fair Kate of Killashee. Sweet is the rippling laughter, the music of the tongue, Like some old Irish melody by siren played or sung; And like the sunny waters that go dancing to the sea, In light and beauty beaming, is Kate of Kil- lashee. TEDDY O'MONAGHAN'S COURTSHIP. I first courted Judy Magrah at her mother's, She had two tine black eyes and she gave me two others, When swate Peggy Nolan stole from her the heart of me, And vowed, all for love, Judy should have no part of me. When tall Katty caught me, Peg 'gan to pout at that, But Katty cried: Peggy, you cratur, come out o' that! Yet cut out was Katty by Shelah O'Donaghan — The cratur'a now mad after Teddy O'Monaghan. Chorus. Whack row de row, etc. Then Molly Maloney she threw a sheep's eye at me Which made Biddy Byrne most voraciously lly at uie; Teddy, said she, I've the vows had before you! Said I: For me, dying in love there's a score of you, But 1 am not the grand Turk, so, I only can marry one. Said she: That's myself — oh! (said I) dot and carry one; Biddy, my darling, you tricked Pat O'Ronaghan, But your capers won't carry with Teddy OMonaghan. Chorus. Whack row de row, etc. Then Norah ONeil to my mug took a fancy, But Phelim O'Foy had a daughter called Nancy, Whose nose was so beautiful, I thought my lot was cast; But Shelah Macshane put her nose out of joint at last. Shelah oft vowed she no falsehood could harbor, But slipped oil, like soap, with a bothering barber ; I lathered the barber, one Mr. O'Gonaghan. As a hint to the rivals of Teddy O'Monaghan. WIDOW MALONE. Did you hear of the Widow Malone, ohone '. Who lived in the town of Athlone, ohone! 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; 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 Mistress Malone, 'twas known, That no one 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 Mister O'Brien, from Clare — how quare! It's little for blushing they care down there, Put his prm round her waist — gave ten kisses at laste — "Oh," ays ho. "you're my Molly Malone, my own! Oh," says he, " you're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy. my eye! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, for Why 1 "But, Lucius," says she. " since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, ohone! You may many your Mary Malone." SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 63 KATE OF KILLASHEE.— Continued. How bright her blushing glances of love when- e'er we met. Like rainbow tints upon the rose with dew of morning wet, And bright the love-light shining from her eyes of hazel brown — Oh! she's the star of Leinster, the pride of Longford town. Pair Kate, 'tis mine to wander afar from Erin's strand — Alone beside the Hudson's wave, within the strangers' land ; But backward ever flies my heart to home and love and thee — To Longford's pleasant valleys and the Rose of Killashee. DRINANE DHUN. Of late I'm captivated by a handsome young man, I'm daily complaining for my own darling John ; I'll be roving all day until night does come on, And I'll be shaded by the green leaves of the Drinane Dhun. Next fair day I'll get a fairing from my hand- some young man. Twenty bright kisses from my own darling John ; Confuse them, consume them that say I'm not true, Through green proves and lofty mountains I'll rove with you. My love is far fairer than a fine summer day, His breath is far sweeter than the new mown hay; His hair shines like gold when exposed to the sun, He is fair as the blossom of the Drinane Dhun. My love his is going to cross over the main, May the Lord send him safe to his virtuous love again; He is gone and he's left me in grief for to tell, O'er the green hills and lofty mountains be- tween us to dwell. I wish I had a small boat on the ocean to float, I'd follow my darling wherever he did resort ; I'd sooner have my true love to roll, sport and play, Than all the golden treasure by land or by sea. I'm patiently waiting for my true love's return, And for his long absence I'l ne'er cease to mourn ; I'll join with the sweet birds till the summer comes on To welcome the blossoms of the Drinane Dhun. Come, all you pretty fair maids, get married in time To some handsome young man that will keep up your prime ; Beware of the winter morn, cold breezes come, Which will consume the blossoms early of the Drinane Dhun. THE WEDDING OF BALLYPOREEN. Descend, ye chaste nine, to a true Irish bard, You're old maids, to be sure, but he sends you a card, To beg you'll assist a poor musical elf, With a song ready-made, he'll compose it himself; About maids, boys, a priest, and a wedding, With a crowd you could scarce thrust your head in ; A supper, good cheer, and a bedding, which happened at Bally- poreen. 'Tvvas a fine summer's morn, about twelve in the day, All the birds fell to sing, all the asses to bray, When Patrick, the bridegroom, and Oonagh, the bride, In their best bibs and tuckers, set off, side by side. O, the pipers play'd fust in the rear, sir, The maids blushed, the bridesmen did swear, sir; O, Lord! how the spalleens did stare, sir, at this wedding of Ballyporeen. They were soon tacked together, and home did return. To make merry the day at the sign of the churn; When they sat down together, a frolicsome troop, O, the banks of old Shannon ne'er saw such a group. There were turf-cutters, threshers, and tailors, With harpers, and pipers, and nailors, And pedlers, and smugglers, and sailors, assembled at Ballyporeen. There was Bryan MacDermot and Shaughnessy's brat, With Terence and Triscol, and platter-faced Pat; There was Norah Macormic and Bryan O'Lynn, And the fat, red-haired cook-maid, who lives at the inn. There was Shelah, and Larry, the genius, With Pat's uncle, old Derby Dennis ; Black Thady and crooked Macgennis, assembled at Ballyporeen. Now the bridegroom sat down to make an oration, And he charmed all their souls with his kind botheration; They were welcome, he said, and he swore, and he cms d, They might eat till they swelled, and might drink till they bur&t. The first christening I have, if I thrive, sirs, I hope you all hither will drive, sirs; You'll be welcome all, dead or alive, sirs, to the christening at Ballyporeen. Then the bride she got up to make a low bow, But she twittered, and felt so — she could not tell how — She blushed and she stammered — the few words she let fall, She whispered so low that she bothered them all. But her mother cried: "What, are you dead, child? O, for shame of you, hold up your head, child; Though sixty, I wish I was wed, child, oh, I'd rattle all Bally- poreen." Now they sat down to meat — Father Murphy said grace, Smoking hot were the dishes, and eager each face; The knives and forks rattled, spoons and platters did play, And they elbowed and jostled, and wollopd away. Rumps, chines, and fat sirloins did groan, sirs. Whole mountains of beef were cut down, sirs; They demolished all to the bare bone, sirs, at this wedding at Ballyporeen. There was bacon and greens, but the turkey was spoiled, Potatoes dressed both ways, both roasted and boiled ; Hog's puddings, red herrings — the priest got the snipe, Culcannon pies, dumpling, cod, cow-heel and tripe. Then they ale till they could eat no more, sirs, And the whisky come pouring galore, sirs; Such piping, such figuring and dancing, was ne'er known at Bally- poreen. 64 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE WEDDING OF BALLYPOREEN.— Con tinued. Now the wbiskj wenl round, and the Bongsters did roar Tim sung " Paddy O'Kelly," Nell sung » Molly Asthore; Till a motion was made that their songs they d forsake, And each lad take his sweetheart, their trotters to shake. Then the piper and couples advancing, Pumps, brogues, and bare feel fell a-prancing; Such piping, such figuring and dancing, was ne'er known at Ballp- poreen. low to Patrick, the bridegroom, and Oonagh, the bride, Let the liarp of old Ireland be sounded with pride ; (ml to all the brave guests, young or old, -ray or green, Drunk or sober, that jigged it at Ballyporeen. And when Cupid shall lend you his wherry, To triii o'er the conjugal terry, 1 wish you may be halt" so merry as we were at Ballyporeen. BRYAN O'LYNN. Bhtax O'Lynh was a gentleman born, He lived at a time when no clothes they were worn: But as fashions walked out. of course, Bryan walked in— " Whoo! I'll soon lead the fashions," says Bryan O Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn had no breeches to wear, He got a sheep skin for to make him a pair; With the fleshy side out, and the woolly side in— " Whoo ! they're pleasant and cool," says Bryan O Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn had no shirt to his back. He went to a neighbor's and borrowed a sack : Then he puckered the meal bag up under his chin— " Whoo ! they'll take them for ruffles," says Bryan O'Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn had no hat to his head, He stuck oil the pot, being up to the dead; Then he murdered a cod for the sake of its fin — - Whoo! 'twill pass for a feather,'' says Bryan O'Lynn. Brvan O'Lynn was hard up for a coat, He borrowed a skin of a neighboring goat, With the horns sticking out from his oxters, and then — "Whoo! they'll take them for pistols," says Bryan O'Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn had no stockings to wear. He bought a rat's skin t<> make him a pair: He then drew them over his manly shin — "Whoo! they're illegant wear," says Bryan O'Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn had no brogue to his to< S, He hopped in two crab shells to serve him for those; Then he split up two oysters that matched like twins — •Whoo! they'll shine out like buckles," says Bryan O'Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn had no watch to pul on. He scooped ou1 a turnip to make him a one: Then he planted a erieke! righl under the skin — " Whoo! they'll think it's a ticking," says Bryan O'Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn to his house had no door, He'd the sky for a roof, and the hog for a floor; He'd a way to jump out, and a way to swim in — "Whoo! it's very convaynient," says Bryan O'Lynn. Bryan O'Lynn, his wife, and wife's mother. They all went home o'er the bridge together: The bridge it broke down, and they all tumbled in — "Whoo! we'll go home by water," says Bryan O'Lynn. THE COOLl "X. Tin: scene is beside where the Avonmoie flows — Tis tie- spring of tie year, and the day's near its close; And an old woman sits wi h a boy on her knci — She smiles like the evening, but he like the lea! Her hair is as white as the flax ere it's It is brown as yon tree that is hiding the sun! de the bright The calm, glassy river, That's sliding ;.:i I glidu - ace- fully on. "Come, granny." the boy sa] -. "you'll sing me, I know, The beautiful Coolun, so sweet and so low: For 1 love its soft tones mere ; bird or thrush, Though often the tears in a will gush From my eyes when I hear it. D3ai say why. When my heart's full of pleasure, I seb and I i ry To hear the sweet Coolun — The beautiful Coolun— An angel first sank it above in the sky?" And she sings and he listens: but many years pass, And the old woman sleeps 'neath the chapel- yard grass; And a couple are seated upon the same stone, Where the boy sat and listened so oft to the crone — 'Tis the boy — 'tis the man. and he says \. he sighs. To the girl at his side with the love-streaming eyes, "O! sing me, sweet Oonagh. My beautiful Oonagh, 0! sing me the Coolun," Ik say- and he sigh.;. That air, mo stor, brings back the days of my youth. That Bowed like a river I any and smooth ! And it brings back the old woman, kindly and dear — If her spirit, dear Oonagh, is hovering near. 'Twill glad her to hear the old melody rise Warm, warm, on the wings of our love and our sighs — "0! sin- me the Coolun. The beautiful Coolun!" Is the dew or a tear-drop is moistening his eyes? There's a change on the scene fai more grand. far less fair — By the broad rolling Hudson are seated the pa i r : And the dark hemlock-fir waves its branches above. As they sigh for their land, as they murmur their love; Hush! — the heart hath been touched, and its musical strings SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 65 THE COOLUN.— Continued. Vibrate into song-'tis the Cochin she sings- The home-sighing Coolun, The love-breathing Coolun— The well of all memory's, deep-flowing springs. They think of the bright stream they sat down | When he" was a bridegroom and she was his! The pulseTof youth seem to throb in the Old facelTlong vanished, look kindly again- Kind SeJ «oat round them, and grand hills Their tatM not touched, ah. this many a y6 And, as ceases the Coolun. The home-loving Coolun, . i Not the air, but their native land faints | on the ear. Long in silence they weep, with hand clasped Then to God^nd up prayers for the far-off And .Se^rateful to Him for the blessings They Sow 'tisVis hand that withholdeth con- For thTihdle and Christian must evermore For the' home upon earth and the home in the j So they sing the sweet Coolun, The sorrowful Coolun, That murmurs of both homes— they Bing and they sigh. Heaven bless thee, Old Bard, in whose bosom were nurst Emotions that into such melody burst ! Be thy grave ever green!— may the softest of showers . , .., And brightest of beams nurse its grass and its flowers — , . , „ Oft oft, be it moist with the tear-drop of love, And may angels watch round thee, forever above ! Old Bard of the Coolun, The beautiful Coolun, That's sobbing, like Eire, with Sorrow and Love. \ BARNEY O'HEA. Now let me alone, though I know you won't, I know you won't, I know you won't ; Now let me alone, though I know you won t. Impudent Barney O'Hea. It makes me outrageous when you're so con- tagious — You'd better look out for the stout Corney Creagh! . For he is the boy that believes I m his joy- So you'd better behave yourself, Barney O'Hea. Impudent Barney, none of your blarney, Impudent Barney O'Hea. CUSHLA-MO-CIIKI'.K. 4r^tt;;rr^;r^ d ''-' Idlv the sweet birds around me are singing ; Summer, like winter, is cheerless to me; I S not if snow falls or tlow'rets are springing, For my heart's-light is darkened-my Cuahla-mo-chreel 0' bright shone the morning when first as my bride love, Thy foot, lik- a sunbe-un, my threshold cross do er, And West on our hearth fell that soft eventide love When first on my bosom thy heart lav, asthoie! Restlessly now, on my lone pillow turning, Weir the night-watehes, still thinking on thee ; Jd £rker than night, breaks the light of the mormng, For my aching eyes hnd thee not, Cushla-mo-chree! my loved one! my lost one! say, why didst thou leave me To linger on earth with my heart in the grave! O' would thv cold arms. love, might ope to receive me To mv rest 'neath the dark boughs that over thee wave. Still from our once happy dwelling 1 mam. love, Evermore seeking, my own bride, tor thee; Ah Mary! wherever thou art is my home, love, Ana I'll soon lie beside thee, my Cushla-m>chree! THE OLD BOG HOLE. Tttp nicr iq in the mire, and the cow is in the grass, Id TnanwithoiTa woman through this world will sadly pass; My mXr Tikes the ducks, and the ducks likes the drakes. Arrah! sweet Judy Flanagan, I'd die for your sakes. My Judy she's as fair as the flowers on the lea, She's neat and complete from the nick to the knee; We met the other night, our hearts to condole, And I set my Judy down by the old bog hole. CHORUS. A.rrah! cushla mavourneen, will you marry me? \rrah' "ramacree mavourneen, will you marry me? Arrah! cushla mavourneen. will you marry me? Arrah! would you fancy the bold, bouncing Barney Magee? Judy, she blushed, and she hung down her head Saying: Barney, you blackguard. I'd like to get wed. But vou are such a rogue, and you are such a rake; Don't believe it, says 1, it is all a mistake. I'll handle a hook, a shovel, and spade ; To kep you genteel, I'll work at my trade, And the turf I'll procure, which is better than coal, And I'll dig to my knees in the old bog hole. Fine children we will have, for you must mind that, 1 There will be Darby, Judy, Barney. Pat : i There will be Mary, so meek, and Kitty, so bluff, And— Stop, stop! she cries, have you not got enough.' 1 1 will not, says I, nor I won't be content, ' Till once I have as manv as there's days in Lent; I How the people they will stare when we go for a stroll, When we are promenading by the old bog hole. By the hokey, says she, I can scarcely refuse, For Barney the blarney he knows how to use; He has bothered my heart with the picture he has drawn, If I thought I could trust you the job might be done. Holy murthur! savs I, do vou doubt what I say, If I thought I could trust you, I'd swear half a day; Oh ! no, she says, it's of no use at all — I And she gave her consent by the old bog hole. VJ c>c, SOXGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. BARNEY O'HEA.— Continued. I hope you are not going to Brandon fair, To Brandon fair, to Brandon fair; For sure I'm not wanting to meet you there, Impudent Barney O'Hea. For Corney'a at Cork, and my brother's at work. And my mother sits spinning at home all the day, So no one will be there, of me to take care, And 1 hope you won't follow me, Barney ETea. Impudent Barney, none of your blarney, Impudent Barney O'Hea. When 1 got to the fair, sure the first I met 1 here, The first i met there, the first I met there — When 1 got to the fair, the first I met there, Was impudent Barney O'Hea. He bothered and teased me, though somehow he pleased me, Till at last — oh! the saints — what will poor Corney say! But I think the boy's honest, so on Sunday I've promised, For better or worse to take Barney O'Hea. Impudent Barney, so sweet was his blarney, Impudent Barney O'Hea. CORMAC. Och! Cormac O'Grady, do cease your wild talk- ing. Your likes at the blarney I niver did see; Your tongue's a machine that is always a-goin', And grindin' out nonsinse you're givin' to me; Your brain is asthray, and faith it's no wondher, — ■ Now will you behave yourself, Cormac, I say? Take your arm from my waisht — nodo; do you hear me? If you don't, 'pon my word I'll be goin' away. That's right now; be aisy, — hush! don't begin tilkim', t But listen, — I think I should now say a woTd; With your blather, and foolin', and nonsinse, and capers, t I can't find the manes for to make myself heard. Sit still now, — don't move, — if you do I'll be goin'; If you want to come 'round here, come dacintly, pray. You ought to get some one to tache you more manners ; Faith, whin you are married you'll not be so gay. Aha! buit it's thin you will sit in a corner, Wid niver a word comin' out of your mouth; If your wife don't conthrol you I'm greatly mistaken ; And larrup, and bate you, and bang you about ; Ha ! ha ! What a figure you'll make — gracious goodness! THE BIRTH OF IRELAND. " With due condescension, I'd call your attention to what I shall mention of Erin so green, And, without hesitation, I'll >how how that nation became, of creation, the gem and the queen. " 'Twas early one morning, without any warning, that Vanus was born in the beautiful Saj , And, by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking, her pini were soaking, and wouldn't give play. " Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, in order to woo her — the wicked old Jew — And almost had caught her atop of the water — great Jupiter's daughter! — which never would do! "' But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Vanus, and .\eptune so heinous pursuing her wild, And he spoke out in thunder he'd rend him asunder — and sure 'twas no wonder — for tazing his child. " A star that was flying hard by him espying, he caught with small trying and down let it snap: It fell quick as winking on Neptune a-sinking, and gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap. "That star it v:as dryland, both lowland and highland, ail formed a street island, the land of my birth: Thus plain is the story that, sent down from glory, old Erin asthore is the gem of the earth! "Upon Erin nately jumped Vanus so stately, but fainted kasc lately so hard she was pressed; Which much did bewilder, but, ere it had killed her, her father distilled her a drop of the best. " That sup was victorious ; it made her feel glorious — a little up- roarious, I fear it might prove — So how can you blame us that Ireland's so famous for drinking and beauty, for fighting and love?" AN IRISH GIRL'S OPINION. An Irish girl, and proud of it, a word I'd like to say About the state of Erin's isle, my native place, to-day; And those with Irish blood in them will understand me best, And feel for those poor peasants who are starving in the west — Rack-rented, oft evicted, and turned out in the snow; The sky their only shelter, not knowing where to go. 'Tis scenes like these that shake our faith in England and its throne ; Oh! is the good time coming when the land shall be our own? Chorus. For John Bull lives In England, Taffy lives in Wales, Sandy lives in Scotland, and weathers all the gales; Paddy fights for England, as everybody knows, Then give to him old Ireland where the shamrock grows. I've seen the big ship crowded and ready for to start, I've seen {lie aged mother from her only darling part; I've seen the bitter tears that fell upon the big ship's deck, From a soldier-lad whose new-made bride was clinging 'round his neck. In days gone by, they tell us, in story-book and rhyme, The hangman and his rope were very busy all the time; But, thanks to Dan O'Connell, whose picture yon have seen, There's not a pow'r can hang us now for wearing of the green. — Chorus. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 67 CORMAC— Continud. You mane man; how dar' you? how dar' you, I say? To kiss me so bouldly — well, well! but that's awful : — How dar' you act in such a hathenish way? Get up off your knees, you will soil your new throusers; What! marry you? well, but that bates all ari' all ; Don't you know you are axin' an impidint queshtion ? But I'll think, and I'll tell you the next time you call. Why! where are you goin'? Now sure you're not angry, — You know 'twas but jokin' the words that I said ; Here's my hand if you wish it, and Cormac, my darlin', I'll be yours till the sod closes over my head. Why r , Cormac — he's gone; — he has left me in anger, — I've druv him away; O what shall I do! But sure he'll come back — Saints in heaven for- give me! yes, he'll come back, he's too honest and thrue: — Who's that at the dure? Tis himself! O my darlin', Forgive me — 'twas wrong for to plague you, I know ; I'll marry you now, and o'erjoyed and con- tinted, I'll be as your spouse through life's journey to go. SONG OF INNISFAIL. They come from a land beyond the sea, And now o'er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, From the sunny land of Spain. " O, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams, Our destin'd home or grave?" Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, They swept the Atlantic wave. And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines A sparkle of radiant green, As though in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light through the wave was seen. "'Tis Innisfail— 'tis Innisfail! " Rings o'er the echoing sea; While bending to heav'n the warriors hail That home of the brave and free. Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave, Where now their Day-God's eye A look of such sunny omen gave As lighted up sea and sky. Nor frown was seen through sky or sea, Nor tear o'er leaf or sod, When first on their Isle of Destiny Our great forefathers trod. THE HUSBAND'S DREAM. Why, Dermot, you look healthy, now your dress is neat and clean, 1 never see you drunk about, oh, tell me where you've been; Your wife and family all are well, you once diu use them strange, Oh, you are kinder to them now, how came the happy change? it was a dream, a warning voice, which heaven sent to me, To snatch me from a drunkard's curse, grim want and misery; My wages were all spent in drink, oh, what a wretched view! 1 almost broke my Mary's heart, and starved my children, too. What was my home or wife to me? 1 heeded not her sigh, Her patient smile has welcomed me when tears bedimmed her eye; My children, too, have oft awoke, Oh, father, dear, they've said, Poor mother has been weeping so because we've had no bread. My Mary's form did waste away, I saw her sunken eye, On straw my babes in sickness laid, I heard their wailing cry; I laughed and sung in drunken joy r , while Mary's tears did stream, Then like a beast I fell asleep and had this warning dream: I thought I once more staggered home, there seemed a solemn gloom, I missed my wife, where can she be? and strangers in the room; Then 1 heard them say: Poor thing, she's dead, she led a wretched life, Grief and want has broken her heart — who'd be a drunkard's wife? T saw my children weeping 'round, I scarcely' drew my breath, They called and kissed her lifeless form forever stilled in death; Oh, father, come and wake her up, the people say she's dead, Oh, make her smile and speak once more, we'll never cry for bread. She is not dead, I frantic cried, and rushed to where she lay, And madly kissed her once warm lips, forever cold as clay; Oh, Mary, speak once more to me, no more I'll cause you pain, No more I'll grieve jour loving heart, nor ever drink again. Dear Mary, speak, 'tis Dermot calls. Why, so I do, she cried, I awoke, and true, my Mary, dear, was kneeling at my side ; I pressed her to my throbbing heart, while joyous tears did stream, And ever since I've heaven blessed for sending me that dream. TIPPERARY. Were you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien? 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground — God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found? They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye: But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie. Oh! no, machusla storin! bright, bright, and warm are you, With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and your country true. And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who has brought it there — Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair; You've a hand for the grasp of friendship — another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to take. Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before our eyes? Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and prize? 68 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. ROSANNA CARNEY. Is there am in love? If so, you When I say I s young girl, And her age it is sweel seventeen. When Cupid his arrow did fire, It struck my heart, but thai didn't harm me; The girl that 1 fondly admire Is the elegant Rosanna Carney. Chorus. Handsome and tall, waist very small, Brim lull of real Irish blarney ; The bells they will ring, the birds they will sing, The morn I wed Rosanna Carney. Her father is a man of great wealth, And climbed up the ladder of lame; Some say he carried a hod — There's lots of good men done the same. And brim full of real Irish blarney; His daughter's the hard-working girl, All the dudes down our street aie in love With the elegant Rosanna Carney. THE SHILLALEH. On the beautiful banks of the Shannon There grows such an illigant tree, And the fruit that it bears is shillaleh, I've a sprig of it here, you may see. 'Tis the remnant of all my large fortune, It's the friend that ne'er played me a trick, And I'd rather lose half my supportin' Than part with this illigant stick. It's the porter that etrried my luggage, For I've shouldered it many a mile. And from thieve.- it will safely protect me, In a beautiful delicate style. It is useful for rows in the summer. And when winter comes on with a storm, If you're short of a fire in the cabin, You can burn it to keep yourself warm. It 'a a friend both so true and so constant, Its constancy pen cannot paint; For, it always is there, when it's wanted, And sometimes it's there when it ain't. It beats all your guns and your rifles ; For, it goes off whene'er you desire. And it's sure to hit whate'er it's aimed at — For, shillalehs they- never miss fire. It's a talisman so upright and honest, Twenty shillings it pays to the pound: So if ever it gets you in debt, sir. You are sure to be paid, I'll be bound. It never runs up a long score, sir, In trade it's not given to fail, There's no danger of its being insolvent; For, it always pays down on the nail. And, faith! at an Irish election, An argument striking it's there; For with brickbats and sprigs of the Shannon, We see things go all right and square. It's then there's no bribery at all, sir, They vote as they like, every soul; But it's no use opposing shillaleh. Or it's sure to come down on the poll. THE BANKS OF SWEET DUNDEE. It is of a farmer's daughter so beautiful I'm told, Her parents died and left her a large amount in gold; She lived '.villi her mule, the cause of all her woe, But you soon shall hear this maiden fair did prove his overthrow. Her uncle had a plow-boy young Mary loved quite well, \ ii- 1 in her uncle's e.aiden their tales of love would tell; There was a wealthy squire that oft came her to see, But still she loved her plow-boy on fh < banks of sweet Dundee. It was on a summer's morning, her uncle went straightway, I nocked at this maiden's door and unto her did say: •• Arise, arise, my pretty maid, and a lady you may be, lor the squire is waiting for you on the banks of sweet Dundee." "I care not for your squires, your duke-, or lords likewise, My Willie's eyes appear to me like diamonds in the skies." "Begone! unruly female, yon '] liappy be, For I intend to banish William from the banks of sweet Dundee. Her uncle and the squire rode out one summer's day. " Young William is in favor." her uncle he did say; " Indeed, it is my intention to tie him to a tree. And then to bribe a ] rcss-gang on the banks of sweet Dundee." A press-gang came to William when he was all alone, He boldly fought for liberty, but they were six to one; The blood did flow in torrents — " Pray, kill me now," said he, " For I will die for .Mary on the banks of sweet Dundee! " This maiden fair walking, lamenting for her love. She met this wealthy squire down in her uncle's grove, He put his arms around her — " Stand off, base man." said she, "You have sent the only lad I loved from the banks of sweet Dunaee! " He put his arm around her and tried to throw her down, Two pistols and a sword she saw beneath his morning gown; She took the weapons from him, his sword he used so free. But she did fire and shot the squire on the banl s of sweel Dundee. Her uncle overheard the noise, and hastening to the ground, Saying: " Since you have killed the squire I'll give you your death wound." "Stand off," then cried Mary, "undaunted I will be! " She the trigger drew and her uncle slew on the banks of sweet Dundee. A doctor soon was sent for, a man of noted skill. And then there came a lawyer for him to sie.n his will; He willed his gold to Mary, who fought so manfully. Then he closed his eyes no more to rise on flu- banks of sweet Dundee. HOW FADDY STOLE THE ROPE. There were once two Irish laboring men, to America they came over. And they tramped about in search of work from New York to Dover ; Said Faddy to Mick, "I'm tired of this, we're both left in the lurch, And if we don't get work, bedad! I'll go and rob a church! " " What ! rob a church! " said Mick to Paddy, " how could you be so vile? Sure something bad will happen you when in the sacred aisle; But if ye do, I will go with you, we'll get safe out, I hope," So listen, and I'll tell ye true, how Paddy stole the rope: ' SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 69 HOW PADDY STOLE THE ROPE.— Continued. They tramped about through mud and mire, and the place they wanted finding, They got inside a country church, which nobody was minding; They scraped together all they could, and then prepared to slope, When Paddy said, " Hold on now, Mick, what shall we do for rope? We've got no bag to hold our swag, and before we go outside, With something stout and strong, me lad, the bundle must be tied;" Just then he spied the church-bell rope, and swift as an ante- lope. He scrambled up on the belfry high, to go and steal the rope. When Paddy reached the belfry-ropes, " Be jabers ! " said he, " stop, To get a piece that's long enough I must climb to the top;" So like a sailor up he went, and when near the end said he: " I think the piece that's underneath quite long enough will be." So holding by one arm and leg, he pulled his clasp-knife out, And right above his head and hand he cut the rope so stout; He quite forgot it held him up. By the powers of Doctor Pope! Down to the bottom of the church fell Paddy and the rope. Says Mick to Paddy, " Come out of that! " as he on the floor lay groaning, " Is that the way to steal a rope ? No wonder now ye're moan- ing; I'll how yez how to cut a rope. There! just lend me your knife." " Yerra, Mick, be careful! " cried out Paddy, "or else you'll lose your lite! " Mick bounded up the rope, and, like an artful thief, Instead of cutting it up above, he cut it underneath; The piece fell down, and he was left to hang up there and mope — " Bad cess unto the day," said he, " when we came stealing rope." There was Paddy groaning on the floor, while Mick hung up on high, " Come down," says Paddy. " I can't," says Mick, " for if I drop I'll die;" Their noise soon brought the preacher 'round, the sexton and police, But they set poor Micky free, the pair got no release; They took them to the station, where their conduct they now rue, For if they had no work before, they've plenty now to do; And for their ingenuity they have a larger scope Than when they broke into the church and tried to steal the rope. THE WEARING OF THE GE.EEN. On, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going 'round? The shamrock is forbid, by law, to grow on Irish ground; No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep — his color last be seen, For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green. Oh ! I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand, And he says: How is poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand? She's the most distressed country that ever I have seen, For they are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green. And since the color we must wear is England's cruel red, Ould Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed ; Then take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod, It will take root, and flourish still, tho' under foot 'tis trod. When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow. And when the leaves in summer time their verdure do not show, Then I will change the color T wear in ray caubeen, But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to the wearing of the green. EMMET'S DEATH. "He dies to-day," said the heartless judge, Whilst he sate him down to the feast, And a smile was upon his ashy lip As he uttered a ribald jest; For a demon dwelt where his heart should be, That lived upon blood and sin, And oft as that vile judge gave him food The demon throbbed within. ■• He dies to-day," said the jailer grim, While a tear was in his eye; " But why should I feel so grieved for himf Sine I've seen many die! Last night I went to his stony cell, With the scanty prison fare — He was sitting at a tiible rude, Plaiting a lock of hair! And he look'd so mild, with his pale — pale face, And he spoke in so kind p way, That my old breast heav'd with a smothering feel, And I knew not what to say! " " He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl — She lacked the life to speak. For sorrow had almost frozen her blood, And white were her lip and cheek — Despair had drank up her last wild tear, And her brow was damp and chill, And they often felt at her heart with fear, For its ebb was all but still. THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, His love is rich to me; I could not in a palace find A truer heart than he. The eagle shelters not his nest From hurricane and hail. More bravely than he guards my breast — The Boatman of Kinsale. The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps Is not a whit more pure — The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps Has not a foot more sure. No firmer hand nor freer eye E'er faced an Autumn gale — De Coureey's heart is not so high — The Boatman of Kinsale. The brawling squires may heed him not, The dainty stranger sneer — But who will dare to hurt our cot, When Myles O'TIea is here? The scarlet soldiers pass along — They'd like, but fear to rail — His blood is hot, his blow is strong — The Boatman of Kinsale. His hooker's in the Scilly van, When seines are in the foam; But money never made the man, Nor wealth a happy home. So, blest with love and liberty, While he can trim a sail. He'll trust in Hod. and cling to me — The Boatman of Kii:sale. 70 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE WEARING OF THE GKEEX.— Continued. But if, at last, her colors should be torn from Ireland's heart, Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old Boil will part; I've heard whispers of a country that lies far beyond the sea, Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day. Oh Erin! must we leave you, driven by the tyrant's baud? Must we ask a mother's blessing fan a Btrange but happy land, Where the cross of England's thraldom is never to be seen, But where, thank God, we'll live and die still wearing of the green ? No! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant be; Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are free. Xo! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Erie be- I i No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among; And no frown or no word of hatred we give — but to pay them back, In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track. Oh! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand, And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land; From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and smiles will spring- On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king. BURKE'S DREAM. Slowly and sadly one night in November I laid down my weary head to repose On a pillow of straw, which I long shall remember; O'erpowered by sleep I feel into a doze, Tired from working hard, down in a felon's yard; Night brought relief to my well-tortured frame, Locked in my prison cell, surely an earthly hell; I fell asleep and began for to dream. Methought that I sat on the green hills of Erin, Premeditating her victory won; Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing. Stand was the cry. every man to his gun! Then on came the Samagh facing our Irishmen, But they soon rallied back from our Pike volunteers, Whose erj it was shrill, hurrah, boys! Father Murphy And his brave Shellamires. Then methought that I seen our brave, noble commanders All mounl : on chargers and in gorgeous array, Jn grei n, trimmed with gold, with their bright-shining sabers, ( a v hich danced the sunbeams of fre :do i thai day; On, > 9 the battle-cry, conquer this day or die; Sons of Eibernia, fight for liberty. neither fear nor dread, vanquish the foe ahead! I'm down their horse, foot and artillery. Then on the cannon balls flew, men from both sicks drew, > nil were bound by oath to die or hold their ground; i in our vengeance the Samagh lied, ilic fields covered with dead. 11 cried out gloriously : ne from your prison, Burke! Irishmen hive clone their work, God he was with us, old Erin is free! Then methought, .1- the clouds were repeatedly (lowing, l saw a lion Btretched on the crimson-gold places, the pale □ abeams in dea b's sleep reposing, ides I knew I would never ■ e again; mountain path homewards 1 hastened back, her, who fainted, pave •> lo „> • 1 he shock of which 1 au eak, And founa myself a prisoner, and all but a d] KATE OF KENMARE. O! many bright eyes full of goodness and glad- ness. Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine. And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sad- ness Have I worshiped in silence and felt them divine ! But hope in its gleamings, or love in its dream- Ne'er fashioned a being bo faultless and fair As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty, The lawn of the valley, sweel Kate of Ken- mare! It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me ; But time has not ages, and earth has not dis- tance To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! Again am I straying where children are play- ing— Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air. Mountains are heathy, and there I do see thee, Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare! Thy own bright arbutus bath main a cluster Of white \\a\i n blossoms like 'ilies in air; But, O! thy pah- cheek hath a delicate luster. No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear: To that cluck softly flushing, to thy lip brightly blushing, 0! what are the berries that brij doth hear? Peerless in beauty, that rose < f the R That fawn of the valli Kate of Ken- mare! O! beauty, some spell from kind Nature thou bean si . Some magic of tone oi men1 of eye, That hearts thai are hardest, From forms that are fairest , Receive such impressions as >' 1 can die! The foot of the fairy, though lightsome anil airy. Can stamp on thi doth wear. Art cannot trace it nor aj it — And such are thy glanci 3, sweet K lie of Kon- mare! To him who far navels how • feeling — How the lighl of his shadowed and dim, When the Been s he most loves, like the river's soft sti aling All v.'Ar as a vision and vanish from him! '1 ' 1 he I 1 h far land a flo ri 1 that garland, That memorj weaves of the bright and the fair; While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing. And th an 1 is Kate of Kenmare! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 71 KATE OF KENMARE.— Con tinned. In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours, Fair islands are floating that move with the tide. Which, sterile at firs!, are soon covered with flowers, And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide ! Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awak- ened, And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, Of him who in roving finds objects in loving, Like the fawn of the valley — sweet Kate of Kenmare ! Sweet Kate of Kenmare, though I ne'er may behold thee — Though the pride and the jov of another may be- Though strange lips may praise thee and strange arms enfold thee ! A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee ! One feeling I cherish that never can perish — One talisman proof to the dark wizard care — The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare ! MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY. Now what are you crying for, Nelly? Don't be blubbering there like a fool; With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you You'll break down the three-legged stool. I suppose now you're crying for Barney, But don't b'iieve a word that he'd say, He tells nothing but big lies and blarney — Sure you know how he served poor Kate Karney. Daughter. But, mother! Mother. O, bother. Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away, And I dreamt the other night Of his ghost — all in white! [Mother speaks in an undertone.} The dirty blackguard ! Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. If he's going away, all the betther — Blessed hour when he's out of your sight! There's one comfort — you can't get a letther — For yiz neither can read nor can write. Sure 'twas only last week you protested, Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray, That the sight o' the scamp you detested — With abuse sure your tongue never rested — Daughter. But, mother! Mother. Oh, bother! Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. [Mother, speaking again with peculiar parental piety.] May he never come back! Daughter. And I dream of his ghost, Walking round ray bedpost — Oh, mother, he's going away. THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. A. d. 1G90. It was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun. And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezes won; Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of verdure gay, Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away. A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around, Eta southern upland far and .wide their white pavilions crowned; Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath the ray That gentle stream in silver llowcd, to meet the new-born day. Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,* Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen; And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks, All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial ranks. Peals the loud gun — its thunders boom the echoing vales along, While eurtain'd in its sulph'rous gloom moves on the gallant throng ; And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life, With furious ardor enward pass to join the deadly strife. Nor strange that with such ardent flame each slowing heart beats high, Their battle word was William's name, and " Death or Liberty! " Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted rang, And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty clang; The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with many a corse, As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and horse. Now fiercer grows the battle's rage, the guarded stream is cross'd, And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending host; He falls — the veteran hero falls, renowned along the Rhine — And he whose name, while Derry's walls endure, shall brightly shine. Oh! would to heav'n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph blest. The soldier spirit had controll'd that fir'd his pious breast. And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band, Who foremost rush'd amid the wave and gained the hostile strand ; He bleeds, brave Caillemonte — he bleeds — 'tis closed, his bright career, Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer. And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain. While backward James's yielding band are borne across the plain. In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth fling— Oh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king. In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd ground ; Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around: Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer 'd there, A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare. Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aid — The dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left his men betrav'd. Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Dunore; Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour. 72 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE BATTLE OF THE BOYSE— Continued. But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the plain, Who, change but kings, would gladly dare that battle-field again. Enough! enough! the victor cries; your fierce pursuit forbear, Let grateful prayer to heaven arise, and vanquished freemen spare. Hurrah! hurrah! for liberty, for her the sword we drew, And dar'd the battle, while on high our Orange banners Hew; Woe worth the hour — woe worth the state, when men shall cease to join With grateful hearts to celebrate the glories of the Boyne! PATRICK SHEEHAN. My name is Patrick Sheehan, my years are thirty-four, Tipperary is my native place, not far from Galtymore; I came of honest parents — but now they're lying low — Anil many a pleasant day I spent in the Glen of Aherlow. My father died, I closed his eyes outside our cabin door — The landlord and the sheriff, too, were there the day before — And then my loving mother, and sisters three also, Were forced to no with broken hearts from the Glen of Aherlow. For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near, I went then to the poorhouse to see my mother dear ; The news I heard nigh broke my heart, but still, in all my woe, I blessed the friends who made their graves in the Glen of Aherlow. Bereft of home, and kith and kin, with plenty all around, I starved within my cabin, and slept upon the ground ; But cruel as my lot was, I ne'er did hardship know, Till I joined the English army, far away from Aherlow. "'Rouse up there," says the corporal, "you lazy Hirish 'ound; Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog, the call ' to arms! ' sound? Alas, I had been dreaming of days long, long ago. 1 woke before Sebastopol, and not before Aherlow. I groped to find my musket — how dark I thought the night; blessed God, it was not dark, it was the broad daylight! And when I found that 1 was blind my tears began to now, 1 longed for even a pauper's grave in the Glen of Aherlow. O blessed Virgin Mary, mine is a mournful tale, A poor blind prisoner here I am. in Dublin's dreary jail. Struck blind Within the trenches, where I never feared the foe, And now I'll never see again my own sweet Aherlow. A poor neglected mendicanl I wandered through the sheet. My nine months' pension now being out. I beg from all I meet; As I joined my country's tyrants, my face I'll never show Among the kind old neighbors in the' Glen of Aherlow. Then. Irish youths— dear countrymen— take heed of what I say. For if you join the English ranks you'll surely rue the day: And whenever you are tempted a-soldiering to Remember poor blind Sheehan of the Glen of Aherlow. BELLEWSTOWN RACES. If 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 excite- ment That Bellewstown knows when the races come on. Make one of a part}- whose spirits are hearty, Get a seat on a trap that is sale not to spill, In its well pack a hamper, then oft" for a scam- per, And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill ! On the road bow they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion, It Banagher bangs, by the table o' war ! From the coach of the quality, down to the jol- lity- Jogging along on an ould low-backed car. 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 danc- ing, 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 -pout 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. Arrived at its summit, the view that von come at, From etherealized Mourne to where Tara ascends, There's no scene in our Ireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland ! To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends. And the soil 'neath your feet has a memory sweet. SONGS AND BALLADS OF 1RKLAND. BELLEWSTOWN RACES.— Continud. 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 hulla- balloo! To old Cock-a-Fatha, the people that dot the Broad plateau around are all for a view. "Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I'll bet on the yellow ! " '"Success to the green! faith, we'll stand by it still! " The uplands and hollows they're skimming like swallows, Till they Hash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill. ERIX-GO-BRAGH. Ye sons of Hibernia, howe'er low in station, Or where'er you be come attend to my call; Resist all attempts, and unshackle your na- tion, Old Ireland, I mean, or, alas! she must fall. With burdens so great, and her liberty sinking, Its beauty nigh gone — on destruction it's brinking; Then on, my brave boys, don't let's stand idly thinking, While Ireland's our country, dear Erin-go- bragh. Oh! Erin, my country, once happy and free, With pleasure I stood on thy once native shore ; But, alas! cruel fortune has turned foe to thee, Oh! Erin Mavourneen, thy case I deplore. Bound down by a suackle that's linked to a snare, By foes base and keen, who have filled thee with care; Then on. my brave boys, we'll show we play iv ir, For Ireland's our country, dear Erin-go- bra gh. Oh ! England, your taunts and your censures give o'er, And spite not that country that's equal to you ; But join hand in hand, each day and each hour. With Scotland, our friends — all to each other true. United by friendship, we'll join in a band, Determined to fight for our kings, laws and land ; Then on, my brave boys, don't let us here stand, While Ireland's our country, dear Erin-go- bragh. THE LAND OF POTATOES, OH. On, had I in the clear live hundred a year, Tis myself would not fear, though not aided one farthing of it; Faith, if such was my lot, little Ireland's the spot Where I'd build a snug cot with a bit of garden to it. As tor Italy's dales, their Alps and high vales, And their tine squalling gales, their signoras to beat us, oh! I'd never unto thee come, nor abroad ever roam, But enjoying my sweet borne in the land of potatoes, oh. Chorus. Hospitality, all reality, no formality, there you'll ever see, But be so free and easy, that we would amaze you; You'll think us all crazy for dull we can never be. If our friend, Honest Jack, would but take a small hack, So get on his back, and in joy ride over full to us, He, throughout the whole year, should have the best cheer, But, faith, no one's so dear as our brother, John Bull, to us. And we'd teach him when there, both to blunder and swear, And our brogue with him share, which both genteel and neat is, oh ; By St. Patrick, I think, when we'd teach him to drink, That he'd ne'er wish to shrink from the land of potatoes, oh. Though I'd frankly agree that I'd more happy be If some heavenly she, in this country, would favor me; For no spot on the earth can more merits bring forth, If beauty and wealth can embellish, such ss she. Good breeding, good nature, you see in each feature, So nought you've to teach her, so nice and complete she's, oh; Then if fate would but send unto me such a friend, What a life could I spend in the land of potatoes, oh. BALLYHOOLEY. There's a dashing sort of boy, who is called his mother's joy, His ructions and his elements they charm me; He takes the chief command in a water-drinking band, Called the Ballyhooley Blue Ribbon Army. The ladies all declare he's the pride of every [air, And he bears the patriotic name of Dooley; When the temperance brigade go out upon parade, Faith! there's not a sober man in Ballyhooley. Ciioius. Willoo loo! hoo! l-.oo! we will all enlist, you know, For their principles and elements they charm me: Sure they don't care what they ate, if' they drink their whisky nate. In the Ballyhooley Blue Ribbon Army. When we're out upon patrol and we're under Ins control, We take, of course, a most extendid radius; Although it's very clear we drink only ginger beer, We find the drinking sometimes rather tadius. The police, one fine day, faith! they chanced to come our way, And they said we were behaving most unruly; When the sargent he did state that we were not walking straight. Faith! we stretched him for a corpse in Ballyhooley.— Chorus. Then before the magistrate every one of us did state That we had taken nothing that could injure; And as it's very clear we drink only ginger beer. There must have been some stingo in the ginger. Rome of us did own we were drinking zosodone. But the police were behaving most unruly: It was of no avail, and within the county jail Lies the temperance brigade of Ballyhooley.— Chorus. 74 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. DERMOT O'DOWD. WHEH Dermot O'Dowd coorted Molly M'Can They were sweet as the honey and Boft as the down; But when they were wed they began to find out That Dermot could storm and that -Molly could frown. They would neither give in, so the neighbors gave out— Both were hot till a coldness came over the two ; And Molly would flusther, and Dermot would blusther, Stamp holes in the dure, and cry out, "Wirasthru! () murther! I'm married, Wish 1 had tarried; I'm sleepless and speechless— no word can I say. My bed is no use: I'll give back to the goose The feathers I plucked on last Michaelmas day." ^ "Ah! " says Molly, "you once used to call me a bird. " Faix, you're ready enough to fly out," says he. " You said then my eyes were as bright as the skies, ^ And my lips like the rose— now no longer like me. Says Dermot, " Your eyes are as bright as the morn, But your brow is as black as a big thunder cloud. If your lip is a rose, sure your tongue is a thorn That sticks in the heart of poor Dermot O'Dowd." Says Molly, "You once said my voice was a trash; But now it's a rusty old hinge with a creak." Says Dermot, " You called me a duck when I coorted, But now I'm a goose every day in the week. But all husbands are geese, though our pride it may shock, From the first 'twas ordained so by nature, I fear. Ould Adam himself was the first of the flock, And Eve, with her apple-sauce, cooked him, my dear.' THE SHAMROCK SHORE. In a musing mind with me combine, and grant me great relief, Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, I'm overwhelmed with grief; Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, away from friends at home, With troubled mind, no rest can find, since I left the shamrock shore. In the blooming spring, when the small birds sing, and the lambs did sport and play, My way I took, and friends forsook, till I came to Dublin Quay; I entered on board as a passenger, to England I sailed o'er, I bid farewell to all my friends all 'round the shamrock shore. When young men all, both great and small, go to the fields to walk, Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, to none of them can talk; Whilst 1 remain but to bewail, for the mould that 1 adore, With a troubled mind, no rest can find, since I left the shamrock shore. To Glasgow fair I did repair, some pleasure for to find. I own it was a pleasant place, down by the flowery Clyde; I own it was a pleasant place, for rich attire they wore. There's none so rare as can compare to the girls of shamrock shore. One evening fair, to take the air, down by yon shady grove, I heard some lads and lasses gay a-making to them love : It grieved me so, rejoiced to see, as I had once before, Has my heart betrayed, that I left on the shamrock shore. So now to conclude, and make an end. my pen begins for to fail, Farewell, my honored mother, dear, and for me don't bewail; Farewell, my honored mother, dear, and for me grieve no more, When I think long, I'll sing my song in praise of the shamrock shore. RORV OF Till: HILLS. " That rake up near the ratters. Why leave it there so long.' The handle, of the best of ash, Is smooth, and straight, and strong; And, mother, will you tell me. Why did my father frown, When" to make the hay in summer time 1 climbed to take it down? " She looked into her husband's eyes, While her own with light did fill; 'You'll shortly know the reason, boy! Said Rory of the Hill. The midnight moon is lighting up The slopes of Sliev-na-mun — Whose foot affrights the startled hares So long before the dawn'.' He stopped just where the Anner's stream Winds up the woods anear, Then whistled low, and looked around To see the coast was clear. A sheeting door flew open — In he stepped with right good will — •' God save all here, and bless your work," Said Rorv of the Hill. Right hearty was the welcome That greeted him, I ween, For years gone by he fully proved How well he loved the Green; And there was one among them Who grasped him by the hand — One who, through all" that weary time, Roamed on a foreign strand — He brought them news from gallant friends That made their heart-strings thrill; •• My sowl! I never doubted them! * Slid Rory of the Hill. They sat around the humble board Till dawning of the day. And yet not song or shout I heard — No revelers were they ; Some brows Hushed red with gladness, While some were grimly pale: But pale or red. from out those eyes Flashed souls that never quail! ■■ And sing us now about the vow, They swore for to fulfil — " •' Ye'll read it yet in history," Said Rorv of the Hill. Next day the ashen handle, He took down from where if hung, The toothed rake, full scornfully. Into the tire he Hung, And in its stead a shining blade Is gleaming once again. (Oh! for a hundred thousand of Such weapons and BUch men!) Right soldierly he wielded it. And going through his drill — " Attention " — " charge " — " front point "- " advance! " Cried Rory of the Hill. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 75 RORY OF THE HILL.— Continued. She looked at him with woman's pride, With pride and woman's fears; She flew to him, she clung to him, And dried away her tears; He feels her pulse heat truly. While her arms around him twine — " Now God be praised for your stout heart, Brave little wife of mine." He swung his first born in the air, While joy his heart did fill — " You'll be a Freeman yet, my boy," Said Rory of the Hill. Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power, And stronger than the wind; And thrones shall fall and despots bow Before the might of mind; The poet and the orator The heart of man can sway, And would to the kind Heavens That Wolfe Tone were here to-day ! Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength, Her truest strength, is still. The roucih-and-ready roving boys, Like Rory of the Hill. W'RITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Engraven* in letters of honor and fame, In history's pages may be seen, The men, who for daring have gained a great name, Enshrined in the temple of fame one and all, Its memory is written with pride; And Ireland to-day with respect does recall Her sons who have gallantly died. In art or in science, with sword or w # ith pen, Those men have proved fearless and bold; So 1 will to-night sing in praise of the men Whose names are in letters of gold. On Fontenoy's fields stood the Irish Brigade, While cannons were booming around; At ' the word of command not a man was afraid, Although then in martyrdom crowned. Unheeding the battle, to victory they went, And Ireland remembers to-day The brave sons she to Fontenoy sent, Who proved to be first in the fray. But though they are gone, we remember them still, These heroes were fearless and bold; The Irish Brigade, who fought with a will, Their names are in letters of gold. On tablets of love are engraven the names Of men of such paramount works, As Goldsmith and Moore, whose poetical aims Have ranked with the finest on earth. Burke, G rattan, Wallace, Fitzgerald and Swift Are men whose bright intellect shone, Endeavoring with honor the curtain to lift, Which gloomed down dear old Ireland upon. There's Balfe. the compossr, Wolfe Tone and the rest, All true Irishmen will uphold; But now they're at rest and at peace with the hies*, Their names are in letters of •'old. THE OLD LEATHER BREECHES. It was at the sign of the Bell, on the road to Clonmel, Paddy Hegarty kept, a neat shebeen; He sold pig's meat and bread, kept a good lodgin' bed, And so well liked round the country had been, Himself and his wife both struggled thro' life, In the week days Pat mended the ditches; But on Sunday he dressed in a coat of the best, But his pride was his old leather breeches. For twenty-one years at least, so it appears, His father those breeches had run in — The morning he died he to his bedside Called Paddy, his beautiful son, in. Advice then he gave ere he went to the grave — He bid them take care of his riches — Says he, it's no use to pop into my shoes. But I'd wish you'd step into my breeches. Last winter the snow left provisions so low, Poor Paddy was eat out complately; The snow coming down he could not go to town, Thoughts of hunger soon bothered him greatly. One night as he lay dreaming away About big dogs, frogs and witches, He heard an uproar just outside of the door, And he jumped to steal on his ould leather breeches. Says Bryan M'Guirk, with a voice like a Turk, Paddy, come get us some eating; Says big Andy Moore, I'll burst open the door, For this is no night to be waiting. Scarce had he spoke when the door went in. broke, And they crowded 'round Paddy like leeches: By the great moral gob, if he didn't get them prog, They'd eat him clean out of his breeches. Now Paddy in dread slipt into his bed, That held Judy, his darling wife, in : And there he agreed to get them a feed — He slipt out and brought a big knife in. He took up the waist of his breeches — -the b;tste, And cut out the buttons and stitches; And cut them in stripes, by the way, they were tripes, And boiled them, his ould leather breeclu s. When the tripes were stew'd, on a dish they were strew'd, The boys all cried out, Lord be thanked; But Hegarty's wife was afraid of her life, She thought it high time for to shank it. To see how they smiled, for they thought Pat had boiled Some mutton and beef of the richest; But little they knew it was leather burgoo That was made out of Paddy's ould leather breeches. They wollipt the stuff, says Andy, it's tough, Says Paddy, you're no judge of mutton; When Bryan MeGuirk, on the point of a fork Lifted up a big ivory button. Says Darby, what's that? sure I thought it was fat, Bryan leaps on his legs, and he screeches, By the powers above, 1 was trying to shove My teeth through the flap of his breeches. They made at Pat, he was gone out of that, He run when he found them all rising — Says Bryan, make haste and go for the priest, By the holy Saint Jackstone, I'm poisoned. Revenge for the joke they had, for they broke All the chairs, tables, bowls and dishes; And from that very night they will knock out your daylight If they catch you with leather breeches. 76 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD.— Continm Where could a patriot, so brave and so good As the brave Robert Emmet be found? For be was a martyr, and Irishmen should liis praises forever resound. Mow great was the speech that he gave at his trial, Ere he to the cold grave did go ; His heart often bled for the Emerald Isle, Down-trodden and gored by the foe. Then while i have strength 1 will sing in the praise Of Emmet, the fearless and bold; His name and his fame, and the pluck of his Are written in letters of gold. Are written in letters of gold. SEARCH THE PAGE OF HISTORY. If an Irish lad just a word might say, I'll sing to you now a peculiar lay. Of my country, where tears wipe out every smile, Which is known to the world as the emerald isle ; Where the girls are the fairest you ever did see, But with England somehow we can never agree, Bad luck to the quarrels, it keeps us all down, Sure the shamrock's a friend to the rose and the crown. Chorus. If you search the page of history, there you'll find, Irishmen were never behind; With his bayonet by his side, Pat has often turned the tide, And helped to build the honor of old Eng- land. On the tablets of fame, if you are searching again, Poets and statesmen, and valiant men; Wolfe Tone, Robert Emmet and Brian Born, And Wellington great who gained famed Waterloo. So that's why I say, and I still will maintain, Our boys have fought hard in Victoria's reign. A id it is your duty, in truth you'll confess, To help poor Pat when his land's in dis- tress. — Chorus. I!, a small strip of ocean our lands are apart. no Btrip at all can divide a true heart: \fid that Paddy's heart is both loyal and true, i and in the history of you. On Majuba Hill Mountain their vengeance was swift. \>-d when will you ever forget the Rorke's Drift, in the Soudan, deeds that never can fade, Were done by the L8th Royal [rish Bri — Chorus. HEENAN A.\i> SAYERS. It was on the sixteenth day of April that they agred to fight, The money it was all put up and everything was right; But lleenan was arrested and brought to the county jail, Where he was held to keep the peace under three hundred bail. His friends went quickly there and they did bail him out, lie was forced to change his training ground and take another route; They thought for to discourage him, so as to prevent the mill, But having a brave heart in him, swore that Savers" blood he'd spill. To see those heroes in the ring it would make your heart feel gay, Each bore a .smile upon him lace in honor of the day ; The spectators they were eager those champions for to see, For they both said' that they'd either die or gain the victory. Time was called, they both stood up, the excitement it was great, To see those champions seeking to seal each other's fate: Savers he made a left hand punch at Heenan's pretty lace, \\ ho quickly dodged and with a blow laid Tommy near a case. But when the second round came on the Briton was up to time, Heenan made a pass at him, which slightly bruised his dial; His friends they began to cheer, which made Savers feel sad, For he thought that he'd easily win, which would make the Yankees mad. Savers was up to time again, and his face it bore a smile, Heenan made a pass at him, which slightly bruised his dial; He made a terrific right hand punch, which got home on Heenan's jowl. But quickly a sldge-hammer blow caused Sayers for to howl. A look of melancholy was upon each Briton's face, They thought that Sayers would get whipped and to England be a disgrace; But then he got a handsome b'ow on brave Heenan's nob, Their faces bore a smile again, and the betting on Sayers was odd. Time was called, they both were up to toe the scratch once more, Sayers got home on Heenan's mug, which made the Britons roar; lleenan followed quickly up, and as Sayers turned around, lie met him with a right hand blow which sprawled him on the ground. Bold Sayers was up to time again, and he looked very bad, lleenan looked as fresh again, which made the Britons mad: They had a little false sparring, then at each other did gaze, When lleenan sprawled him out again, which did the bulls amaze. Then the cheers and bawls of Heenan's friends would make your heart feel gay; For they were sure, they had not doubt, but he would gain the day : The friends of Sayers began to think that he would soon give in, And to think their champion would get beat it caused them to grin. The li;;ht was drawing to a close, the excitement growing worse, The friends of lleenan they did cheer — and of Savers, they did curse, The bulls were sure that lleenan would win. which caused them all to fret. For i very cent that they- were worth on Savers it was bet. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 77 HEENAN AND SAYERS.— Continued. But then the thirty-seventh round came on to bo the last, The Briton's friend's they plainly saw their man was failing fast; When Heenan gave him another blow, which made them feel forlorn — The Briton's friends jumped in the ring and said the fight was drawn. But Heenan called on Sayers again to come and fight it out, But he was so badly punished he could scarcely open his mouth; Heenan said: The fight is mine — and stood upon his ground — Saying: I am the champion of the world, in the thirty-seventh round. THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. The evening star rose beauteous above the fading day, As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray, And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall; But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them all. Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared, And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she near'd ; To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and beauty shone. The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow; And marked the whiteness of her robe — the radiance of her brow; Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast. And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd best. He showed her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer, And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laughter and jeer; And madly swore, a form so fair, they never saw before; And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore. The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen, And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen; And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land, And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the strand. Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning leap'd about; And rushing with its watery war, the tempest gave a shout; And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thund'- ring shock ; And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inehidony's rock. Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high; But the angry surge swept over them, and hush'd their gurgling cry ; And down, till chafing from their strife, th' indignant waters lay, And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd away, When the calm and purple morning shone out. on high Dunmore, Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inehidony's shore; And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank; And still he calls that hillock green, " the Virgin Mary's bank." THE TRUE LOVERS' DISCUSSION. One pleasant evening, as pinks and daisies Closed in their bosoms a drop of dew. The feathered warblers of every species, Together chanted their notes so true. As I did stray, wrapped in meditation, It charmed my heart to hear them sing: The silenf orbs of niglit were jusi arising, And the air in concert did sweetly sing. With joy transported, each sight I courted; Whilst gazing 'round with inspective eye, Two youthful lovers, in conversation Closely engaged, I chanced to spj ; Those couple spoke with such force of reason, Their sentiments they expressed so clear, And just to listen to their conversation, My inclination was to draw near. He pressed her hand and said: "My darling, Tell me the reason you changed your mind; Or have I loved you to be degraded, Tho' youth and innocence are in their prime .' For I am slighted and ill requited For all the favors I did bestow: You'll surely tell me before I leave you, Why you're inclined now to treat me so." With great acuteness she made him answer, Saying: "On your favors I would rely, But you might contrive to blast my glory, And our marriage day you might hover by. Young men, in general, are fickle-minded, And to trusl you I am afraid: If for your favors I am indebted. Both stock and interest you shall be paid." " To blast your glory, love, I ne'er intended, Nor fickle-minded will I ever be; As for my debts, you can never pay them But by true love and loyalty. Remember, darling, our first engagement, When childish pastime was all we knew; Be true and constant — I'm thine forever — I'll brave all dangers and go with you." "Your proffer's good, sir, I thank you for it, But yet your offers I can't receive; By soft persuasion and kind endearment The wily serpent beguiled Eve. There's other reasons might be assigned, The highest tide love will ebb and fall; Another female might suit you better, Therefore I can't obey your call." " Yes, I'll admit the tide in motion Is always moving from shore to shore, But still its substance is never changing, Nor never will, till time's no more. I'll sound your fame with all loyal lovers, To fix their love on whose mind is pure, Where no existence can ever change it, Nor no physician prescribe a cure." She says: "Young man. to tell you plainly, To refrain you 1 am inclin^l. Another young man of b : rfh and fortune Has gained my favor and changed my mind. My future welfare I have considered. On fickle footing I'll never stand ; Besides, my parents would be offended To see you walking at my right hand." 78 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE TRUE LOVERS' DISCUSSION.— Continued. " What had you, darling, when you were born? What nature gave, love — so had I — Your haughty parents I do disdain them, And poor ill-got riches I do deny. An honest heart, love, is far superior — Your gold and riches will soon decay; It's naked we came into this world, And much the same we'll go away." ""You falsify when you say you love me, And slight my parents whom I love dear; I think it's justice, sir, to degrade you, If that's the course you mean to steer. By wealth, or feature, or art of nature, You're not my equal in any line; Since 1 conjure you, insist no farther, For to your wishes I'll not incline. ' "To falsify, love, I do deny it, Your imputation is wrong, I swear ; Like Eve, I find you're a real deceiver, Your heart's as full as your face is fair. For the want of riches you vainly slight me, And my complexion you do disdain; Our skin may differ, but true affection In black or white is all the same." " Oh ! curb your passion, sir ! " she did ex- claim, " It was not to quarrel I met you here, But to discourse you in moderation And a real intention to make appear. I speak with candor, I will surrender To what is proper in every way, If you submit to fair discussion. And reason's dictates you will obey." *' It's now too late to ask that question, When you despise me before my friends; Lebanon's plains, if you could command them, Are not sufficient to make amends. There's not a tree in the Persian forest Retains its color, excepting one: That is the laurel which I will cherish, And always carry in my right hand." " The blooming laurel you may admire, Because its verdure's always new, But there's another, you can't deny it, Is just as bright in the gardener's view; It's wisely resting throughout the winter, And blooms again when the spring draws near ; The pen of Homer has written its praises, In June and July it does appear." '" You speak exceedingly, but not corrective, With words supported, your cause is vain; Had you the tongue of a Syrian Goddess, Your exhortation I would disdain. It was your love that I did require, But since you've placed it on golden store, I'll strike my string and my harp shall mur- mur: Farewell, my love, forever more! " THE LADY OF KNOCK. Attend, y-ou faithful Christians, give car to what I say, It's of a glorious miracle occurred the other day ; Where our blessed Virgin did herself to sinners show, In the holy church of Knock, in the county of Mayo. A faithful few, to Mary, true, returning home at night, Upon the chapel wall did view a most transparent light; They stood amazed and on it gazed, and trembling struck with fear, When to their astonished eyes three statues did appear. On the right was blessed St. Joseph, upon his face a smile, His holy hands uplifted as he meant to bless this isle: Our blessed Lndy's hands were raised in an attitude of prayer, And in the right hand of St. John, God's holy word was there. The faithful few that saw the sight they say, both one and all, The holy apparition was some distance from the wall ; And on the left side of St. John appeared to view quite plain, An altar, cross, and the instruments by which the Lamb was slain. There are hundreds come from far and near our Lady's aid to seek, And by her aid the deaf and dumb are made to hear and speak; And many who were born blind now see the way to go From the holy r church of Knock to the county of Mayo. At the wedding feast of Galilee, our blessed lady said: Oh, Son Divine, there is no wine, but water there is instead; No sooner had she said the words when her aid, Divine, The water that was at the feast was turned into wine. Oh, blessed St. Joseph and St. John, we call upon your aid, And Holy Mother of our God, for sinners intercede; For the wonders that our Saviour did while preaching to His flock, Are done again, through Mary's aid, in the holy church of Knock. THE ENNISKILLEN DRAGOON. A beautiful damsel of fame and renown. A gentleman's daughter of fame and renown — As she rode by the barracks, this beautiful maid, She stood in her coach to see the dragoons' parade. They were all dressed out like gentlemen's sons, With their bright shining swords and carbine uuns. With their silver-mounted pistols — she observed them full soon, For to serve as a royal Enniskillen dragoon! " You bright son of Mars, who stands on the right, Whose armor doth shine like the bright stars of night, Saying: "Willie, dearest Willie, you've listed full soon. Saying: 'The Lord be with you, Enniskillen dragoon! '" ''Oh, Flora! dearest Flora! your pardon I crave, It's now and forever I must be a slave — Your parents they insulted me both morning and noon, For fear that you'd wed an Enniskillen dragoon." "Oh, mind, dearest Willie ! oh, mind what you say, For children are bound their parents to obey : For when we're leaving Ireland, they will alfchange their tunc, Saying: ' The Lord be with you, Enniskillen dragoon! * " Fare you well. Enniskillen! fare you well for a while, And all aroinul the borders of Erin's green isle. And when the war is over we'll return in full bloom. And they'll all welcome home the Enniskillen dragoon. n Pc 1 1, Kj tdoi I: i Ufa SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE LOVERS" DISCUSSION— Continued. She seemed affected, with eyes distracted, With loud exclaiming she thus gave way: " Sir, my denial was but a trial — You Gods! be witness to what I say. I say: My darling, if you don't forgive me, And quite forget my incredulity, A single virgin for your sake I'll wander, While a green leaf grows on yon laurel tree." THE MACS AND THE O'S. iW So, all young maidens, I pray take warning, Let love and virtue be still your aim; No worldly treasure should shield your pleasure With those whose person you do disdain. AH loyal lovers will then respect you, And to your memory will heave a sigh ; The blooming rose and evergreen laurel Will mark the spot where your body lies. Prom Ballynahinch, about two miles distance, Where blackbirds whistle and thrushes sing; With hills surrounding and valleys bounding, Enchanting prospect all in the spring. Where female beauty is never wanting, The lonely stranger a refuge find- Near Maria Tenpenny, if you require, You'll find the author of those simple lines. TWELVE STONE TWO. I feel so dreadful nervous that I'm frightened of my life, For by this time to-morrow I'll be fastened to a wife; An agricultural Irish girl that's twice the size of me ; Upon my word I'm doubtful what the conse- quence will be. Choeus. She's a fine big woman, and she knows that same, And early in the morning she'll possess my name ; But I feel so dreadful nervous, I don't know what to do, For to-morrow I must buckle on the twelve stone two. I would like to break the contract off, but that would never do ; My life would not be worth two straws, be- tween myself and you. I don't think she'd put me in a breach-of- promise case ; But with her big fist she'd make the breaches on my face. — Chorus. She made me drunk at Sullivan's, then sat upon my knee; Just imagine twelve stone two on a little chap like me. Twas she done all the courting, I had not one word to say, So like a helpless little lamb, I gave myself away. — Chorus. WHEN Ireland was founded by the Mac's and the O's, I never could learn, for nobody knows ; But history says they came over from Spain, To visit old Granna, and there to remain. Our fathers were heroes for wisdom and lame, For multiplication, they practiced the same ; St. Patrick came over to heal their complaints, And very soon maue them an is. and of saints. The harp and the shamrock were carried before Brave Roderick O'Connor and Roger O'Moore, And the good and bad deeds of the Mac's and the O's, And this is the tale that these verses disclose. Hugh Neil of Tyrone, O'Donnel, O'Moore, O'Brien, O'Kelly, O'Connell galore; All houses so royal, so loyal and old, One drop of their blood was worth ounces of gold. McDonnell, McDougal, 0*Curran, O'Keefe, Sly Redmond O'Hanlon, the Rapperrea chief; O'Malley, McNally, O'Sullivan rare, O'Failey, O'Daily, O'Burns of Kildare, O'Dougherty, chief of the Isle Innishone, McGuinness, the prince of the valleys of Down; The Collerns, Hollerans, every one knows, The Raffertys, Flahertys — they were all O's. One-eyed King McCormaek and great Phil McCoole, McCarty of Dermot and looley O'Toole ; Hugh Neil, the grand and great Brian Boru, Sir Tagon O'Regen and Con Donohue, O'Hara. O'Marrah, O'Connor, O'Kane, O'Carroll, O'Farrell, O'Brennen, O'Drane. With Murtaugh McDermot, that wicked old Turk Who had a crim. con. with the wife of O'Rourke. MeGra, McGrath, McGil, McKeon, McCadden, MeFadden, McCarron, McGlone; McGarren, McFarren, McClarey, McCoy, McHaley, McClinch, MeElrath, MeElroy. McMillen, McClellan, McGillan, McFinn, McCullagh, McCunn, McManus, McGyn; McGinley, McKinley, McCaffray, McKay, McCarral, McFarrell, McCurchy, McRay. O'Dillion, O'Dolan, O'Devlin, O'Doyle, O'Mullen, O'Nolan, O'Bolan, O'Boyle; O'Murray, O'Rooney, O'Cooney, O'Kane, O'Carey, O'Learv, O'Shea, and O'Shane. O'Brien, O'Rourke, O'Reiley, O'Neil ; O'Hagan, O'Reagan, O'Fagan, O'Sheil ; O'Dennis, O'Dwyer, O'Blaney, O'Flynn, O'Grady, O'Shaughnessy, Brian O'Lynn. The daughters of Erin are Ellen O'Roone, And Norah McCushla, and Sheelah McClune; With Kathleen Mavourneen and Molly Asthore, The beautiful charmers we love and adore. There is Donah McCushla and Widow McChree, There is Molly McGuire and Biddy McGee ; There is dear Norah Creina and Sheliah McGrath, And the mother of all is — sweet Erin-go-bragh ! bO SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE HUSH SPREE. \ fortnight ago, boys, me and Martin Brallagan, Timothy McCarty and Darby O'Callagan, Went for a spree down to Patsy Murphy's restaurant, And being fond of fun. of course, we took some girls along. We -aid to Murphy: Bring us half a gallon in Also some whisky tor the girls they re included >n; When he brought it in, we said shove it up to Flaherty, For he's our boss, and will settle up on Saturday. Murphy said: No! for he's had quite enough of us, lie strapped us and never got the stufl 01 us; WtfddX him brown, but we couldn't do him black ag.m So he picked up the drink and was going to take it back again When up jumped McCarty. and asked him what he meant by it? And swore if he did take it back he'd repent ot it Murphy said: Och! and was going to take the pitcher, When up jumped O'Callagan, and neatly knocked hi. snitchet. tie shouted: Murder! Police! and Suicide! Then to help him, Brallagan rushed up to his side. Gave him such a kick it nearly knocked his belly in, Then he called the barman, Patsy Kelly, in: In came Kelly, and he had a lot of swagger, too, Brought in a poker and tongs, and daggers, too: He got a clout that very soon hit him down, Since that day poor Kelly's never sit down Ban" went the bottles, and bang went the glasses, too, We \vere enjoying it, and so were the lasses, too; Smash went the windows, and smash went the furniture, Then on the fire we put it for to burn it, sure ; Then in the bar-room we turned the rum and whisky on, That's what the bovs and girls all got frisky on. Bi" John Burk and little Martin Brallagan Served us a trick, forget we never shall again ; Only because thev couldn't get a drop o' gin, What does they 'do but goes and calls a copper in: He got his head split, then we had the laugh at him, For when he was down we used his own club on him. He blew his whistle, when up came a score of them, Privates, detectives, sergeants, and more of them; They were no use, for we soon got the best of them; And when on the ground we danced on every chest of them. One got away, faith! it's true what 1 told you, He brought back with him a regiment of soldiers, Also a magistrate, because we wouldn't quiet act, \nd what does he do, but he goes and reads the not act. They seized McCarty, and then little Brallagan, Then into them went the girls and O'Callagan; They left sixteen dead upon the floor, they did, And' then I sloped out of the back door, I did. They have ten warrants out for murder and robbery, \ As for myself they can all go to bobbery, For I am going away as soon as day is dawning, I set sail for Australia in the morning. THE ROSE OF TRALEE. The pale moon was rising above the green mountain, The sun was declining beneath the blue sea, When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain That stands in the beautiful vale of Tralee. She was lovely and fair as the rose in the summer, Yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me, Oh. no, 'twas the truth in her eye ever dawning, That made me love Mary, the rose of Tralee. The cool shades of ev'ning their mantle was spreading. And Mary, all smiling, and list'ning to mo. The moon thro' the valley her pale rays was shedding. When 1 won the heart of the rose of Tralee. Though lovely and fair, etc. CHARMING JUDY CALLAGHAN. 'Twas on a windy night At two o'clock in the morning, An Irish lad so tight, All wind ami weather scorning, At Judy Callaghan'a door, Sitting upon the palings. His love-tale he did pour. And this was part of his wailmgs: 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 \ enus; Own your love you may. There's hut the wall he: ween us. 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 o'd gray mare to ride on; Saddle and bridle. t<> 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 go1 of 'baccy a pound; I've got some tea for the ladies; I've got the ring to wed. Some whisky to make us gaily; I've got a feather bed, And a handsome new shillelah You'll have Mr. Brallaghan: 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 When'er 'tis set agoing. Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan, Don't say nay. Charming Judy Callaghan! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 81 CHARMING JUDY CALLAGHAN.— Continued. For a wife till death I am willing to take ye! But och! 1 waste my breath— The divil himself can't wake ye. 'Tis just beginning to ram, 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! KILLARNEY. By Killarney's lakes and fells, Em'rald isles and winding bays. Mountain paths and woodland dells, Mem'rv ever fondly strays. Bounteous nature loves all lands, Beauty wanders ev'rywhere, Footprints leave on many strands, But her home is surely there. Angels fold their wings and rest In that Eden of the West; Beauty's home. Killarney, Ever fair Killarney. Innisfallen's ruined shrine May suggest a passing sigh, But man's faith can ne'er decline Such God's wonders floating by. Castle Lough and Glenna Bay, Mountains Tore and Eagle's Nest; Still at Mucross you must pray, Though the monks are now at rest. Angels wonder not that man There would fain prolong life s span ; Beauty's home, Killarney, Ever fair Killarney. No place else can charm the eye With such bright and varied tints; Every rock that you pass by, Verdure broidcrs or besprmts. Virgin there the green grass grows, Every morn Spring's natal day; Bright-hued berries daff the snows, Smiling Winter's frown away. Angels often pausing there, Doubt if Eden were more fair; Beauty's home, Killarney, Ever fair Killarney. Music there for echo dwells, Makes each sound a harmony; Many voiced the chorus swells, Till it faints in ecstasy. With the charmful tints below Seems the heaven above to vie; All rich colors that we know Tinge the cloud wreaths in that sky. Wings of angels so might shine, Glancing back soft light divine; Beauty's home, Killarney, Ever fair Killarney. TIM MACARTHY'S DAUGHTER. Tim Macarthy gave a party, invitations he sent out To two or three dozens of big-headed cousins, To tall and short and thin and stout; Mrs. Tim the room did trim, and candle-greased the floor so well That half of the dancers fell down in the lancers And hurt their — I'm afraid to tell; How they banged at the door, in they came with a roar- On, souch a teasing, a squeezing and sneezing, Tim Brannigan walked on the chests of a score; Oh, 'twas death to tall hats, coats got used up as mats, Till they were in with the struggle and din, You'd* have thought you were out in the yard with the cats. Chorus. Oh, 'twas a rare, fine, swell, grand, aristocratic affair, With dukes and earls and nice young girls, and everybody was there ; Never was seen in the land of the green such a set-out. you can swear, As the coming of age of Tim Macarthy's daughter. When the girls, all scent and curls, had undergone a few repairs, They heard a great tustle, Miss Finnerty's bustle The dog had gripped upon the stairs; Captain Foy, the stout old boy, while dancing on the stairs for joy, Fell through on his "crumpet" and yelled like a trumpet: " I'm wrecked entirely, ship ahoy! " Then the dancing began, girls all looked for a man; Oh, such a heat and a treading on feet, Well, the devil may beat such a dance if he can; How the ladies did flop, how the corks they did pop; Winking and blinking and thinking and drinking, Bedad! you'd have thought that they never would stop. — Chorus. Barney Doolin had been foolin' all the night with Miss Maguire, When in came young Jerry, her lover from Kerry, And pitched poor Doolin on the fire; In the room some boys with sticks for hours had talked on politics, And, hearing the row, said: "Come on wid ye now, And we'll teach yez all some fightin' tricks! " Off came coats by the pile, they went at it in style ; Buttons were bursting, shillelahs were thirsting To crack in a head or, at least, shift a tile; Every man made his mark, ne'er was seen such a lark, Till some great villain, who didn't want killing, Extinguished the lights and left all in the dark.— Chorus. All the ladies shrieked with fear, but when the boys their sides got near, And tenderly placed a right arm 'round each waist, They said: "Isn't the darkness nice? oh, dear! " Something smaek'd, and tho' each Miss when lights were bro't soon told us this, They'd snapped a gold ear-ring, yet still I am fearing The snap was nothing but a kiss; When the fighting was done, then we did have some fun, Boys lost their pains, readjusted their brains ; If they'd broken one leg, sure they danced upon one; Though for weeks they were sore, each man fervently swore, Never, oh, never did any one ever see Such an affair as Macarthy's before. — Chorus. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. LOVE'S WARNING. A faib lady once, with her young lover walked, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Through a garden, and sweetly they laughed and they talked, While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. She gave him a rose — while he sighed for a kiss, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary; Quoth he, as he took it, " I kiss thee in this,'' While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. She gave him a lily less white than her breast, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary; Quoth he, " 'Twill remind me of one I love best;" While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. She gave him a two faces under a hood, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary; "How blest you could make me," quoth he. " if you would,'' While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. She saw a forget-me-not flower in tin- L'm-s.' She saw a for-get-me-not flower in the grass, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Ah! why did the lady that little llower pass? While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. The young lover saw that she passed it, and sigh'd, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; They say his heart broke, and he certainly died, While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. Now, all you fair ladies, take warning by this, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; And never refuse your young lover a kiss, While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. SOGGARTH AROON. Am I the slave they say, soggarth aroon? Since you did show the way,"soggarth aroon, Their slave no more to be, "while they would work with me Ould Ireland's slavery, soggarth aroon? Why not her poorest man, soggarth aroon. Try and do all he can, soggarth aroon; Her commands to fulfil, of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, soggarth aroon! Loyal and brave to you, soggarth aroon, Yot be not slave to you, soggarth aroon; Nor, out of fear to you, stand up so near to you, Och! out of fear to you! soggarth aroon. Who, in the winter's night, soggarth aroon, Wheu the could blast did bite, sogagrth aroon. Game to my cabin door, and on my earthen flure, Knelt by me, sick and poor, soggarth aroon? Who, on the marriage day, soggarth aroon, Made the poor cabing gay, soggarth aroon; Aria did both laugh and sing, making our hearts to ring At the poor christening, soggarth aroon? Who, aa friends only met, soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, sogagrth aroon ? And when my hearth was dim, gave, while his eyes did brim, What I should give to him, soggarth aroon? Och, you, and only you, soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, soggarth aroon; In love they'll never shake, when, for ould Ireland's sake We a true part did take, soggarth aroon. TEDDY M'GLYNN. I left me old mother wid one little brother, And came to this country when scarcely a boy; And though I am Irish, and lived on the parish, I'm first-cousin-German to Patrick Molloy. I came in short breeches that often lacked stitches, Had nails in my shoes fit for horses to wear ; Me mother'd not know me, but if you would show me, I'd quick know me mother and Dublin of yore 3 I'm Teddy M'Glynn, from the town of Dublin, And that's the name you will lind ou me door. I've worked ami I've waited, me brains I've berated, I've been to the schools, and to Lannigan'a ball; Me father was uncle to Kathleen Mavoumeen, So I'm proud of me kindred, me mother and all. But now I'm a lawyer, and feel like a warrior, I'll dance you the lancers or jig if you ( -nil ; I've kept me shillelah, and own I'm most crazy To see me ould mother and Dublin once more; I'm Teddy M'Glynn, from the town of Dublin, And that is the name you will find on me door. And soon I'll be goin' the truth to be knowin And judge for meself of ould Ireland's woes; If green I am wearing, the shamrock is shar- ing The love in me heart for me countrv's re- pose. For light is now dawning, and libertv's morn- ing Will shed its warm ray on ould Ireland's shore ; Then Katy I'll marry, and no longer tarry, To see me ould mother and Dublin* once more ; Then Mister M'Glynn, when at home in Dublin, Will welcome you all at his new cabin door. I've found many cronies among the Maloneys, And often drank whisky with Phelim O'Toole ; O'Brien and McNeilly, and poor Miles O'Reilly, Were all of us sprung when we waked Tim McDoul. In the finest society, famed for sobriety. I'm welcomed with pride at each Fenian ball, I'll soon be an alderman like Jimmv F!ana verdure again. Meanwhile, fill each glass to the brim, boys, with water, With wine or potheen, And on each let the honest wish swim, boys, long flourish the Gael and the Green! Here, under our host's gay dominion, while gathered this table around, What varying shades of opinion in one happy circle are found; What opposite creeds come together! how mingle North, South, East and West ! Yet who minds the difference a feather? each strives to love Erin the best. Oh! soon through our beautiful island may union as blessed be seen, While floats o'er each valley and highland our own glorious color — the Green. MY BONNY LABORING BOY. As I roved out one morning, being in the blooming spring, I heard a lovely maid complain, and grievously did sing — Sa3'ing, Cruel was my parents, that did me so annoy. And would not let me marry my bonny laboring boy. \oung Johnny was my true love's name, as you shall plainly see, My parents they employed him their laboring boy to be; To harrow, reap, and sow the seed, and plow my father's land, But soon I fell in love with him, as you may understand. My mother thought to have me wed unto some lord or peer, I being the only heiress for ten thousand pounds a year; I placed my heart on one true love, and he was my only joy, This nation I will ramble with my bonny laboring boj'. His cheeks are like the roses red. his eyes as black as sloes, He's mild in his behavior wherever that he goes; He's manly, neat and handsome, his skin as white ;is snow. And in spite of my parents' malice with my bonny laboring boy I'll go. I courted him for twelve long months. bu1 little did I know That my cruel parents would prove my overthrow; They watched us close one evening whilst in a shady grove, Pledging our vows together in the constant bands of love. My father he stepped up to me and seized me by the hand, And swore he'd send young Johnny unto some foreign land; fie locked me in my bedroom my comforts to annoy. And kept me there to weep and mourn for my laboring boy. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 85 MY BONNY LABORING BOY.— Continud. My mother came next morning and to me did say: Your father has intended to appoint your wedding day; 1 nobly made answer, with him I'd neer comply, But single would I still remain lor my bonny laboring boy. Says the daughter to the mother, your plan is all in vain — Lords, dukes and earls, their riches 1 disdain ; I'd rather live an humble life, my time 1 would employ Increasing nature's prospects with my bonny laboring boy. Fill your glasses to the brim, let the toast go merrily round, Here's health to every laboring boy that plows and works the ground ; And when his work is over to his home he will go with joy — Happy is the girl that gets a bonny laboring boy. ANDY M'ELROE. My brother Andy said that for a soldier he would go; So great excitement came upon the house of McElroe. My father sold the bog-hole to equip him for the war. My mother sold the cushions of her Sunday jauntin'-car ; And when brave Andy reached the front 'twas furious work he made ; They appointed him a private in the Crocodile Brigade. The sound of Andy's battle-cry struck terror through the foe; His foot was on the desert and his name was McElroe! Chorus. At least that's what the letter said that came across the foam, To Andy's anxious relatives, awaiting him at home. The papers say he ran away whene'er he met the foe ; But that was quite unlike the style of Andy McElroe. One morning brave Lord Wolsley for a battle felt inclined; But all could see the General had something on his mind ; Sez he, " My staff, 'twere dangerous to face yon deadly foe, Unless we're sure that quite prepared is Andy McElroe." Then Andy cried, " I'm here, my lord, and ready for the fray." Then England, Ireland, Scotland, rolled together on the foe; But far ahead of every one rushed Andy McElroe! Chorus. At least that's what the letter said that came across the foam, To Andy's anxious relatives, awaiting him at home. The Government despatches had another tale — but no! We won't believe a word against brave Andy McElroe. The Mahdi had gone up a tree, a spy-glass in his eye, To see his Paynim chivalry the . .orthern prowesstry: But soon he saw a form of dread, and cried in tones of woe, " Be jabers, let me out o' this — there's Andy McElroe! " Then down he hurried from his tree, and straight away he ran, To keep appointments, as he said, in distant Kordefan; And fled those Arab soldiery like sand siroccos blow, Pursued (with much profanity) by Andy McElroe. Chorus. At least that's what he told us when returning o'er the foam, To greet his anxious relatives, awaiting him at home. So sing the song of triumph, and let nil your bumpers flow, In honoT of our countryman, brave Andy McElroe. ERIN'S FLAG. Unroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze, Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas; Lift it out of the dust — let it wave as of yon-, When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore That never — no — never! while God gave them life, And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, That never — no — never! that banner should yield As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ; While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. Lift it up! wave it high! — 'tis as bright as of old! Not a stain on its green, not a spot on its gold, Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hun- dred long years Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and with tears! Though the clouds of oppres-ion enshroud it in gloom, And 'round it the thunders of tyranny boom. Look aloft — look aloft! lo! the clouds drift- ing by, There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky. 'Tis the sunburst resplendent — far, flashing on high! Erin's dark night is waning; her day dawn is nigh. Lift it up — lift it up! the old Banner of Green ! The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen; What! — though the tyrant has trampled it down, Are its folds not emblazoned with the deeds of renown ? What! — though for ages it droops in the dust, Shall it droop thus forever? — no — no! God is just! Take it up — take it up, from the tyrant's foul tread. Let him tear the Green Flag — we will snatch its last shred. And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead. And we swear by the blood which the Briton has shed — An;! we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread — And we'll swear by the thousands who, fam- ished, unfed. Died down in the ditches — wild howling for bread. And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have lied, 86 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. ERIN'S FLAG.— Continued. And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinle-s bed, That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread ; That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said — That we'll lift up the Green, and well tear down the Red. Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home ; Full lonti has its lot been to wander and roam; It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, But its folds, like their hopes, arc not faded nor furled; Like a weary-winged bird, to the cast and the west, It has flitted and fled— but it never shall rest, Till pluming it pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, And speeds to the shores of its old home again, Where its fetterless folas, o'er each mountain and plain, Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. Take it up— take it up! bear it back from afar — . That banner must b'.aze 'mid the lightnings .s:;r: Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die! And shout to the clans scattered far o er the earth, To join in the march to the land of their birth ; And wherever the exiles, 'neath Heaven's broad dome, Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, They'll bound to the sea, and away o'er the foam , They'll sail to the music of " Home, Sweet Home! " WIDOW MCGEE. Though old Erin's oppressed, 'tis a beautiful place, 'Tis the pride of my heart and will be till 1 die; It was there I last looked on your blushing young face, And got a sweet smile from your bonnie black eye. When you told me " farewell,'' how my bosom did swell With emotions of sorrow when crossing the sea; And I never could part with the love of the heart Which I brought over with me for Widow McGee. I 'noitrs. Arrah! Widow McGee, are you thinking of me': | sea, If you are, write a letter from over the And tell me you'll marry me. Widow McGee. WILLY REILLY. "Oh, rise up, Willy Reillly, and come along with me, 1 mean lor to ;, r o with you and leave this countrie, To leave my father's dwelling-house, his houses and free land — ' And away goes Willy Ileilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonsome plain, Through shady groves and valleys, all dangers to refrain; But her father followed after with a well armed band, And taken was poor Reilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. It's home then she was taken and in her closet bound. Poor Reilly all in Sligo jail lay on the stony ground, Till at the* bar of justice before the judge he'd stand, For nothing but the stealing of his dear Colleen Bawn. " Now in the cold, cold iron, my hands and feet are bound, I'm handcuffed like a murderer, and tied unto the ground; But all the toil and slavery I'm willing for to stand. Still hoping to be succored by my dear Colleen Bawn." The jailer's son to Reilly goes, and thus to him did say: " Oh, get up, Willy Reilly, you must appear this day. For great Squire Foillard's anger you never can withstand, I'm afear'd you'll suffer sorely for your dear Colleen Bawn." Now Willy's dressed from top to toe all in a suit of gr( ( n. His hair hangs o'er his shoulders most glorious to be seen; lie's tall and straight, and comely, as any could be found, He's fit for Foillard's daughter was she the hein ss to a crown. " This is the news, young Reilly. last night that 1 did hear, The lady's oath will hang you, or else will set you clear." "If that be so," says Reiily. "her pleasure I will stand, Still hoping to be succored by my dear Colleen Bawn." The judge he said: "This lady being in her tender youth, If Reilly has deluded her she will declare the truth." Then like a moving beauty bright before him she did stand — "You're welcome there, my heart's delight and dear Colleen Bawn." "Oh, gentlemen," Squire Foillard said, "with pity look on me, This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family: And by his base contrivances this villainy was planned, If I don't get satisfaction I'll quit this Irish land." The lady with a tear began, and thus repli sd she: " The fault is none of Reilly's, the blame lies all on me. I forced him for to leave his place and come along with me, I loved him out of measure, which wrought our destiny." Out spoke the noble Fox, at the table he stood by, "(ih. gentlemen, consider on this extremity; To hang a man for love is a murder, you may si i . So spare the life of Reilly, let him leave this countrie." " Good, my lord, he stole from her her diamonds and her rings, Gold watch and silver buckles, and many precious things, Which cost me iu bright guineas more than ; \ hundred pounds — 1 11 have the life of Reilly should I lose ten thousand pounds." "Coed, my lord. I gave them him as tokens of true love, And when we are a-parting 1 will them all remove, Tf you have got them, Reilly, pray, send them home to me." " I will, my loving lady, with many thanks to thee." "There is a ring among them I allow yourself With thirty locket diamonds well set in silver fair. as a ( i ne-to\ e token wear it on n 1. Tli.it you'll think on my poor brok n heart when you're in a foreign laid." Then out spoke noble Fox: "Yon ma;* Ie1 tl • prisoner go, The lady's oath has im, as the jurj all may know; She has released her own ti she has renewed his name, May ber honor bright gain high estate, and her offspring rise to fa ill"! " SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 87 WIDOW McGEE.— Continued. Do you mind the black night, when the pigs in the lane Came grunting along to the gate where we stood ? They all scampered in to keep out of the rain, Then I asked 3'ou to have me, and you said that you would. But I left you, you know and I told you I'd go To a country more beautiful, happy and free ; Where I'd buy me a lot, and build me a cot, And send to old Erin for Widow McGee. — Chorus. Troth, I have me the home with a big yara before, And a cow in the stable, a pig in the sty; And at night when I'm smoking my pipe in the door, Och! the divil a king half so happy as I. But what's a man's life when he's wanting a wife? Faith! he's like an old ship with no rudder at sea : So I'll heave out uiy rope with the anchor of hope, And I'll wait till I'm married to Widow McGee. — Chokus. THE LOW-BACKED CAR. When 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. 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 piekin' As she sits in the low-backed car. IRELAND'S WELCOME. And Shamus, allhay, is it thrue, what they say, this news from the Parliament, That all of my boys, my sojer boys, back home are to be sent? Back home are to* be sent, allhay, in shame and black disgrace, For having, inside their scarlet coats, the heart of their grand old race? Chorus. From my heart 1 say, God bless this day, My bouchal bawn machree; Without penny or pack to tack to your back, You're welcome home to me. They'll be sorry and sore when you're not to the fore these dan- gerous coming years, Oh, I forget, they're bairns yet, mush, see their volunteers; And whin those bairns meet the foe, faith vic'tries will be scant, 'Tis right enough, you're not the stuff, 'tis min wid legs they'll want. From my heart I say, etc. Whin you, like a thraveling killin' machine, o'er land and say did roam, Did it ever inther your mind at all, you'd have work to do at home? You'd have work to do at home, allhay, of the easiest, quarriest kind, Alanna machree, come hither to me — there's somethin' in the wind. From my heart I say, etc. In dark and in dawn, na bouchaleen bawn, they thried to coax you away, Wid bounties, and medals, and dhrunis, and fifes, and ribbons so bright and gay; Machree, I knew to me you'd be thrue, through thick and thin aich day; For hearts so brave never beat in the slave who'd fight for noth- ing but pay. From my heart 1 say, etc. Did these wholesale despots think, allhay, they bought you out and out Whin they gave you a rag to cover your back, and a bit to put in your mouth? They thought you'd forget alanna machree, for they spoke so smooth and fair, How they rooted you out of house and home and left you starv- ing and bare. From my heart I say, etc. The old home is in ruins now, 'twas the peelers, sure, pulled it down, And mother and Eileen they died that night in the snow going into the town ; In the old graveyard they are lying, allhay, above them the night wind moans, Alanna machree, sure you'll thry to free the s-d that covers their bones? From my heart I say, etc. In life there's nothing nobler than revenge for our marfyr'd dead ; To lighten the load of the hand oppressed, to give the hungry bread; To strive for the poor, the plundered poor, with a brother's strong, true hand, To march to the grand old music still, for God and our mother land. From my heart I say, etc. 88 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE LOW-BACKED CAR.— Continued. Oh, 1 d rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach-and-four and gold galore, And a lady for my bride. For the lady would sit fornenst me On a cushion made with taste, And Peggy would s.t beside me With my arm around her waist — While we dun ■ 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 \ LOVE IN REALITY. Away 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 dis- asters : 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 sigh- ing ; 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. I keep up Uesh and blood for the sake of this beauty ; I make it a point to be sound wind and limb ; I eat well, 1 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 peace is quite steady, not like one af- frighted Or a tree down a torrent swept swiftly along. I've my voice at command, and my words are ne'er wanting ; And it halt' of the clothes in Conn's north- ern domain Were heap'd on my back, with their heat I'd be panting, And fire is much hotter, I grant, than my skin. SK1BBEREEX. On, divil a bit can I tell ye now What happened to me at the wake o' me cow; There was Larry an' Patrick an' Jerry an' Tim, And all the relayshuns, hooch, bad scan to thim. They came in their thousands from valley and hill, And broke the resource ov the whisky still, That was the great fayture of Ballynahog, With their lashuns an' drinkin's an' crying for grog. Ciiobus. Wid their tearing, daring, cursing, swearing, Scooting, looting, hooting, shooting; Whisky, potatoes, och, wigs on the green, Shillalahs were flying in ould Skibbereen. Whn Larry the spalpeen, an' Tim tuk the floor, An' hung up their hats on the back of the door ; Be jabers, said I, just for fun loike, to Pat ; "How's that for turnips," cried Larry, '"take that!" I took it, and then, for the rest of my loife, I'll never forget the ructions and strife; I can't tell entoirely how that row was fixed, But all me relayshuns was pretty well mixed. — Chorus. Oh, begorra, the shouting an' tearing around. The boys that were broke up an' stitched on the ground; Pat tuk up the pavement an' pulled down the roof, Then evicted me out by the power ov his hoof. They broke up me meal-cask, they split the potteen, Divil another such shindy was seen; Then they blazed at me windows an' stritched out me sow To await the last trump by the side of me cow. — Chorus. My head the next morning was just like a rattle, Me oies and me nose both showed signs of the battle; P. C. 92 took us up for our thrial, Tho' we said we weren't foighting, he'd take no denial. Poor Tim got a fortnit. we all got a week ; The judge said, "Be aisy, ye've had a bad squeak, But if iver the boys an' yourself want a row, Don't let it occur at the wake of a cow." — Choius. I'M PROUD I'M AN IRISHMAN'S SOX. If 1 was a son of old England I'd praise the dear land of my birth: If the mountains of Scotland had brought me to light I'd cherish their beauty and worth: But my ehart beats fondly for old Ireland, And tho glorious deeds she has done. 'Till the day 1 die I'll hold my head high. For I'm proud I'm an Irishman's son. Chorus. So I'll think with a smile of the Emerald Isle. I'll remember the deeds she has done; While my heart is unfurled I'll say to the world, I'm proud I'm an Irshman's son. They may treat mo with scorn and derision, liny may bring the hot tear in my eye. They may say with a sner when employment I seek, That an Irishman need not apply. When I think of the heroes old Ireland's produced, And the glorious deeds they have done. I'll still play my part, and I'll say from my heart. I'm proud I'm an Irishman's >,>n. — (.'1101:1 s. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 89 LOVE IN REALITY.— Continued. 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 ine ; My mouth is more moist than the touch- wood, no doubt ; 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 Ls 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 stiffish conun- drum — " 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. IRISH COQUETRY. Says Patrick to Biddy, " Good mornin', me dear! It's a bit av a sacret I've got for yer ear: It's yourael' that is lukin' so charmin' the day, That the heart in me breast is fast slippin' away." " 'Tis you that kin rlatther," Miss Biddy re- plies, And throws him a glance from her merry blue eyes. " Arrah, thin," cries Patrick, " 'tis thinkin' av you That's makin' me heart-sick, me darlint, that's thrue! Sure I've waited a long while to tell ye this same. And Biddy Maloney will be such a fo!ne name." Cries Biddy, " Have done wid yer talkin', I pray ; Shure me heart's not me own for this many a dav! TERENCE'S FAREWELL TO KATHLEEN. So, my Kathleen, you're going to leave me All alone by myself in tbis place; But I'm sure you will n v 1 deceive me, Oh, no! if there's truth in that face. Though England's a beautiful city, Full of illegant boys — oh, whal then? You wouldn't forget your poor Terence, You'll come back to old Ireland again. Och, those English deceivers by nature, Though maybe you'd think them sincere, They'll say you're a sweet charming creature, But don't you believe them, my dear. No, Kathleen, agra! don't be minding The flattering speeches they'd make ; Just tell them a poor lad in Ireland Is breaking his heart for your sake. It's a folly to keep you from going, Though, faith, it's a mighty hard case; For, Kathleen, you know, there's no knowing When next 1 shall see your swe< t face. And when you come back to me, Kathleen, None the better off will I be then ; You'll be spaking such beautiful English, Sure I won't know my Kathleen again. Aye, now where's the need of this hurry? Don't flusther me so in this way; I forgot 'twixt the grief and the flurry, Every word I was meaning to say. Now just wait a minute, I bid ye — Can I talk if you bother me so? Oh, Kathleen, my blessing go wid you, Every inch of the way that ye go. BRIDGET DONOHUE. My name is Barney Blake, I'm a tearing Irish rake, Considered by my neighbors very handy ; I was reared to the spade, but I learned the tailoring trade, And think myself as good as John or Sandy; I work in first-class shops; I make clothes for swells and fops; I'm contented with my daily occupation ; I love a colleen rhue called Bridget Donohue, And she's the pride of all the Irish nation. Chorus. Bridget Donohue, I've got my eye on you; If you only marry Barney, you'll have no cause to rue;' You're the apple of my eye, I'm your Irish cockatoo; Mr. Cupid knocked me stupid for Bridget Donohue. At the wedding of Pat O'Hara I first met Bridget there, As she sat beside me at the wedding supper ; When she handed me my tay, I felt — I cannot say, But my heart it melted like a lump of butter ; I asked her there and then if she'd have me for a man, When she smiled on me as cute as any jailer — She said she would with pride! since then I'm satislied, She loves none else but Barney Blake, the tailor. — Chorus. She's modest as she's mild: she's a dacent father's child, And I'm longing for the day of our marriage: You would go from here to Spain to hear her sing " Napoleon's Dream," And at dancing she's got a lovely carriage. The other boys may try to put out Barney's eye, But soon they'll find it's nothing but a failure. She wouldn't see me fooled ; she's as pure as guinea goold To her thumping, stumping, jumping Irish tailor. — Chorus. 90 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. IRISH COQUETRY.— Continued. " 1 gave it away to a good-lookin' boy, Who thinks there is no one like Biddy Malloy; So don't bother me, Pat; jist be aisy," says she. "Indade, if ye'll let me, I will that!" says he; " It's a bit of a flirt that ye are, on the sly ; I'll not trouble ye more, but I'll bid ye good- by." '• Arrah, Patrick," cries Biddy, " an' where are ye goin"? Sure it isn't the best of good manners ye're showin' To lave me so suddint! " " Och, Biddy," says Pat. " You have knocked the cock-feathers jist out av me hat ! " " Come back, Pat," says she. " What fur, thin? " says he. " Bekase I meant jou all the time, sir ! " says she. O'FARPvELL THE FIDDLER. Now, thin, what has become of Thady O'Far- rell ? The honest poor man, what's delayin' him, why ? Oh, the thrush might be dumb, and the lark cease to carol, Whin his music began to eomether 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 — 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, " Here's Thady O'Far- rell;" 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 Killat ney — Had OKI vim married yet? — Was ould Mack still at work? — RORY O'MORE. YOUNG Rory O'More courted young Kathleen Bawn, lie was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn: He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. '• Now. Kory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry. Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye: "With your tricks 1 don't know in troth what I'm about — Faith! you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." •■ Oh, jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure, For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. "Indeed, then." says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For 1 half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that 1 walk on he loves, I'll be bound"— " Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." " Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go — Sure 1 dream every night that I'm hating you so." "Oh! " says Rory. "that same I'm delighted to hear. For dhrames always go by conthrairies. my dear; Oh! jewel, keep dreaming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie. And 'tis plazed 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 teased me enough. And I've thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself." drinking your health, quite a baste, So. 1 think, after' that. T 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? " Now, Rorv. leave oif. sir — you'll hug me no more — There's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before." " Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure — For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. [RISH CASTLES. " Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire: Maybe in its embers good luck we might see : But don't come too near, or your glances so shining. Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, maehree! "Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly they're burning; There's a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees, — And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire's — Who knows but some day we'll have something like these? " And now there's a coach, and four galloping horses. A coachman to drive, and a footman behind: That betokens some day we will keep a line carriage, And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind." As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth stone: While mansion and carriage in smoke-wreaths evanished. And left the poor dreamers dejected and lone. Then Norah to Dermot these words softly whisper'd, — " 'Tis better to strive, than to vainly desire; And our little hut by the roadside is better Than palace, and servants, and coach — in TJlK rn:;:! 'Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming — Since N'orah's sweet counsel effected its cure: For ever since then hath he toiled night ami morning. And now his snit' r mansion looks down on the Suir. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 91 O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER.— Continued. Shine"s political views — Barry's last bit of blarney — And the boys you hau met on their way to New York. And when from the sight of our say-front in' 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, " Will we try a jig-step, boys and girls, to the fiddle?" "Faugh a ballagh," we cried, "for a jig, to be sure." For whinever you'd start jig or planxty so merry, Wid their caperin' twirls, and their rol- lickin' 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 de- lightin' As our old coleen'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. For a minute or two, till the couples were ready, On your shoulder and chin the fiddle lay quiet : As our old colleen's voice, so sweet and so steady, And awav 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 ! What an elegant place, THE CALM AVONREE. BRIGHT home of my youth, my own sonowing sireland, My fond heart o'erliows and the tears dim mine eyes. When I think of thee, car-distant, beautiful Ireland, And the dark seas between me and you, my heart's prize. Oft — oft do I sigh, lor the days of my childhood, When I plucked the wild tlow'rs on fair upland lea, Or roamed the long day thro' the sweet, shady wildwood, On the green, grassy banks of the calm Avonree. Ah, me! could I fly o'er the dark, swelling ocean, To the home of my heart, to the land of my love, I'd be up on the wings with an exile's devotion, And dare every danger the dark seas above. Again would I roam thro' the fair, leafy bowers, Where the boys used to drill ere I first crossed the sea; And I'd weave for my Kathleen a garland of flowers, On the green, grassy banks of the calm Avonree. Again would I hear the wild thrush in his bower, The loud-singing lark o'er the deep, mossy dell, And the blackbird's soft song on the tall, wild tower That shadows the clear-springing, sweet " Abbey well." Once more would I hear the wild cuckoo's notes swelling, Along the rich valley, o'er moorland and lea, And the blithe sparrow's chirp 'round my own peaceful dwelling, On the green, grassy banks of the calm Avonree. But the day may yet come when I'll see thee soft smiling, And gaze on thee fondly, fair, beautiful land; I may yet live to see thro' thy narrow glens filing, The exiles now cast on a fair, foreign strand. I may fight for thee, too, ere the trees attain blossom, And see thee, my Erin, yet happy and free ; And my heart may yet rest on thy soft, dewy bosom, In a green, grassy grave by the calm Avonree. KATIE O'RYAX. On the banks of the Shannon, in darling old Ireland, Dwells a fair damsel, she's soon to be mine; She's a darling young creature and lovely in feature, I ne'er can can forget her! dear Katie O'Ryan. She's as fair as the dawn of the morning while beaming, Her eyes soft, her lips like the ruby red wine: Oh! she's the dear little shamrock, I'm constantly dreaming Of my own darling Katie, dear Katie O'Ryan. Chorus. She's the dear little shamrock, I'm constantly dreaming Of my own darling Katie, dear Katie O'Ryan. I now have rov'd far to a land call'd America, A home, Katie dear, for the honest and true; My heart saddens tho' when I think that T am So far away from old Ireland, and Katie, from you. The winter is on, but I heed not its cold, dear, The spring will bring flow'rs and joy to my heart : Oh, for it's nearing the time when I'll bring my love out here, Then in this free country our new lives we'll start. The fields here are green as they are in old Ireland, And all have their freedom to do what is right; Ah! Katie, I'e seen pretty girls by the thousand. And I'm thinking of none but you, darling, to-night. When the bright summer comes I will hasten, sure, back again, Take your soft, tender hands gently in mine. Oh! I'll never more leave you, but thro' life we'll wander, Till death it will part me and Katie O'Ryan. 92 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. BOUCHELLEEN BAWN. O, peat have you heard of my Bouchelleen Bawnf * Can yon tell me at all of my Bouchelleen Bawnf Have you come by the " rath," on the hill of Knock-awn; Or what can you tell of my Bouchelleen Bawnf The pulse of my heart was my Bouchelleen liawn. The light of my eyes was my Bouchelleen Bourn. From Dinan's red wave to the tower of Kilvawn, You'd not meet the like of my Bouchelleen Baton! The first time I saw my own Bowchellen Bawn, Twas a midsummer eve on the fair-green of Bawn. He danced at the " Baal-fire," as light as a fawn, And away went my heart with my Bouchelleen Bawn. I loved him as dear as I lved my own life; And he vowed on his knees he would make me his wife. I looked in his eyes, flashing bright as the dawn, And drank love from the lips of my Bouchelleen Bawn. But, Christ save the hearers! his angel forsook him — My curse on the Queen of the fairies — she took him ! Last All-hallows' eve as he came by Knock-awn, She saw — loved, and " struck " my poor Bouchelleen Bawn. Like the primrose when April her last sigh has breathed, My Bouchcll en drooped and his young beauty faded; He died — and his white limbs were stretched in Kilvawn, And I wept by th grave of my Bouchelleen Bawn. I said to myself, sure it cannot be harm, To go to the wise man and ask for a charm; 'Twill cost but a crown, and my heart's blood I'd pawn, To purchase from bondage my Bouchelleen Bawn. I went to the priest, and he spoke about heaven : And said that my failings would not be forgiven, If ever I'd cross the gray fairy-man's bawn ; Or try his weird spells for my Bouchelleen Bawn. I'll take his advice, though Cod knows my heart's breaking; I start in my sleep, and I weep when I'm waking. O, I long for the blush of eternity's dawn. When again I shall meet my own Bouchelleen Bawn! * Bovchett en Bawn, — The fair-haired boy, or the white-skinned boy. MARY OF THE CURLS. As 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 Ave the glances that beam from your melting blue eye; i our lips red as poppies, your cheeks bright as morn ; And your bosom and neck white ;\s blossoms of thorn. Thus sung the Sage, while, slyly stealing, The nymphs their fetters round him cast, Ami, 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 rac \ h (he gentlest touch at once sel moving, But all earth's power couldn'l shake from its base. FAX FITZGERL. VYikua, wirra, ologonc! Can't ye leave a lad alone, Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girl — Not even Trojan Helen, In beauty all excelhn', Who's been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl ? Wid her brows of silky black, Arched above for the attack, Her eyes that 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 golden thread Lift and fall upon her head, The likes of such a trammel-net at say was never spread; For whin accurately reckoned, 'Twas computed that each second Of her curls has cot a Kerryman, and kilt him dead. Now mintion, if you will, Brandy Mount and Hungry Hill, Or Magillieuddy's Reeks, renowned "i'or cripplin' all they can: Still, the countryside confisses None of all its precipices Cause a quarter of the carnage of the nose of Fan. But your shattered hearts suppose Safely steered aghast her nose. She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck them rovin' ships. My meaning it is simple For that current in her dimple, And the cruel reef will coax ye's to her coral lips. I might inform ye further. Of her bosom's snowy murther. And an ankle ambuscadin' through her gown's delightful whirl ; But what need, when all the village lias fors.tok its peaceful tillage, And flown to war and pillage- — all for Fan Fitzgerl ! "JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE." YViiilk going the road to sweet Alhy, Hurroo! Hurroo! While going (he 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. " 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, 1 hardly knew ye! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 93 "JOHNNY I HARPLY KNEW YE."— Cntinued. "Where are your eyes that looked so mild? llurroo! llurroo! Where are your eyes that looked so mild! Hurroo! llurroo! Where arc the eyes that looked so mild, When my heart you so beguiled? \\ hy did you skedaddle from me and the child? Why, Johnnie. I hardly knew ye! With your guns. etc. " Where are the legs with which you run? Hurroo! llurroo! Where are the legs with which you run.' Hurroo ! llurroo ! 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, etc. " It grieved my heart to see you sail, Hurroo ! llurroo ! 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, etc. " I'm happy for to see you home, Hurroo ! 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," etc. THE RAKES OF MALLOW. Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, damning, sinking,* 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. 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. IRELAND'S PROTEST. This is our share of th Jubilee bounties, A measure the vilest our land ever saw; Placing each one of the thirty-two counties, Under the scope of an infamous law. Will they submit to the act of atrocity'i Will* they be crushed by this cowardly blow? Will they be crushed by this cowardly bio Ireland speaks out. and her answer is No! Dublin will stamp on it, Wicklow will damp on it, Kerry will drag it about through the mire; Limerick will batter it, Waterford tatter it. Wexford will bundle it into the fire. Antrim with hatred profound is rejecting ii. Monaghan spurns it as something unclean; Clare has no notion of ever respecting it, Sligo condemns it as odious and mean. Galway declares it isn't worth a bad penny, Roscommon salutes it with hiss and with groan j 'Tis laughed at by Cork, 'tis despised by Kilkenny, 'Tis slated and stoned by Armagh and Tyrone. Cavan let fly at it, Louth takes a shy at it, Meath and Westmeath in the sport takes a share; Kings County jeers at it. Queens County sneers at it, Great is the mauling it gets from Kildare. Down and Fermanagh go in with a stick at it, Derry has given it a dip in her bogs ; " Tij) " takes a run and a big swinging kick at it, " Angry Mayo gets it torn by the dogs. Longford and Leitrim keep cutting and hacking it, 'Tis flung in the dust hole by fierce Donegal; Carlow would never get weary of whacking it, Such is the usage it gets from them all. Joyous acclaim to them. Honor and fame to them, Long may they live the brave thirty-two; One spirit firing them, One thought inspiring them, Standing united, undaunted and true. OH, ERIN, MY COUNTRY. Oh! Erin, my country, altho' thy harp slumbers, And lies in oblivion near Tara's old hall, With scarce one kind hand to awaken thy slumbers, Or sound a long dirge of the sons of Fingal, The trophies of warfare they stand still neglected. For cold lies the warriors to whom they were known j But the harp of old Ireland shall be respected. While there lived but one bard to enliven its tune. Oh ! Erin, my country ! I love thy green bowers, No music to me like thy murmuring rill : The shamrock to me is the fairest of flowers. And nothing more dear than thy daisy-clad hill. Thy caves, whether used by warriors or sages. Are still sacred held in each Irishman's heart; And thy ivy-crowned turrets, the pride of past ages, Tho' mould'ring in ruin, do grandeur impart. u SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. OH, ERIN MY COUNTRY.— Con tin ued. Britannia may boast of her lion and armor. \nd glory, when she her old wooden walls views; Caledonia may boast of her pibroch and clambour, And pride in her philabeg, kilt and hose. But where is the nation can rival old Erin? Or where is the country such heroes can boast? In battle they're tierce as the lion and tiger, And bold as the eagle that Hies round her coast. The breeze often shakes both the rose and thistle, Whilst Erin's green shamrock lies hushed in the dale; Contented it grows whilst the wintry iwn.l whistles, And lies undisturbed in the moss of the vale. Then hail, dearest, island in Neptune's proud ocean, The land of my forefathers, my parents at.'ra!_ Cold, cold must the heart be and devoid of emotion, That loves not the music of Erin-go-bragh. PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO. In the gap of Dunlo There's an echo, or so, And some of them echoes is very surprising You'll think, in a stave That I mane to desaive, For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in. But visible thrue In that hill forninst you There's an echo as plain and as safe as the bank, too; But civilly spake "How d'ye do, Paddy Blake?" The echo politely says : " Very well, thank you! " One day Teddy Keogh With Kate Conner did go To hear from the echo such wonderful talk, sir. But the echo, they say, Was conthrairy that day, Or perhaps Paddy Blake had gone out for a walk, sir. So Ted says to Kate: " 'Tis too hard to be bate By that deaf and dumb baste of an echo, so lazy, But if we both shout At each other, no doubt, We'll wake up an echo between us, my daisy! " " Now, Kitty," says Teddy, " To answer be ready.'' "Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty, then, sir; " Would you like to wed, "Kitty darling?" says Ted. "Oh, very well thank you." says Kitty again, sir; "D'ye like met" says Tddy; And Kitty, quite ready, Cried: "Very well, 'thank you! " with laughter beguiling. Now won't you confess, Teddy could not do less Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling? Oh, dear Paddy Blake, May you never forsake Those hills that return us such echoes endearing; And, girls, all translate The sweet echoes like Kate, No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fearing. Ami, boys, be you ready. Like frolicsome Teddy. Be earnest in loving, though given to jokinq ; And, when thus inclined. May all true lovers find Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they're inyoking. THE CASTLEBAR BOY. I ah: a boy from ould Ireland, Where good nature and morn shines on every face; And the pride of my father, And the girl's own joy, And the darlings they call me the Castlebar boy. Cuoeus. For my name it is Pat, I am proud out of that. My country 1 will nerer deny; I will fight for the sod Where my forefathers trod. Sing hurrah for the Castlebar boy. I was born one evening In the middle of June, They took me to town And thev christened me soon; What name shall we call him? says Father Molloy, Monnadowl, call him Paddy, the Castlebar boy. — Ciiokus. When I landed in England It was a beautiful morning. They gave me a job at reaping the corn; At reaping and mowing to beat me they tried, But the Omadhauna They could not touch the Castlebar boy.— Chorus Y'ou Englishmen, poor Paddy don't scorn, For Paddy was not always a big Omadhaun ; For his heart is in the right place, For a friend he would die; I think I have pleased you. the best I did try, Grant your applause to the Castlebar boy. — Chorus. THE RECONCILIATION. The old man he knelt at the altar. His enemy's hand to take. And at first his weak voice did falter, And his feeble limbs did shake; For his only brave boy, his glory. Had been stretched at the old man's feet A corpse, all so haggard and gory. By the hand which he now must greet. And soon the old man stopt speaking, And rage, which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking Up into his enemy's eye — And now his limbs were not shaking, But his clineh'd hands his bosom cross'd, And he looked a fierce wish to be taking. Revenge for the boy he had lost. But the old man he looked around hi;n. And thought of the place he was in. And thought of the promise which bound him. And thought that revenue was sin — And then, crying tears, like a woman, "Your hand!" he said — "ay, that hand! And I do forgive you, foeman, For the sake of our bleeding land! " SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 95 THE KERRY RECRUIT. JutfT nine years ago and me diggin' some land, Two brogues on my feet and a spade in my hand, Says 1 to myself, " 'Tis a pity to see Such a dashing young blade diggin' 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 oil' to the fair, like a dashing young blade ; I there met a sergeant, who axed me to list. " Arrah, sergeant," says 1, " will ye tip me the fist." Wid my brogues, etc. He gave me a shillin', he said he'd no more; When I'd get to headquarters I'd get half a score. " Headquarters," says I, " arrah, sergeant, good- by ; I'm not going to be quartered — I'm in dread I might die." Wid my brogues, etc. " Arrah, Paddy, be aisy, why can't you abide ; Headquarters 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, etc. 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 again That my father and mother were two Kerry men. Wid my brogues, etc. Then up comes the Colonel to give me his thanks, He bade me take arms and fall into ranks. ** 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, etc. The first thing they gave it was a red coat, Wid a great strap of leather to tie up my throat ; They gave me a quare thing, I axed 'em "What's that? " And they told me it was a cockade for my hat. Wid my brogues, etc. 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 noie then like thunder my shoulder she broke. Wid my brogues, etc. THE OLD COUNTRY PARTY. Did you ever go into an old country party? Where the boys are *o free and the girls so hearty, While around the turf lire the old pair take their ease, And a drop of the crature whenever they please. The first one I met before I left home, Was Gibbons, my uncle, who lived in Athlone, He left word for me to be there without fail, So I got in a stage that carried the mail. When I opened the door what a sight met my eyes, Hot bacon and praties, and herrings and pies. While up in the closet, by way of a lunch, Stood a five gallon bowl full of hot whisky and punch. While perched on the table, blind piper McGill And schoolmaster Casey, and Father O'Neil ; O'Brien, the butcher, and a great many nunc. And McAvoy brothers that came from Bandore. Then Biddy Mavournceii :vnd brothers O'Neil, Stood up on the floor a three-handed reel; While perched on the table, blind piper McGill layed a tune called The Little House under the Hill. The Concert Man's Ramble the piper did play, When old folks and young kept dancing away; But the music stopped short, for the bottle was dry, And in under the table the piper did lie. Then Kitty O'Brien sung Kitty Asthore, While Pat McAvoy gave us Rory O'Moore ; By the tail of my coat and my first cousin Tim, The life and adventures of Brian O'Lin. But now I am away from my friends at home, Likewise my old father I left in Athlone; Be the powers! the tears rushes into my eyes, When I think of old Ireland, the girls and the boys. YOUGHALL HARBOR. One 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." "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 Harbor 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 Cod please, maybe, a little baby By and by to nestle within your arm." 9G SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE KERYY RECRUIT.— Continued. The first place they sent me was ever so far, In a quare thing they said was the Kings 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, etc. We fought many battles wid pretty good luck, \t Vinegar Bill and at Ballinamuck, The balls and the powder they all were so hot 1 sneaked round behind them in dread of bein shot. Wid my brogues, etc. 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, Vml now I'm hack digguV praties agin. Wid my brogues so well greased and My face just as dirty. PAT'S LOVE. Och hone, and it's Biddy McClooney For whom me sowl is disazed, And the heart in me head is grown looney, And the brains in me bosom is crazed. 1 have lost all me love for pertaties — My amotion for inyuns and pork, For she is the finest of ladies That walks on the State of Ne' York. Me life with her worship runs over, Like a hod full of mortar; I'm sick; And me moments with mimeries of her Are as full as a hod full of brick. 1 think of her always and longer, From night until morning, and back; My love than good whisky is sthronger, And burdens me down like a pack. Her mouth is so sweet, and her kisses Are the rarest and best of the sort; And her voice, when she'.-, washing the dishes, Makes me jump like the cry of "More mort." Her hair is as red as the raven's, \nd faith don't I worship the same When 'tis curled just like carpenter's shav- ings, Or I see 't in the butther or crame! Her eyes when she's mad they are firish, Ami had they a voice they could speak. She's the best of her sex, and that's Irish, And she's thirty almost to a week. She can take her own pail at the table In a way that could never be hate. And I wish 'twas myself that was able To buy all the vituals she'd ate. She has sworn on a stack of pertaties Some day to be mine she'd consint; And shure as me name is O'Gradies ]f she could change her intint 1 would grow to the weight of a shadder, And hardly know what 1 was at; I'd ■hop from a six-story ladder, And make it the last of poor Pat. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. Oh, lovelv .Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best; If fifty girls we're round you. I'd hardly Bee the rest: Be wliat it may the time o' dav. the place be where it will, Sweet looks of' Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's Bowing on a rock. How ch.u they are, how dark they arc! 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. 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: [fs 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; Bui Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but sne 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; 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 ^r in town ! The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some brcat 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! distress! wish it less ; i in uiuuui >i (iiin ■■■ MwiMu hi, \''ui inn , urn., a am poor anu low , But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go. FLAMING O'FLANAGANS. Now I'm of age I'll come into my property, Devil a ha'penth I'll think of but fun ; "1'is myself will be putting the ladies in papoutry, Just to prove I'm my daddy's own -on. Och, now, Mistress Honey, I'll teach ye civility. Judy O'Doole, escape if you can — I'm the boy that will show you the sweets of gentility, Loving most women and fearing no man. CHORUS. Hooroo ! hack ! For, that was the way with the flaming O'Flanagans,. From the first illigant boys of that name: For kissing and courting, and filling the can again, Drinking and fighting like cocks of the game. Hooroo ! hack ! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 97 FLAMING O'FLANAG VNS— Continued. The lazing, the cursing, the shouting, the shooting, The clattering of glasses— the breaking of skulls— The dancing would sure be upon the besf footing, Wid Irish .Miss Murphys and English -Miss Bulls. The neat little party you'd like to see revel, The loves and the whisky, and the devil knows what; \r,l the dances that we whacked black and blue like the devil, And the spalpeens we floored at the very first shot. O'Brien he went through the world without lying. And lie beat the Danes, a whole score of them flat ; And faix, after that, the old Danes beat O'Brien, And he died victorious, more glory for Pat. Ever since that, the brave flaming O'Flanagans Have fought in each battle, all the way round: From Kilrush to Kilkenny, and all the way back again, The blood of O'Flanagans covers the ground. Do you see how I'm laughed at by all those queer vagabones, Shouting and screaming twice as loud as they can? Paddy Flynn, I go bail, I'll give you a sore bag of bones If you'll only come here and turn out like a man. Do ye's think I'll stop here until morning, diverting ye's While me nate jug of punch is cooling outside? Good night, boys, you know I'm sorry from parting yes, But the love of the whisky was always me pride. MOLLY MULDOON. Sweet jewel, my heart has gone out of my keepin', \n' 1 am wantin' it back wid a slice of your own; _ > For I drame through the night, when I ought to be sleepin , Ov the purtiest girl in the country of Tyrone. "Tis yourself, an' you know it, more shame you won t show it, Biit I'll list by my faith for a dashing dragoon, If you don't quit your jokin', which is more than provokin , And pity my love for you, Molly Muldoon. There's Shusey Magee, drinks her tay out of chaney, Her father, the drover, has money in store; An' Kitty McKenna, that plays the pianna, An', troth, if I liked— no, I needn't say more. But little I care for themselves or their riches; An' the music you'd make wid your noggin' an spoon, Would be sweeter to me if I slept in the ditches, An' scraped the same pot wid you, Molly Muldoon. Och! Molly, achorra, don't kill me wid sorrow, I'm awake on my feet wid the weight of my woes, My shouldin's neglected an' famine expected. My plow in the meadow a roost for the crows. An"* little it matters, my poor heart in tatters. For a corpse on the board I'll be stretched for you soon; Or wid ribbons all flyin', I'll laugh while you're erym', Then wed where you will, cruel Molly Muldoon. I've a heart true an' tender to love you forever, Five cows an' a cowlt, an' a guinea to spare; Not to mention my faction, the soul of a ruction, Mayrone can't they scatter the fun ov a fair. But lon^legged Mullen and crooked-eyed Cullen, They brag of your smiles, but I'll alter their tone; For there's murther a-brewin' an' all of your doin', I'm losin' my sowl for you, Molly Muldoon. But I don't care a rap if I never see glory, He's not in shoe leather who'll take you from me; An' for all your sweet sehamin' the end of the story . Will tell in my favor, a calleen machree. For I know in your heart there's a spark for me burnin , No sehamin' can smother, so whisper aroon; 'Tis a fortnight to Lent, an' you'll never repent. If we're one for the ashes, sweet Molly Muldoon. THE GREEN 1LAG. Boys' fill your glasses, each hour that passes Steals, it may be, on our last night's cheer; The day soon shall come, boys, with fife and drum, boys, Breaking shrilly on the soldier s ear. Drink to the faithful hearts that love us, 'Mid to-morrow's thickest fight; While our green flag floats above us, Think, boys, 'tis for them we smite. Down with each mean flag, none but the green flag Shall above us be in triumph seen ; Oh! think on its -lory, long shrined in story, Charge for Erin and her flag of green! Think on old Brian, war's mighty lion. 'Neath that banner 'twas lie smote the Dane: The Northman and Saxon oft turned their backs on, Those who bore it o'er each crimsoned plain. Beal-an-atha-Buidhe beheld it Bagenal's fiery onset curb; Scotch Mimroe would fain have felled it, We, boys, followed him from red Beinnhurb. Charged with Eoghan for our flag of green ! flag Shall above us be in triumph seen; Oh! think on its glory, long shrined in story, Charged with Eognan for our flag of green! And if at eve, boys, comrades shall grieve, boys, O'er our corses, let it be with pride; When thinking that each, boys, on that red beach, boys, Lies the flood-mark of the battle's tide. See! the first faint ray of morning Gilds the east with yellow light! Hark! the bugle note gives warning — One full bumper to old friends tonight. Down with each mean flag, none but the green flag Shall above us be in triumph seen: Oh! think on its glory, long shrined in story, Fall or conquer for our flag of green ! KATTY AVOURNEEN. 'Twas a cold winter's night, and the tempest was snarlin', The snow, like a sheet, covered cabin and stye, . t When Barney flew over the hills to his darlin , And tapped at the window where Katty did lie. "Arrah! jewel," said he, "are ye sleepin' ot wakin' ? The night's bitter cold, an' my coat it is thin : Oh! the storm 'tis a brewin', the frost it is bakin', Oh! Katty Avourneen, you must let me in." " Arrah ! Barney," cried she, an' she spoke thro' the window, " Ah ! would ye be taking me out of my bed? To come at this time it's a shame an' a sin, too — It's whisky, not love, that's got into your head. 98 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. KATTY AVOTJRNEEN.— Continued. If your heart it was true, of my fame you'd be tender, Consider the time, an' there's nobody in; Oh ! what has a poor girl but her name to de- fend her? No, Barney Avourneen, I won't let you in." " Ah ! eushla," cried he, " it's my heart is a fountain That weeps at the wrong it might lay at your door: V iur name is more white than the snow on the . ' >> ntain, And Barney would die to preserve it as pure. I'll go to my home, though the winter winds fare me, I'll whistle them off, for I'm happy within; An' the words of my Kathleen will comfort and bless me; 'Oh! Barney Avourneen. I won't let you in.' " J O'DONNELL ABU. Proudly the note of the trumpet i- sounding, Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale; Fleetly the sted of Loc Suilig is bounding, To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's green vale. On, every mountaineer, Strangers to flight and fear. Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh ! Bonnought and Gallowglass, Throng from each mountain pass, On for old Erin — O'Donnell abu! Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing With many a chieftain and warrior-elan; A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing 'Neath the borders brave from the banks of The Bann. Many a heart shall quail Under its coat of mail, Deeply the merciless tyrants shall rue; When on his ear shall ring, Borne on the breeze's wing, Tyrconnell's dread war-cry — O'Donnell abu! ( Wildly o'er Desmond the war-wo!f is howling, ; Fearless the eagle sweeps oeer the plain ; iThe fox in the streets of the city is prowling, All — all who could scare them are banished or slain. Grasp, every stalwart hand. Hackbut and battle-brand, i Pay them all back the deep debt so long due; Norris and Clifford well Can of Tir-Conaill tell- Onward to glory — O'Donnell abu! Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's defending, The altar we kneel at, and homes of our sires; Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending, Midnight is red with the plunderers' fires. On with O'Donnell then, Fight the old light again, Sons of Tir-Conaill, all valiant and true; Make the false Savon feel Erin's avenging steel, Strike for your country — O'Donnell abu! OULD IRELAND SO GREEN. MlCKET Doolan was one of them boys as went lighting, And breaking of skulls on St. Patrick's Day; There was meetin's of factions, and rowin'a and ructions; Aud murderous deeds — ah! the devil to pay! He went armed wid an illigant sprig of shillalah. Says Biddy, his wife, " Is it tightin' ye mean Says Mickey. " Don't bother — go hometo your mother; I'm going out to fight for ould Ireland so green." Choeus. There's Billy O'Mulligan, Jimmy : Sullivan, Barney O'Toole and Johnny Mackay; And Bobby o'Ryan and Shemua O'Brien. Goiif tightin' and tcarin' — it's St. Patrick's Day. Well, we meets Danny Looran. and says to him: " Dannv, Have ye come out to fight foi eeo or the Pope?" Says Dan. "It don't matter, for both o green. — Ciiorus. When they'd done with each other, they sat down to rest, And they felt that they both a good "action had done: They'd fought for their country and bled for their hoi And nearly got murdered and relished the fun: Then they both went together to tight t-ide by side, And they met Larry Moore walking calm and serene; So they broke in his skull, and knocked in his teeth. And jumped on his chest — for ould Ireland so green. — Chorus. Well, they got in a tangle and hit right and left, And smashed at each other — the blood flowed galore ; And Danny hit Larry, and Larry hit Danny, And Michael from both of them made the blood pour! Then they all fell at once, and they sprawled on the ground, Both Danny and Larry and Michael between ; But they wouldn't let go, so they all went together, And rolled in a ditch — for ould Ireland so green. — Chorus. Now some more sons of Erin were fighting for freedom, As they rowled in the ditch, heard them patriots cry; But they oon fished 'em out, and for love of Home Rule, boys, They gave 'em a thrashin' before they were dry I Then they all at once felt as they wanted some' liquor, So away they went to a whisky shebeen: And they murdered the keeper and smoked his tobaccy, nd emptied the till for ould Ireland so green. — Chorus. They'd just one more scrimmage before they wor partin', And there wasn't so many got off with their lives; But them as wor left of them true sons of Erin, Arrived Bafely home and pitched into their wives, Danny Looran forgot where he left his right eyeball, And Larry Moore's face wasn't tit to be seen, And Mickey wor tired, and wouldn't go walking. So rode home on a shutter for ould Ireland so "green. — Chorus. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 99 BILLY O'ROURKE. Faith! 1 greased my brogues and took my stick the twentieth day of May, sirs, Then off to Dublin town I tripped to walk upon the sea, sirs; To see if I could get employ to cut their hay and corn, sirs, To pick up pence upon the sea the cockneys I might larn, sirs. Chorus. With my phillaloo and heart so true, Arrah! Billy O'Rourke's the boy, sirs. I gave the Captain six thirteens to carry me o'er to Porgate, But before we got half o'er the road the wind it blew at a hard rate ; The sticks that grew up through the ship they sang out like a whistle, And the sailors all, both great and small, they swore we's going to the devil. The ship she sang us all to sleep till they came to the place of landing, And those that were most fatigued, the sails ere ou^ a-handing; They looked so smart they won my heart — says 1 : You fools of riches, Although you've no tails to your coats you've money in your breeches. I met an honest gentleman a-traveling the road sirs, Good morning, says I, pray how do you do? but he proved a mighty rogue, sirs ; For, at the corner of a lane a pistol he pulled out, sirs, And he rammed the muzzle, arrah, what a shame, into my very mouth, sirs. Your money, blast your Irish eyes! arrah! be merciful, cried I, sirs. He swore my brains he would blow out if I should bawl or cry, sirs; He leveled fair just for my sconce, three steps I did retire, sirs, His pan it flashed and his head I smashed — my shillelah don't miss fire, sir. A widow next did me employ all for to cut and thrash, sirs, No man like me could handle a flail, in troth, I was a dasher; She had a maid who used me well, but I, being afraid o' the beadle, Bid her good morning, Madam, says I, I think you'll have use for your cradle! PADDY MILES. From the big town of Limerick lately I came, I left Ireland solely bekase of my name ; For if anything wint wrong, or a mischief 'twas done, Shure they'd lave all the blame on my mother's own son. So my name now is Paddy O'Connor, 'Pon an Irishman's thrue word and honor; Oh, misfortune my curse light upon her, 'Twas she christened me Paddy Miles. If a windy was broke, or a house robbed of tiles, And you'd ax who done that, shure they d say Paddy Miles; Who was it set fire to his reverence's wig? And cut the tail off Pat Flanigan's pig? Who was it called Mishes Muloney a scollup? And gave Paddy McGee's cat the jallop? Some blackguards would hit me a wallop And say it was you, Paddy Miles. LofC. PADDY MAGEE'S DREAM. John" Bull he was an Englishman, And went to tramp one day. With three-pence in his pocket To take him a long way ; He tramped along for miles and miles, Yet no one did he see, Till he fell in with an rishman. Whose name was Paddy Magee. Good morning, Pat, said John to him, Where are you going to? Says Paddy: I hardly know myself, I want a job to do. Have you got any money about you? Said John Bull unto Pat. Says Pat: It's the only thing I'm wanting, For 1 haven't got a rap. Then they overtook a Scotchman, Who, like them, was out of work; To judge by his looks, he was hard up j And as hungry as a Turk. Can you lend me a shilling, Scotty? At last said Paddy Mag< i . I'm sorry I canna, said the Scotchman, For I ha'e na got ane baubce. Said the Englishman, I three-pence have, What shall we do with that '.' Och! buy three-pen'orth of whisky, It will cheer us up, said Pat. Nay, dinna do that, said the Scotchman, I'll tell thee the best to do : Just buy three-pence worth of oat-meal, I'll make some nice burgoo. Now I think we had better buy a loaf, The Englishman did say; And then in yonder hay-stack Our hunger sleep away. We can get a drink of water From yonder purling stream, And the loaf shall be his in the morning, Who has the greatest dream. The Englishman dreamt by the morning, Ten million men had been For ten years digging a turnip up, The largest ever seen ; At last they got the turnip up, By working night and day ; Then it took five million horses This turnip to pull away. Said the Scotchman: I've been dreaming Fifty million men had been For fifty years making a boiler, The largest ever seen. What was it for? said the Englishman, Was it made of copper or tin? It was made of copper, said Scotty, To boil your turnip in. Och! said Paddy, I've been dreaming An awful great big dream; I dreamt I was in a hay-stack, By the side of a purling stream, I dreamt that you and Scotty was there, As true as I'm an oaf; By the powers! I dreamt I was hungry, So I got up and eat the loaf. 100 IlND ballads OF IREL '. PADDV MILES Coni itued. I worked in the bogs and behaved, as I thought, From mj master, Mick Flynn, a character brought; But il dune me no good, and I thought that was odd, So I made nj) my mind for to leave the ould sod. For the devil a wan would employ me. The girls there they would annoy me; They threatened at once to destroy i All bekase I was called Paddy M Who cut off one of the tails of Pat Flanigan's coat? And who broke the left horn of Ned Shaughn ssy's goat? Who through the hack door to tne i hapel got in, And drank all the wine, blood and ounds, what a sin! Who half-murdered a poorhouse inspector? And fired at a police detector; When Miss Fagan, they tried to eject her? Who was it, hut you, Paddy Miles? I trotted to Dublin to look for a place, Tho' they'd ne'er saw me tnere, faix, they all knew my face; The jackeens kept calling meself to annoy, There i es Paddy Miles, he's a Limerick boy! Till I flourished my sprig of shillelah, And smattered theii g >bs so genl :elly; When the blood it began to How freely, Said [, How do you like Paddy Miles? In shoi i. before long to this county I came, And found Paddy Miles here was the same; If my name wasn't changed I was likely to starve, Tor had luck to the master could I sarve. So Paddy O'Connor it is made, sir, An' if you wish to get a smart blade, sir, Be me soul, then, you need not be afraid, sir, For to hire me — I'm not Paddy Miles. THE EXILES (IF ERIN. Green were the fields where my forefathers dwelt, O! Erin, mavourneen, slan leat go brah! Though our farm was small, yet comforts we felt, O! Erin, mavouneen, slan leat go brah! At length came the day when our lease did expire, And fain would I live where before lived my sire; But ah! well a-day! I was forced to retire, O! Erin, mavourneen! slan leat go brah! Though the laws i obeyed, no protection I found, O! Erin, mavourneen! slan leat go brah! With what grief I beheld my cot burned to the ground, O! Erin, mavourneen! slan leal go brah! Forced from my home — yea, from where 1 was born, To range the wide world — poor, helpless, forlorn: I look back with regret, and my heart strings arc torn, O! Erin, mavourneen! slan leat go brah! With principles pure, patriotic and firm, O! Erin, mavourneen! slan leat go brah! To my country attached, and a friend to reform, O! Erin, mavourneen! slan leal go brah! 1 supported old Ireland — was ready to die for it, If her foes e'er prevailed 1 was ell known to sigh for it; If her foes e'er prevailed I was well known to sigh for it; 0! Erin, mavourneen! slan leat go brah! But hark! I hear sounds, aid my heart is stron O! Erin, mavourneen! slan leat go brah! Loud cries for redress, and avaunt on ret reating, ()! Erin, mavourneen! slan leat go brah! We have numbers, and numbers do constitute pow'r — Let ns will to be free — and we're free from that hour; Of Ilibernia's brave sons, oh ! we feel we're the flower — Bole yudh, mavourneen! Erin go brah! beating, THE GATHERING OK THE MAHONYS. Jebbt Maiio.w. arrah, my i let us he oil' to the fair, For the Donovans all in the; ta'mly mean to be I here; Say they, "The whole Mahony II banish 'em out clear and clean." But it neve! was yet in their breeches I bullaboo words to maintain. There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as J et sp< 'Twould make your mouth water to se - him just giving a bit of a stroke. There's Corney, the ban I tailor, a of the true sort of stuff, \\ no'i the black blood was flowing like butter-milk out of his bull. There'.- broken-nose Bat from the mountain — last week he burst out of jail — And Mmty the beautiful Tory, who'd soorn in a row to turn tail : Bloody Bill will be there like a darling — .aid Jerry — och! let him alone, For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a Lump of a stone I 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 lights, as I do, with a Hail. We muster a hundred shellelahs. all handled by ilegant 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. After cutting out worK for the sexton by smashing a dozen or so. We'll ( pi it in the utmost of splendor, and down to Peg Slatterv'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. LANK: AX'S BALL. Ix the town of Athy one Jereniv Lani Battered away til'l he had'nt a pou 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 rela- tions 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. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 101 LANIGAN'S BALL.— Continued. plyself, of course, got free invitations For all the nice boys and girls I'd ask, And in less than a minute the friends and re- lations 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. 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' Tai a's ould Hall," To " Sweet Nelly Gray " and " The Ratcatch- er'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 as 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 Hallo- ran'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 fur- ther, But have satisfaction at 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. Ch, boys, there was the ructions — Myself got a lick irom big l'helim McHugh, But I soon replied to his kind introductions, And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo. Old Shamus the piper had like to be stran- gled, They squeezed up his pipes, bellows, chant- ers and all ; The girls in their ribbons they all got en- tangled, And that put an end to Lanigan's ball. FLAG OF OUR LAND. Flag of our Land, that oft has streamed through battle's lurid blaze and smoke, When the long ranks were wrapped in flame, and in the shock the legions broke, Flag of our Land! for you, for us they say the sun of hope has set, We give them back the craven lie! we're shattered, but not beaten yet. The Norman trampled on your folds, the Norman trampled on us, too; And Saxon hate and native guile did all the wreck that Hell could do. Not coward-like, but wild for fight, have we and they in conflict met, We've borne the loss for centuries; repulsed, but never beaten yet. This isle is ours, its plains and hills, from center to the utmost sea, We tread its soil, we speak its tongue, we dearly pray to see it free. Patience and faith shall do the work, and earnestness shall win the debt; Hark you who still have hearts to toil; we're scattered, but not beaten yet. While in this Irish Land there lives the spirit of an Irish race, The pluck that smiles at worst reverse and meets disaster face to face, By Heaven and all the shining stars, around the throne of Godhead set, The future teems with hope for us; we're watchful, but not beaten yet. "Perish the past! " the patriot cried; ay, let the mournful ages go, With bitter feud, the curse of hate, they've made our heritage of woe. Into the darkness of our doom a ray of nobler glory let ; Seize fast the present; years to come they'll swear we were not beaten yet. Down with the feuds of vanished years, tney waste oui" breath, they break our strength ; A nobler creed, a nobler life, 'tis ours to preach and fill at length. Flag of our Land, float high and fair; they lie who say our sun has set; God and the future still are ours; we live, and are net beaten yet. THE FELON'S LOVE. " Gracie O'Donnell — oh ! why sit you there, Twining so calmly your bright yellow hair, Wait you a lover to come from Knockbwee, When the brown moon arises on mountain and sea ": " You have eyes like the starlight on Nephin's gray peak, There is bloom on your lips — why the snow on your cheek? The smile on thy face, gentle maiden, is gone, And the touch of your fingers is cold as the stone." " I wait not a lover to come from Knockbwee, My lover's in chains on the wide swelling sea, O, Willie mavowrneen, when traitors stood high, The foe felt the galnce of your clear flashing eye. 102 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE FALUN'S LOVE.— Continued. "You loved me, asthorc, and your heart broke across, When you thought of the parting, th sorrow and loss, But you knew your own Grade would wither in shame, If the brand of a traitor was placeu on your name. " They called you a felon — they chained you as one — And made you' the brother of Emmet and Tone; Oh! prinees might envy that title to-day, For the sake of the hearts lying down in the clay. "Yes. a traitor to England — a foe of its race, You proudly looked up to the black tyrant's face: Twas the crime of our fathers— their sons stand up now, With that mark of a traitor stamped plain on each brow. " The last kiss I've pressed on your lips and your cheek, The last word you've heard for your Gracie to speak; The last time I've looked on my brave Willie's face, And left the wild clasp of a felon's unbrace. " I am twining my hair, for a bridal is near, By the walls of Kilkeevan they'll carry a bier, For the felon's true love could not live while the brand Was not flashing on high in the grasp of his hand." THE OLD FARMER'S DISCOURSE. I've a pound for to spend and a pound for to lend, And ca de me la fal ha kind words for a friend; No mortal I envy, no master I own, No lord in his castle or king on his throne. Come fill up your glasses, the first cup we will draw To the comrades we lost on the red battle's plain. Well cherish the fame, boys, who died long ago, And what's that to any man whether or no? The spinning-wheel stops and my girls grow pale, \\ hilst their mothers are telling some sorrowful tale Of old cabins leveled, or coffinless grave-. Or ships swallowed up in salt ocean's waves. Girls, that's over, and for each of you now I have twenty-five pounds and a three-year-old cow; We'll have lana-walla at your weddings I trow, And what's that to any man whether or no? Come here, bana-tharjua, sit beside me awhile, And the pride of your heart let me read in your smile. Would you give your old home for the lordlcss hall? You glance at my rifle thai hangs on the wall, And your two gallant sons on parade day are seen In (he ranks of the brave 'neath the banners of green. We have taught them to ;uard i1 traitor or foe, And what's that to any man whether or no? And the youngest of all is the white h aded boy, The pulse of our heart and our pride and our joy ; From the dance and the hurling he - E to pray, And will wander alone by the 1 He's as : .'oocl as the priest at his Latin I h Through college, plase Goodness, we'll next year. Oh, he'll offer the Mass For our souls when we go, And what's that to any man whether or no? Your hands then, old neighbors, one more cup will drain, /,/ faltha, again and again, May dis ason keep far from our shore, Ami fin- i 1 peace light our homes ever more. He's th i good fellows, the poor honest man. So well live and be merry as long as we ran: We'll cling to old Ireland through weal and through woe, And what's that to any man whether or no? SHAMROCK CN PATRICK'S DAY. There's one day in the year that I'll always obsei • >• As long as I've one breath of life. To our patron saint my memory will serve, And 1 haven't the least fear of strife. But with pleasure and freedom, I'll sing and I'll dance, While the piper his tunes sweetly play; Each lad and his colleen can gambol and prance, While we drown the green shamrock on Pat- rick's Day. Chorus. Patrick's Day! Saint Patrick's Day! Throw aside coffee and tea ; Fill up your glasses, then drink to ^ our lasses, And we'll drown the green shamrock on Patrick's Day. Now, the seventeenth of March is our natal day. And we celebrate it with great joy; From the gray-haired old man and old woman, too, To the smallest of spalpeens or boy. No true Irishmen could then miss a fair, But to town, sure they rode all the way On their donkeys and cars, siir ■. they tome near and far. To drown the green shamrock on Patrick's Day. — Choetjs. We're not selfish at all on our open fields, All are welcome to join : So come up every one of ye. take a hand in, In the merriment ye can purloin. And while the piper has wind for to blow, And his nimble ringers can play. We'll stay till the wee small hours of the morn. To drown the green shamrock on Patrick's Day. — Choi: i S. OLD LANDMARKS OX TDK SHANNON. We stand by the bridge, in the level morning. And the saffron water below us (lows — Saffron save where, in yon eastern inlet, The light, has deepened its bloom to rose. There is the city, good Master Leonard, Tailor and poet, sir, as you are. And here am I with my heart to bursting, Gossiping under the huge bright star: There is tin' i ity will: roof and easement, Belfry and steeple, of which we - When we were boys in St. Michael's parish: llun was the time for a man to be youn Then the city — 1 still keep thinking — Looked gayer, grander, fairer than now. \nii say it didn't: "Not half as splendid." And I object witli my next best bow. Hark I 'tis the bell of St. Dominie ringing, Ah, weary music that bell to m< ; For 1 remember another mi In days that I never again shall see. Heavy— heavy monotonous tolling Out from the belfry this morning's rung: recall when the saint kept singii NOW i> the time for a man to be young. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 103 OLD LANDMARKS.- -Continued. Oh, the delight of the Sunday mornings, And the country folks at the chapel door; And the golden blaze from the lolly windows That slanted in on the crowded lloor. Far off the altar, the priests, the incense — The sound of the gong, the sigh of the soul, And over the heads of the congregation The curtained organ's terrible roll. The green leaves danced on the yellow case- ment, Each separate leaf like a narrow tongue; And the old roof branded in restless shadow, That was the time for a man to be young. I'm not pious, and not alfeeted; I like the life of a true, straight man, I strike the world whenever it strikes me, And do my duty as best I can. But, Master Leonard, you will believe me, I'd give the best fame that the world has made, Throw fortune in with a "God go with you," To pray one prayer now as then I prayed. " WON'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR ? " " The 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 llowers. Sweet Nora, are you wakingf Ah! don't you hear me spoking f 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. " There's not a soul astir, love, No sound fall9 on the ear But that rogue of a breeze That's whispering the trees. Till they tremble all through with fear. Ah! them happy (lowers that's creeping "I'd your window where you're sleeping — Sure they're not chide 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 ; 'Tie treatment too bad For a true-hearted lad To be starved like a desolate fowl. "You know the vow you made, love, You know we tixed 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 T'm a bit of a rake, And a trifle might tempt me to break — Faix, hut for your blue eye. I've a notion to try What a sort of old maid you'd make." COME BACK TO ERIN. Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, Come back, aroon, to the land of thy birth, Come with the shamrocks and springtime, mavourneen, And its Killarney snail ring with our mirth. Sure when we left you to beauiilul England, Little we thought of the lone winter days, Little we thought of the hush of the starshine, Over the mountains, the bluffs, and the braes! Choei Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, Come back again to the land of thy birth; Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, And its Killarney shall ring with our mirth. Over the green sea, mavourneen, mavourneen, Long shone the white sail that bore thee away, Riding the white waves that fair summer mornin', Just like a May flower afloat on the bay. Oh, but my heart sank when clouds came between us. Like a gray curtain, the rain fall intr down, Hid from my sad eyes the path o'er the ocean, Far, far away where my colleen had flown. Oh, may the angels, oh, waking and sleeping, Watch o'er my bird in the land far away; And it's my prayer will consign to their keeping Care of my jewel by night and by day. When by the fireside I watch the bright embers, Then all my heart flies to England and thee. Craving to know if my darling remembers. Or if her thoughts may be crossing to me. CAHAL MOR OF THE WIXE-RED HAND. I walked entranced Through a land of Morn ; The sun, with wondrous ex-ess of light, Shone down and g'aneed Over seas of corn, And lustrous gardens aleft and right. Even in the clime Of resplendent Spain Beams no such a sun upon such a land; But it was the time, 'Twas in the reign Of Cahal Mnr of the Wine-red Hand. Anon stood nigh By my side a man Of prin e!y aspect and port sublime. Him queried I: " Oh, my lord and khan, What ciiine is this and what golden time?" When he: " The clime Is a clime to praise, The clime is Erin's, the green and bland; And it is the time. These be the days, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine red Hand." Then I saw thrones. And circling (ires, And a dome 'rose near me as by a spell, Whence flowed the tones Of silver lyres. And many voices in wreathed swell; And their thrilling chime Fell on mine ears As the heavenly-hymn of an angel band — "It is now t he t [me, These be the years, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand." 101 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR.— Continued. "Ah! Dermot, win me nol. love, To be youi bride to-night ; iiow could I bear A mother's ten. A father's scorn and slight? So, Dermot, cease your suing — Don't work your Nora's ruin ; "f would be my sore undoing, If you're found at my window, dear." " Ah! for shame with your foolish alarms: Jus, 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 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 oil', " Won't you leave us a lock of your hair? " THE OLD CHURCH. Tuou art crumbling to the dust, old pile! Thou art hastening to thy fall, And 'round thee in thy loneliness Clings the Ivy to the wall. The worshipers are scattered now Who knelt before thy shrine, And silence reigns where anthems rose In days of " Auld Lang Syne." And sadly sighs the wandering wind, Where oft, in years gone by. Prayers rose from many hearts to Him, The Highest of the High; The tramp of many a busy foot That sought thy aisles is o'er. And many a weary heart around Is still forever moi e. How doth Ambition's hope take wing, How droops the spirit now, We hear the distant city's din, The dead are mute below : The sun that shone upon their paths Now gilds their lonely graves, The zephyrs which once fanned their brows, The grass above them waves. Oh! could we call the many hack Who've gathered here in vain. Who've careless roved where we do now, Who'll never meet again; How would our very soul he stirred, To meet the earnest gaze Of the lovely an 1 i he beautiful, The lights of other da> 3. ONE OF THE BRAYK CONNAUGH1 RANGERS On the battle-field at midnight, stood a soldier a; his post, Thinking of his dear old country and of those he h>\ them bright'ning, When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle, Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming, Oh, where is the dwelling in valley, or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island? How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, And trod all thy w 7 ilds with a minstrel's devotion, And thought of thy bards, when assembling together, In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depths of thy heather, They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush of thy water! High sons of the lyre, oh, how proud was the feeling, To think while alone through that soliiuae stealing, Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains The songs even echo forgot on her mountains; And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was sleeping Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping. Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me, Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me, Still — still in those wilds might young liberty rally, And send her strong shout over mountain and valley; The star of the west might yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. I, too, shall he gone — but my name shall be spoken When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken; Some minstrel will come, i:i the summer eve's gleaming, When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, Or plant a wild v, Ii. from the banks of thai 1 iver. O'er the heart, and the harp, that are weeping forever. MOLLY CAREW. Ocii hone! and what will I do? Sure my love is all eiost 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 Carevv — 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. 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, 'Pon 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 laze 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, Tho' the piper I bate, For fear the owld chate Wouldn't play you your tavorite tune; And when you're at mass My devotion you crass, For 'tis thinking of you I am, Molly Carcw ; While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep: Oh, lave off 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 I 108 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. HOLLY CAREW.— Co) tiinued. 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 sonic morning you'd meet My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the sthreel ; Throth, you'd open your eyes, And you'd die with surprise, To think 'twasn't you was come to it! And, faith, Katty Xaile, And her cow, I go bail, Would jump if I'd say " Katty Nailc, name the day." And tho* you're fair and fresh as a morning in May, While she's short and dark like a cowld win- ther'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. BROSNA'S BANKS. Yes, yes, I idled many an hour — ( O, would that I could idle now, In wooing back the wither'd flower Of health into my wasted brow!) But from my life's o'ershadowing close, My unimpassioned spirit ranks Among its happiest moments those 1 idled on the Brosna's Banks. For there upon my boyhood broke The dreamy yoke of nature first; And every word (he vision s;>o'-e. How deeply has my spirit nursed! A woman's love, a lyre, or pen, A rescued land, a nation's thanks. A friendship with the world, and then A grave upon the Brosna's Banks. For these I sued, and sought, and strove, But now my youthful days are gone, In vain, in vain — for woman's love Is still a blessing to be won; And still my country's cheek is wet. The still unbroken fetter clanks, And I may not forsake her yet To die upon the Brosna's Banks. Yet idle as those visions seem, They were a strange and faithful guide, When Heaven itself had scarce a gleam To light my darken'd life beside; And if from grosser guilt escaped I fel no dying dread, the thanks Are due unto the power that shaped My visions on the Brosna's Banks. And love. 1 feel, will come at last, Albeil too late to comfort me: And letters from the land be cast. I bough I may not survive to see. It then the gifted, good, and brave Admit me to their glorious ranks. My memory may, tho' qo1 my grave. Be green upon the Brosna's P.;mks. THE SI HUE OF MAYNOOTH. Crom, Crom-aboo! The Geraldine rebels from proud Maynooth, And with him are leagued four hundred, the tlower of Leinster's youth. Take heart once more, oh, Krin! The great (iod gives thee hope : And thro' the mis', of Time and Woe thy true Lite's portals ope! Earl Thomas of the Silken Robes! — here doubtless burns thy soul ; Thou beamest here a Living Sun, around which thy planets roll. Then had our land, now scorned and banned, been saved a world of woe ! Oh! would the Eternal Powers above thai this were only so: No more — no more! — it maddeneth so! — But rampart, keep, and tower At least are still — long may they be — a part of Ireland's power! But — who looks 'mid his warriors from the walls, as gleams a pearl 'Mid meaner stones? 'Tis Parez — foster-brother of the Earl. Enough! — we shall hear more of him! Amid the hundred shafts Which eampward towards the Saxon host the wind upbears and wafts. One strikes the earth at Talbot's feet, with somewhat white — a scroll- Impaled upon its barb — Oh! how exults the leader's soul! He grasps it — reads: "Now, by St. George, the day at last is ours ! Before to-morrow's sun arise we hold yon haughty towers! The craven traitor! — but, 'tis well! — he shall receive his hire, And somewhat more to boot, (Jod wot, than perchance lie may desire! " Alas! — alas! — 'tis all too true! A thousand marks of gold In Parez' hands, and Leinster's bands are baselv bought and sold ! Karl Thomas loses fair Maynooth and a hundred of his clan — But, worse! he loses half his hopes, for he loses trust in Man! The morn is up: the gates lie wide; the foe pour in amain. Oh! Parez, pride thee in thy plot, and hug thy golden chain! There are cries of rage from battlements, and mellays beneath in court, But Leinster's Brave, ere noon blaze high, shall mourn in donjon fort ! "Ho! Master Parez! thou?" So spake in the hall the Saxon chief — "How bast thou proved this tentless loon? But, come, we will stanch thy grief! Count these broad pieces over well! " He flung a purse on the ground. Which in wrathful silence Parez grasped, 'mid the gaze of all around. "So! — right?" "Yes, right, Sir John! Enough! I now de- part for home! " "Home! sayest-thou, Master Parez? Yes, and by my halidome. Mayest reach that sooner than thou dreamest. But before we part, I would a brief, blunt parle with thee. Nay, man, why dost thou start? " "A sudden spasm. Sir .John." — "Ay — ay! those sudden spasms will shock, As when, thou knowest, a traitor lays his head upon the block! " SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 109 THE SIEGE OF MAYNOOTH.— Continued. "Sir John!*' — "Hush, man, and answer ine! Till then thou art in bale — Till then mine enemy and thrall! " The fallen chief turned pale. "Say. have I kept good faith with thee?" — "Thou hast — good faith and true ! "I owe thee nought, then?" "Nought, Sir John; the gold lies here to view." '"Thou art the Earl's own foster brother r " — " Yes, and bosom friend! " " What ? " — " Nay, Sir John, 1 need those pieces, and " ■ — •" Come, there's an end! '•The Earl heaped favors on thee?" — "Never King heaped more on Lord ! " "lie hived thee'.' honored thee?'' — " 1 was his heart, his arm, his sword! " "Tie trusted thee?" — "Even as he trusted his own lofty soul! " "And XHOtj betrayest him? Base wretch! thou knowest the traitor's goal ! "Ho! Provost-Marshal, hither! Take this losel caitiff hence — 1 mark, methinks, a scaffold under yonder stone defense. Off with his head! By Heaven, the blood within me boils and sect lies. To look on him! So vile a knave pollutes the air he breathes! " Twas but lour days thereafter, of a stormy evening late, When a horseman reared his charger in befoie the castle gate. And gazing upwards, he descried by the light of the pale moou shed, Impaled upon an iron stake, a well-known gory head! "So, Parez! thou hast met thy meed! " he said, and turned away — "And was it a foe that thus avenged me on that fatal day? Now, by my troth, albeit I hate the Saxon and his land, I could, methinks, for one brief moment press the Talbot's hand ! " EMMET'S FAREWELL TO HIS SWEETHEART. Farewell, love, farewell, love, I now must leave you, The pale moon is shining her last beam on me; In truth, I do declare 1 never deceived you, For it's next to my heart is dear Erin and thee. Draw near to my bosom, my first and fond true love, And cherish the heart that beats only for thee: And let my cold grave with green laurels be strewn, love, And cherish the heart that beats only for thee; Oh, never again in the moonlight we'll roam, love, When the birds are at rest and the stars they do shine; Oh, never again shall I kiss thy sweet lips, love, Or wander by streamlets with thy hands pressed in mine. Oh, should a mother's love make all others forsake me, Oh, give me a promise before that I die, That you'll come to my grave when all others forsake me, And there with the soft winds breath sigh [hen for sigh. My hour is approaching, let me take one fond look, love, And watch thy pure beauty till my soul does depart; Let thy ringlets fall on my face and brow, love, Draw near till I press thee to my fond and true heart. Farewell, love, farewell, love, the words are now spoken, The pale moon is shining her last beams on me: Farewell, love, farewell, love, I hear the death token, Never more in this world vour Emmet vou'll see. THE PRETTY GIRL OF L iCE DAN. Tin-: shades of eve had crossed the glen Chal frowns o'er infant Avonm When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,. We stopped before a cottage door. "God save all here,'' my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch pin; "Cod save you kindly," quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in. We enter; from the wheel she starts, A rosy cross the wild v\ave; But, wherever I wander, I ever shall ponder And dream of the time when nature did - On my father and mother and dear loving brother And the old cabin home in the dear cm'rald isle. Then if ever the Father shall look down in pity, And cast off the yoke that does Ireland enslave, I'll hie me back then to the scenes of my childhood, And pluck a pure shamrock from my dear parents' grave. Don't say no more, boy, for I. too, am a daughter; And to think of her wrongs, oh, it makes my blood rile; And I pray that the time is not very far distant When the green shall wave proud o'er the dear em'rald isle. MCCARTHY'S MARE. We started for the fair, with spirits light and hearty, Behind McCarthy's mare, oh! it was a lively party! You never saw the likes of it, believe me what 1 say. Sure, we had a roaring racket, but the mare she ran away. Chobtjs. Off she vvint! off she wint! be gob, I was not worth a cint ; The sate was just as hard as Hint, behind McCarthy's mare. " Hould her in! " McCarthy cried, "Stop her! " says McCue, I tho't I'd shake to pieces, as along the road we flew; Me head was swimming like a top, my heart was in despair. The divil himself was in the wheels behind McCarthy's mare. McCarthy held the reins, and Murphy hold McCarthy. But whiskey filled their brains and made them wild and hearty Maloney tumbled out behind, and there we let him lay — Sure I offered to assist him — but the mare she ran away! Me dacent coat, was tore, me hat was left behind me, I rattled and 1 swore, and I thoUghl the dust would blind me In holes and ditches wint the wheels, oh. murther, what a day Sure, myself was kilt entirely, with the mare that run away. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. Ill DEAR OLD IRELAND. Deep in Canadian woods we've met, from one bright island flown ; Great is the land we tread, but yet our hearts are with our own. And ere we leave this shanty small, while fades the autumn day, We'll toast old Ireland! dear old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur- rah! We've heard her faults a hundred times, the new ones and the old, In songs and sermons, rants and rhymes enlarged some fifty fold. But take them all, the great and small, and this we've got to Here's good old Ireland! lov'd old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur- rah ! We know that brave and good men tried to snap her rusty chain, That patriots suffered, martyrs died, and all, 'tis said, in vain; But ?«>, boys, no! a glance will show how far they've won their way. Here's -ood old Ireland! lov'd old Ireland! Ireland! boys hur- rah! We've seen the wedding and the wake, the pattern and the fair; The stuff they take, the fun they make and the heads they break down there. With a loud hurroo, and a phillalo, and a thundering " clear the way," Here's gay old Ireland! dear old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur- rah! And well we know, in the cool gray eves when the hard day's work is o'er How soft and sweet are the words that greet the friends who meet once more ; With " Mary Machree " and " My Pat Tis he," and " My own heart night and day! " Ah, fond old Ireland! dear old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hurrah! And happy and bright are the groups that pass for their peaceful homes for miles, O'er fields and roads and hills to mass, when Sunday morning smiles, And deep the zeal their true hearts feel, when low they kneel and pray ; Oh, dear old Ireland! blest old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hurrah! But deep in Canadian woods we've met, and never may see again The dear old isle where our hearts are set, and our first fond hopes remain ! But come, fill up another cup ; and with every sup let's say : Here's lov'd old Ireland! good old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur- rah! THE IRISH STRANGER. Oh, pity the fate of a poor Irish stranger That's wandered thus far from his home ; I sigh for protection from want, woe and danger, But know not which way for to roam, I ne'er shall return to Hibernia's bowers. For bigotry hath trampled her sweetest of flowers, That gave comfort to me in my loneliest hours. They are gone and I'll ne'er see them more. THE RISING OF THE MOON. "■On, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Tell me why you hurry so?' 'Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen;' And his cheeks were all aglow. 'I bar ordhera from the captain, Gel you ready quick and soon; For the pikes must be together At the risin' of the moon.' "'Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Where the gatherin' is to be?' 'In the ould spot by the river, Right well known to you and me. One word more — for signal token. Whistle up the maiihin' tune. With your pike upon your shoulder By the risin' of the moon.' " Out from many a mud-wall cabin Eyes were watching through that night, Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning liyht. Murmurs passed along the valli y, Like the banshee's lonely croon. And a thousand blades were flashing At the rising of the moon. '• There beside the singing river That dark mass of men was seen, Far above the shining weapons Hung their own beloved green. ' Death to every foe and traitor, Forward, strike the marchin' tune, And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! 'Tis the risin' of the moon.' " Well they fought for poor old Ireland And full bitter was their fate. (Oh, what glorious pride and sorrow Fill the name of Ninety-eight! ) Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating Hearts in manhood's burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps, At the risin' of the moon." RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bor^: But, oh, her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems and snow-white wand. "Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, thro' this bleak way? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold As not to be tempted by woman or gold? " Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm; No son of Erin will offer me harm; For, tho' they love woman and golden store, Sir Knight! they love honor and virtus more! " On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her 'round the Green Isle; And bless'd forever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor and Erin's Pride! 112 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE IRISH STRANGER.— Continued. With wonder I gazed on yon proud, lofty building', As in grandeur it rose from its lord, Willi sorrow I beheld mj own garden soon yielding Its choicest of fruits for its board. But where is my father's low cottage of clay. Wherein 1 did spend many a long happy day? Alas! has his lordship contrived ii away? ■ Yes, it's gone and I'll ne'er see it more. When nature was seen on the sole bush and bramble, Sit smiling in beautiful bio O'er the fields without danger i used to ramble, And lavish amidst her perfume, Or range thro' the woods where the gay-feather'd throng Did joyfully sing their loud-echoing song, The days then of summer passed swfiM alon . Now they are gone and I'll ne'er see them n When the sloes and the berries hung 1 ipe on the bushes. I've gathered them oft without harm, And gone to the fields where I've shorn the green rushes, Preparing for winter's cold storm. Or I've sat by the fire on a cold winter's night, Along with my friends telling tales of delight. Those tales gave me pleasure, I could them invite, Now they are gone, shall I ne'er see them more? But, Erin, sad Erin, it grieves me to ponder On the wrongs of thy injured isle; Thy sons, many thousands, deploring, to wander On shores far away in exile. But give me the power to cross o'er the main, America might yield me some shelter from pain, I'm only lamenting whilst here I remain For the joys that I'll never see more. Farewell then to Erin and those I left weeping Upon her disconsolate shore, Farewell to the crave where my father lies sleeping, That ground 1 still dearly adore. Farewell to each pleasure, 1 once had at home, Farewell, now a stranger in England I roam; Oh, give me my past joys, or give me a tomb, Yes, in pity I ask for no more. KATE O'BRIEN. Perhaps you don't know there's a sweet little stream Far down in a dell where a poet might dream; A nate little cabin stands close to the tide, And, och, such a jewel is shining inside. I don't mean a jewel that money can buy, But a warm-hearted creature with love in her eye; You'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee. Her name is O'Brien, they christened her Kale. There's many a beauty has shared the same fate; But never a one, to my thinking. I've seen So lovely, so trim, as my bright -eyed colleen. Her face is a picture for limners to paint, Her figure might serve for a heart-winning saint: Oh, you'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee. Her hair is as smooth as the raven's own back. But, the bonniest bird has not tresses so black: And they curl 'round a neck that might rival the snow, With the grace of a swan on the waters below. Her mouth — oh, what music I've heard from that same, Her breath it might put the sweet roses to shame; Oh. you'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee. THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 0! DO.x't be beguilin' my heart with your wilin'. You've tried that same thrick far too often before, And by this blessed minnit an' day that is in it, I'll take righl ^ooj . bl you'll try ;< no more! You thought that so slyly you walked \\ ; I O'Reilly, By man and !>.. mortal unheard and unseen, While your hand he kept squeezin', and. looked so ph ■ Last Saturday night in your father's bo,- His thricl - and his sehamin has set you a- dhramin'; 1 any one blessed with their eyesight You'] same erature you once war by nature, And they that are thraitors won't do, faith, for me ! Tho' it is most distressin' to think that a blessin' Was just about fallin' down plump on the scene, When a cunning culloger, as black as an ogre, Upsets all your hopes in a dirty bar And 'tis most ungrateful, unkind, and unfaith- ful, When you very well know how I gave the go-by, Both to pride and to pleasure, temptation and treasure, To dress all my looks by the light of your eye. 0! 'tis Mary Mullally, that lives in the val- ley— 'Tis she that would say ho v ill-used I have been, And she's no: the deludher to smile and to soother, And then walk away to her father's borcni. I send you your garter, for now I'm a martyr. And keepsakes and jims are the least of care, So when things are exchanging since you took to rangin' I'll trouble you. too, for the lock of my hair I know b\ its shakin", my heart is a-breakin', You'll make me a corpse when I'd make you a queen, But as Mire as I'm livin", it's you I'll be giviu' 1 terriblt fright, when I haunt the ban Till! DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK. There's a dear little plant thai grows on our isle, Twas St. Patrick himself sure that set it: And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile. And with dew from his eye often wet it. It shines thro' the bog, thro' the brake and tho mireland, And he called it the dear little shar:roik of Ireland ; SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 113 THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK.— Continued. The dear little shamrock, the sweet little sham- rock, The dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ireland. That dear little plant still grows in our land, Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin; Whose smile can bewitch, and whose eyes can command. In each climate they ever appear in. For they shine thro' the bog, thro' the brake and the mireland, Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland. The dear little shamrock, the sweet little sham- rock. The dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ireland. That dear little plant that springs from our soil. When its three little leaves are extended, Denotes from the stalk we together should toil, And ourselves by ourselves be befriended. And still thro' the bog, thro' the brake and the mireland, From one root should branch, like the sham- rock of Ireland ; The dear little shamrock, the sweet little sham- rock of Ireland ; The dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ire- land. OLD IRELAND I ADORE. Oh, Erin's Isle, my heart's delight, I long to see thee free, Where'er I am by day or night My heart beats warm for thee. I grieve to see thee so oppressed, But what can I do more? Oh, Grama Machree, I weep for thee — Old Ireland I adore. Your scenes surpass all on earth, They are so rich and rare; Your sons are of the noblest birth, Few with them can compare. Oppres-cd and starved they were compelled To wander from your shore ; Old Grama Machree, I weep for thee — Old Ireland I adore. I'd like to know what hast, you done That still you can't be free? But this I know, you had a son Who struggled hard for thee. O'Connell was that hero's name — Tie was known from shore to shore; Oh, Grama Machree, he'd have set you free, But, alas! he is no more. If you were free as once we were, How happy would we be! No foreign landlord then would dare To lord it over thee. We'd have our homes and bread to eat, As once we had before ; Oh, Grama Machree, I long to see Old Ireland free once more. PRETTY MARY, THE DAIR1 MAN S DAI OUTER. Faix it's I'll sing you a ditty t hat's funnj and witty, Yet it wakens the pity of every one; It's in vain ye'll be thryin' to prevint yeersels eryin', An' yer eyes ye'll be dhryin' whin my song is done. 'Twas in swate Tipperary there stud a uate dairy, Wid the name of Ned Carey wrute over the door; And sure Ned sould good butter, so it said on the shutter, And beautiful googeens a shilling a score. An' he had a fine daughter call'd Mary, The pride iv her dad an' his dairy ; Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight. An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. Poor old Ned loved his daughter, for an angel he thought her, An' fine clothes he bought her to make her look gay; An' she was a sweet creature, so full of good nature, An' as fair in ach fathure as the blossom o' May- She was always intrudhin 5 and niver a fude in, So ye'll be kincludin' she'd iv lovers her share; There was tradesmin an' doctors an' lawyers and proctors, Came no ind of miles from the uivil knows where, Just to {jet a smile from ?weet Mary, The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; Och ! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. But so plaze you sweet Mary loved one, Paddy Rarey, Who could dance like a fairy an' twirl his stick; Tho' his birth was a misthry, could trace his ancistry, Thro' the pages iv histhry to Amonachnic. But Mary's ould daddy didn't care for young Paddy, For no money had he sure a wife to support; An' a silky ould waver, a well-to-do shaver, Crept into Ned's favor his daughter to court, An' was promised the hand iv sweet Mary, The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; Och ! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy\ Mary's lovers got jealous an' oft they did bellus, Sayin' before they'll expel us we'll all take the sack; One wint home to his garden, an' (cravin' yer pardon), He dug up the devil an' shoveled him back. An' some shouldered arums an' others sung pearms, An' many tried charums till their houses they burn'd, An' the papers related iv deaths contemplated, Thro' love it shtated, which wasn't returned, By the beautiful heart-killin' Mary, The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. So one day to her father, sez Mary, I'd rather Be single for life, than that life shud be ruled By a crawlin' ould waver, an' I'll not have the eraver If the hair iv his head hung with diamonds an' gold. Sez her father, Daunt raise me, for the divil may saise me, If ye iver have Pat, I'd as lave see yer dead ; Thin he turn'd like a wild boor, an' bullied his child sure. Till she fell on the tiled flure, her senses most fled. An' yer wouldn't give that for poor Mary, The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. But at last she got betthur an' wraut Pat a letthur, Telling him to forget her an' bid him good-by! Thin she gave a great shiver, flue away to the river, Axed God to forgive her, an' prepared for to die! 114 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. PRETTY U&RY.— Continued. Cum away from the water, shouted Ned to his daughter, An' you shall wed Pat an' have all yer dad's tin; But it wasn't so aisy, for the >jn>t bein' greazy, An' her mind bein' crazy, she slipped and fell in. An' all down to the bottom went .Mary, In sight of her dad an' his dairy; Oeh! she was Ins delight an' the pearl iv his sight, An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. An' Mary's poor lover did never recover, An' his antics an' tanthruma 'twas horrid to see; Till he tuk off his garther, some forty years afther An' hoong himself up to a mulberry tree! An' sure ould Ned Cnvy tallied Pal an' Mary, An' they haunted the dairy an' kicked up a* great din; An' such shriek in' an' laughter, from foundation to rafther, Was heard for years afther till the house it fell in! An' that was the ind o' poor Mary, Her Paddy, her dad, an' the dairy; An' from that same night I've never seen sight Iv the home iv the beautiful fai THE WOODS OF KYLINOE. Mr heart is heavy in my breast — my eyes are full of tears, My memory is wandering back to long departed years — To those bright days long, long a o, When nought I dreamed of sordid care, of worldly woe — But roved, a gay, light-hearted boy, the woods of' Kylinoe. There, in the springtime of my life, aand springtime of the year, I've watched the snowdrop start from earth, the first young buds appear ; The sparkling stream o'er pebbles flow, The modest violet, and the golden primrose blow. Within thy deep and mossy dells, beloved Kylinoe! 'Twas there I wooed my Mary Dhuv, and won her for my bride, Who bore me three fair daughters, and four sons, my age's pride ; Though cruel fortune was our foe, And steeped us to the lips in bitter want and woe, Yet cling our hearts to those sad days, we passed near Kylinoe! At length by misery bowed to earth, we left our native strand — And crossed the wide Atlantic to this free and happy land; Though toils we had to undergo, Yet soon content — and happy peace 'twas ours to know, And plenty, such as never blessed our hearth near Kylinoe! And heaven a blessing has bestowed, more precious far than wealth, Has spared us to each other, full of years, yet strong in health: Across the threshold when we go, We see our children's children round us grow, Like sapling oaks within thy woods, far distant Kylinoe. Yet sadness clouds our hearts to think that when we are no more, Out bones must find a resting place, far, far from Erin's shore, For us— no funeral sad and slow — Within the ancient abbey's burial ground shall go — No, we must slumber far from home, far, far from Kylinoe! Yet, O! if spirits e'er can leave the appointed place of rest, Once more will 1 revisit thee, dear Isle that I love best, O'er thy green vales will hover slow, And many a tearful parting blessing will bestow On all — but most of all on thee, my native Kylinoe! OULD DOCTHER MACK. You may tramp the world over From Delhi to Dover, And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arra- gon, Circumvint back Through the whole Zodi.uk. But to ould Docther Mack ye cant furnish a paragon. Have ye the dropsy. The gout, the autopsy? Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez; Xo ways infarior In skill, but supaTior, And lineal postarior of Ould A; sculapioua. He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aiglo eye and complexion ciai ll.rc- 10 his health. Honor and wealth. The king of his kind and the crame of all charity 1 How the rich and the poor, To consult for a cure. Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues Or unlacin' their lungs, For divel one symptom the docther dispar- ages, Troth, and he'll tumble For high or humble, From his warm feather-bed wid no cross con- trariety; Makin' as light Of nursin' all night The beggar in rags as the belle of society. And as if by meracle, Ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother. And quench the love-sickness Wid wonderful quickness, By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other. And the sufTerin' childer— Your eyes 'twould bewilder To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails un- ravel in'; And aich of them fast On some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travelin'. Then, his doctherin' done, In a rollick in' run Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure. By Jupiter Ammon, What Jack-snipe or salmon E er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! And hark! the view-hollo! Tis Mack in full follow On black Faugh-a ballagh the country-side sailin . <'ch, but you'd think Twas ould Nimrod in pink. Wid his spurs ciyin' chink over park wall and palin'. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 115 OULD DOCTOR MACK.— Continued. He and his wig, wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion elarety ; Here's to his health, Honor and wealth! Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity, Hip, hip, hooray! that' the way, All at once, without disparity! One more cheer For our docther dear, The king of his kind and the erame of all charity. Hip, hip, Hooray! LARRY McHALE. Oh, Larry McIIale, 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 it had Larry Mc- Hale. 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 Mc- Hale! 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 Mc- Hale. He'd a blunderbuss, too, of horse-pistols a pair ; But his favorite weapon was always a flail ; 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 Mc- Hale! 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 Mc- Hale." So fill up your glass and a high bumper give him, It's little we'd care for tithes or repale; Ould Frin would be a fine country to live in, If we only had plenty like Larry McHale. S\V E ET I N N I S FALLEN . Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine! How fair thou art let others tell, — To feel how fair shall long be mine. Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle. 'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of care — Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there. No more unto thy shores to come. But on the world's rude ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost. Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. For, though unrival'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But thus in shadow, seen'st a place Where erring man might hope to rest — Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's, on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way. Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! And all the lovelier for thy tears — For though but rare thy sunny smile, 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when indeed they come, divine — The brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine! THE WATERFORD BOYS. Well, boys! for divarsion we've all met together, I'll tell how from Waterford hither I came; I cross'd the big ocean in dark, gloomy weather, My heart it was light and my pocket the same. Sad at l'avin' ould Ireland, but once more on dry land, By the roadside a tavern I happen'd to spy; And as I was meltin', my pockets I felt in The price of a drink — I was mortally dry. Chorus. For we are the boys of fun, wit and element, Drinkin' and dancin' an' all other joys; For ructions, destruction, devarsion and divilment, Who can compare with the Waterford boys? In the tavern I stroll'd, out the master he roll'd, " Morrow," sez he, sez I, " Av you please, Provide me a bed, but first bring me some bread, A bottle of porter and a small piece of cheese. For times they are queer, and provisions are dear, If you cannot get meat, with cheese be content." Sez the landlord. "You're right," so he bro't me the bite;' I roll'd up my cuffs and at it I went. 116 SONUS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE WATERFORD BOYS.— Continued. My bread and cheese ended, 1 then condescended To seek some repose, so l ax'd for a light, And soon in a doze I was under the clothes; I popp'd in my toes and I popp'd out the light. But wakin' from sleepin' I heard somethin creepin', Meand'rin' and wand'rin' about my bedpost; Squeakin' and scratchin', thinks i 'mid my watchin', " 'Pon my conscience, you've mighty long claws for ghost.' My breath I suspended, the noise it soon ended, 1 ventured to peep fro fch the bedclothes; '• .Mi Ilia murtha! what's that? ' a thumpin' jack rat, With a leap from the floor, lit atop of my nose. "Thundei ye! " sez 1. "for a schemin' ould vagabone, Take that, and that," as I l( iped on the iloor, Shouting, " Murther and fire, Tim, Jerry, Maria, The rats they are eatin' me up by the >core." The landlord affrighten' came with a lighl in. "I'm murdered alive, 1 sez 1, "so must away." Sez he, " Before goin', I'd have you be knowin', For supper and bed you've lin's to pay." '"Five shillin's for what V och, don't be disgracin' Yourself for a rogue," sez 1, "if you please; When i can'1 sleep for rats, you, a brazen ould face on ye, To charge me five shillin's for plain bread and cheese." Sez he, •• Perish the rats, I wish they would l'ave me, They ruin m\ trade and I'm not worth a rap." Sez I, " The live shillin's would you forgive me, An' I'll tell you how to keep out every rat." "Agreed! " Tien sez I, "To supper invite them, And plain bread and cheese sel before them, be sure; Don't mind if they're willin', but charge them five shillin', Bad luck to the rat that you'll ever see more." PAT MALLOY. At sixteen years of age 1 was my mother's fair-naired boy, She kept a little huckster shop, her name it was Malloy; "I've fourteen children, Pat," says >he, "which heaven to me has sent . But children ain't like pigs, you know — they can't pay the rent ! " She gave me every shilling there was in the till, And kissed me fifty times or more, as if she'd never get her fill: " Oh, heaven bless you, Pat," said she, " and don't forget, my boy, That ould Ireland is your country, and your name is Pat Mal- loy ! " Oh, England is a purty place, of gold there is no lack — I trudged from York to London, wid me scythe upon me back; The English girls are beautiful, their loves I don't decline, The eating and the drinking, too, are beautiful and line; But in a corner of me heart, which nobody can see, Two eyes of Irish blue are always peeping out at me! Oh. Molly, darlin', never fear, I'm still your own dear boy — Ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy. From Ireland to America across the seas I roam, And every shilling that 1 got, ah, sure I sent it home: Me mother couldn't write, but, oh, there came from Father Boyce: "Oh, heaven bless you, Pat," says she — I hear me mother's voice! But now I'm going home again, as poor as I begun, To make a happy girl of Moll, and, sure, I think T can: Me pockets they are empty, but me heart is filled with joy, For ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy. COLLEEN . 'IN AMOE. Tin: beam on the streamlet was playing, The dew-drop still hung on the thorn, When a blooming young couple were straying, To taste thi mild fragrance of morn. lie sighed as he breathed forth his ditty, And she felt her breast softly to grow; "Oh, look on your lover with pity, Ma Colleen dhas Cruthin Amoe. "Whilst green i> y>u bank's mossy pillow, Or evening shall weep the soft tear. Or the streamlet shall steal 'neath the willow, mg shall thy image be dear. Oh, fly ;n ihese arms for protection If pi the arrow of woe, my tender affection. Ma Colleen • il bin Amoe." She sighed as his ditty was ended, Her hea i i was too full to reply ; Oh, joy and compassion were blended To light the mild beam of her eye. He kissed her soft hand: -'What above thee Could heaven, in its bounty, bestow?" He kis^ed her soft cheek : " Oh, I love thee, Ma Colleen dhas Cruthin Amoe."' HOW ERIN WAS BORN. With your kind attention, your good conde- cension, I'll make bold to mention of Erin so • Without hesitation, I'll tell how this nation Became of creation the gem of the Queen. It happened on,, morning, without any warn- ing. That Vanus was born in that beautiful sav: And by that same token — och! sure 'twas pro- vokin', Her pinions were soaking and wouldn't give play. Chorus. Tli is story was told, boys, by sages of old, boys ; Who thus did unfold, boys, how Erin was born. Now, Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her. In order to woo her — the wicked old Jew; And very nigh caught her atop of the water, Great Jupiter's daughter, who cried. " Wishastro! " When Jove, the great janious, looked down and saw Vanus, And Neptune, so " banious," pursuing her wild : He roared out like thunder, he'd tear him asunder — And sure twas no wonder, for tazing his child — Chorus, A star tlun espying, close 'round by him lying, SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 117 HOW ERIN WAS BORN.— Cmtiuued. He soon sent it flying — he hurled it below; Where it fell like winking, old Neptune then sinking, With what 1 am thinking, was a mighty big blow. That same star was dry land, 'twas lowland and highland, And formed that sweet island, the land of my birth ; And makes true the story that sent down from glory Old Erin so hoary, is a heaven upon earth. — Chorus. Now Vanus slept nately, on Erin so stately, But fainted 'cause lately so bothered and pressed ; Which much did bewilder, ana very nigh killed her, When her father distilled her a drop of the best. This potheen victorious made her feel glorious, A little uproarious, I feel it might prove ; Then how can ye blame us that Erin's so famous For whisky and fighting, for beauty and love. — Chorus. WINNIE'S WELCOME. Well, Shamus, what brought ye? It's dead, sure, I thought ye — What's kept ye this fortnight from calling on me? Stop there! Don't be lyin' ; It's no use denyin' — I know you*ve been waitin' on Kitty Magee. She's ould and she's homely: There's girls young and comely Who've loved you much longer and better than she; But, 'deed I'm not carin'. I'm glad I've no share in The love of a boy who loved Kitty Magee. Away! I'm not cryin', Your charge I'm denyin', You're wrong to attribute such wakeness to me; If tears I am showin', I'd have ye be knowin' They're shed out of pity for Kitty Magee. What's that? Am I dhramin'? You've only been shammin'? Just thryin' to test the affection in me; But you're the sly divil! There now ! Please be civil ; Don't hug me to death! I'm not Kitty Ma- gee. Y'our kisses confuse me; Well, I'll not refuse ye — I know you'll be tindher and loving wid me; So show my conthrition For doubts and suspicion, I'll ax for first bridesmaid Miss Kitty Ma- gee. PAT ROACH AT THE PLAY. As Pat Roach and the missus, from Galway, In Dublin once happened to be, To the playhouse they went one line evening, Determined diversion to see. But, says Pat as he entered, "There's no one To paj - money to, here, at all; " "Pay here! " cried a voice. "Holy murther! " Says Pat, " there's a man in the wall." "Pay here! " cried a voice. "Holy murther!" Says Pat, " there's a man in the wall." The missus she looks all around her, In wonder her eyes they did roll, But says she, " Paddy darling, alanna, He is here like a rat in a hole." "Pay here." "How much is it?" "A shilling." "A shilling apiece, that won't do; 'Tis too much, "Six. Pay here, avourneen, Eighteen pince 1 will give you for two: 'Tis too much, Mr. Pay here, avourneen, Eighteen pince I will give you for two." Pat grumbled, but paid and got seated, The band was beginning to play, He jigged on his seal qxiite elated, And to the musicians did say: " 'Tis yerselves that can do it, me bouchals, And I wish to yez wid all me mind." To the tiddlers, " More power to your elbows, Mister Bugler, heav'n spare ye yer wind." To the fiddlers, " More power to your elbows, Mister Bugler, heav'n spare ye yer wind." The play then went on and Pat wondered, And sat with his mouth open wide, As the proud haughty Lord of the Manor Sought to make the fair maiden his bride. "To the mountains," says he, "I will bear thee." She shrieked as she saw him approach : "Is there no one at hand now to save inc.' Shouts a voice: "Yes, me darlin', Pat Roach." Then up on the seat jumped brave Paddy, Says he: "Now, you blackguard, be gone, Or a lord though you be tin times over, I'll knock your two eyes into one." "Sit down there in front! " " What, you spalpeen, Is it me you thus dare to address! Do you think that Pat Roach would sit aisy, And see that poor girl in distress?" But soon sure the row did nubside. And as Pat gasped for breath he discovered, Of the door he was on the wrong side; He soon found the missus, next morning They started for home, and Pat swore If he once safely landed in Galway, He'd come up to Dublin no more. THE VOLUNTEERS. " Mother — dear mother, tell me what meant the proud array Of armed men and prancing steeds which passed yon mountain way? And who was he of noble mien and brow of lordly pride, Who rode, like warrior chief of old, that gallant band beside? " Marked you how lighted up his eye, as in the noonday sun Their silken banners iiutter'd wide and flash'd each polish'd gun, And how with gentle courtesy he oft and lowly bowed, As rang the brazen trumpets out, and cheer'd th' assembled crowd ? 118 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE VOLUNTEERS,— Cotin "Methinks the Spartan chief who fell at famed Thermopylae, Of whom we read but yesternight, was Buch a man as he — The same proud port and eagle eye— the same determined frown, frown, And supple arm to shield a friend or strike a foeman down. ••And then those troops as on they passed, n proud and glit- tering show, Seemed worthy of the chief who led— 'twere pity of the foe Who roused to wrath their slumbering might, or wronged our own green land — (J I'd promise them a scattered host with many a shivered brand. "You're right, dear Mabel, for the chief who leads that warrior host Is Grattan— high and honored name — thy countrj s proudest boast; And they whose closely marshalled ranks the people hailed with cheers, Thy country's soldier-citizens— the gallant Volunteers. '•Then why, dear mother — tell me why those Volunteers arose? Was it to guard some sacred right, or to repel our foes? For I have heard my father say he dreaded England's word And English perfidy far more than foreign Eoeman's sword." "They rose to guard from foreign foes — as well from British guile — Thy liberties and mine, my child, and all within this Isle; To make this glorious land of ours — those hills we love so well, A fitting home and resting place where freedom's foot might dwell. " They rose and swore by Freedom's name, by kindred and by kind, No foreign rule, no foreign guile, their country's limbs should bind — That she should stand erect and fair, as in the olden time, The loveliest 'mong the nations — of Ocean's Isles the prime. "That thev have nobly kept this pledge, bear witness, one and all, The bootless plots of England, the baffled hosts of Gaul. That they may long be spared to guard our country's rights divine, .Should be your prayer at night and morn, my child, as it is mine." BEAUTIFUL SHAMROCK OF OLD IRELAND. There's a sweet little spol away down by Cape Clear, Sure it's Ireland herself, to all Irishmen dear; Where the white praties blossom like illigant flowers, And the wild birds sing sweetly above the round towers; And the dear litl rock, that none can withstand, Is the beautiful emblem of old Ireland. In his hat good St. Patrick used always to wear The shamrock whenever he wen! to a fair; And Nebuchadnezzar, no doubt, highly prized A bit of the blossom when he went disguised; For the bosom of beauty itself might exj When bedecked by the Bhamrock 01 old Ireland. When far, fai a sweet blossom Fee seen, I've dream! of shillelahs and Bhamrocks so green, That grow, like two twins, on the bogs and the hills. With a drop in my eye, thai with joy my heart fills; And I've blessed tin- dear sod From a far distant strand, And the beautiful shamrock of old Ireland. i.ANTY LEARY. Lanty was in love, you see, With lovely, lively Rosie Carey, But her father can't agree To give the girl to Lanty Leary. " Lp to fun, away we'll run,"' Says she, " my father's so conthrairy, Won't you follow me? won't you follow me!" •'Faith I will,'' sa\s Lantj Leary. But her father died one day (I hear 'twas not by dhrinkin' wather) ; House and land and cash, they say, He left by will to K> se hi- daughter; House and land and cash to seize, Away she cut so light and airy. •'Went you follow me? won't you follow me '.' "Faith I will." says Lanty Leary. Rose, herself, was taken bad, The fayver worse each day was growin', •' Lanty dear," says she, " 'tis sad, To th' other world I'm surely goin'. You can't survive my loss I know, Nor long remain in Tipperary, Won't you follow me? won't you follow me?" " Faith I won't," says Lanty Leary. THE IRISHMAN'S SHANTY. Did ye's ever go into an Irishman's shanty? Och, b'ys, that's the place where the whisky is plentj : Wid his pipe in his mouth there sits Paddy so free, No king in his palace is prouder than he. Arrah, me honey! w-h-a-e-k! Paddy's the boy ! There's a three-legged stool, wid a table to match, And the door of the shanty is locked with a latch ; There's a nate feather mattress, all bustin' wid straw. For the want of a bedstead it lies on the floor. Arrah, me honev ! w-h-a-c-k! Paddv's the boy ! There's a sntur little bureau widout paint or gilt. Made of hoards that was left when the shanty was built; There's a three-cornered miner hangs up on the wall, But niver a face has been in it at all. Arrah. me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy! He has pigs in the sty, and a cow in the stable. And he feeds thim on scraps that is left from the table: They'd starve if confined, bo they roam at their aise. And come into the shanty whinever they plaze. Arrah. me honey! w-h-a-e-k! Paddy's the 1mi\ ! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 119 THE IRISHMAN'S SHANTY.— Continued. He has three rooms in one — kitchen, bedroom, and hall, And his chist it is three wooden pegs in the wall ; Two suits of ould clothes makes his wardrobe complete, One for wear in the shanty, the same in the street. Arrah, me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy ! There is one who partakes of his sorrows and joys, Attinds to the shanty, the girls and the boys: (The brats he thinks more of than gold that's refined), But Biddy's the jewel that's set in his mind. Arrah, me honey! w-h-a-c-k! Paddy's the boy! THE IRISHMAN. The savage loves his native shore, Though rude the soil and chill the air; Then well may Erin's sons adore Their isle which nature formed so fair. What flood reflects a shore so sweet As Shannon sweet or pastoral Baun? Or who a friend or foe can meet So generous as an Irishman? His hands is rash, his heart i« warm, But honesty is still his guide ; None more repents a deed of harm, And none forgives with nobler pride; He may be duped, but won't be dared — More fit to practise than to plan ; He dearly earns his poor reward, And spends it like an Irishman. If strange or poor, for you he'll pay, And guide to where you safe may be; If you're his guest, while e'er you stay, His cottage holds a jubilee. His inmost soul he will unlock, And if he may your secrets scan, Your confidence he scorns to mock, For faithful is an Irishman. By honor bound in woe or weal, Whate'er she bids he dares to do; Try him with bribes — they won't prevail ; Prove him in fire — you'll find him true. He seeks not safety, let his post Be where it ought in danger's van; And if the field of fame be lost, It won't be by an Irishman. Erin, loved land, from age to age, Be thou more great, more famed and free, May peace be thine, or shouldst thou wage Defensive war — cheap victory. May plenty bloom in every field, Which gentle breezes softly fan, And cheerful smiles serenely gild The home of every Irishman. RIGGED OUT. I'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 perpl 'xcd 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. He spoke, and he said: "1 perceive by your face, Wretched man, that you're much unacquainted with j " Very true, sir,"' said 1, " sure I scarce know the ts Of the broth or the flesh of a four-footed baste." grace, taste 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-nand 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. Then he bade me go talk unto Biddj r , 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 siyut: She en lied 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 traveled 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 1 boldly contend that my friends have no right To heed what a Souper may 'do through the night. VAO SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE WOMAN OE THREE COWS. Woman of Three Cows,, arragh! don'l let your tongue thus rattle ! (Hi, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. 1 have seen — and, here's my hand to you, 1 omy Bay what's true — A main a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good lack to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their des- piser ; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser: And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows. 'I hen don't be stiff and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows ! See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, "lis they that won the glorious name and had' the grand at- tendants ! 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 ; Alovronc! for they were banish 'd, with no hope of their return- ing — 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, unchronieled, unchanted! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse — Then ask yourself, should you be pround, good Woman of Three Cows ! 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 moldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows ! Th' O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchers 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 neighbor's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because, inagh! you've got three cows — one more, 1 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! 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! BELIEYi: ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which 1 gaze on so fondly to day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts, lading away. Thou wouldst still be ador'd as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will; And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly Btill. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear! Oh! the heart, that has truly lov'd, never for- gets, But as truly loves on to the close; As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose! PAT AND THE PRIEST. Pat fell sick on a time, and he sent for the priest, That, dying, he might have his blessing, at least; And to come with all speed did humbly im- plore him, To lit him out right for the iuorney before him. The good father the summons did quickly obey, And found Paddy, alas! in a terrible way; Fixed and wild' were his looks, and his nose cold and blue, And his countenance wore a cold churchyard- like hue. The good father bid Pat eonfiss all his crimes, To think of his sins and forsake them betimes; Or his fate else would be, like other vile souls, To be Hayed and be salted, then roasted on coals. '■Oh! think, my dear Pat, on that beautiful place, Where you'll visit St. Patrick and see his sweet face ; Tis a country, my jewel, so charming and swate, \\ here you'll never want praties nor brogues to your fate." " Well, well, then," saya Pat, with inquisitive face, "That country must sure be a beautiful place; St. Patrick, no doubt, will-give US good cheer, Put d'ye think he any oul 1 w! there? " SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 121 PAT AND THE PRIEST.— Continued. The good father with wonder, amaze and sur- prise. Clasped his hands and next turned up the whites of his eyes; "Oh! vile sinner," says he, "can you hope to he forgiven If you think there is carousing and drinking in heaven? " " Well, well, then," says Pat, "though I can- not help thinking. If in heaven they can do wthout eating or drinking, ( Though 1 don't mean to say what you tell is a fable), Twould be dacent, you know, to see a drop on the table." COUNTY JAIL. Good people, all, give ear I pray, And mark ye all to what 1 say. To my misfortunes, gr< at and small, Come listen and I'll tell you all: I used to lead a glorious life, Devoid of care, devoid of strife; Could go to bed and fall asleep — No ugly visions around me creep — But, oh! the toots and Cupid gods They nearly drove me ramping mad; They piped into a railroad mail And carried me off to County Jail! And when we got to the end of the route, The turnkey turned my pockets out, To see if I had got such stuff As money, grub, tobacco, or snuff; They took me in to try my size, The color of hair, the color of eyes — They measured me up from root to tip, To see if I had but one top lip ; Then straightway to the yard did go And ordered me a suit of clothes, The kyds came out and did me hail, "Another new cove for County Jail! " Then one of them, with a roguish leer, Says, " My jolly old cove, what brought you here?" What do you think brought me out, What brought me here but your railroad route ? Then they gather 'd 'round me Ike so many fools, And one talked about the rules, That each newcomer should sing a song, Or tell a tale, God knows how long — Or they'd break his wind and give him a whack, Oh they'd take him down to black Jack, From there they'd wollop him, tooth and nail, With an old wet towel from County Jail! As 1 walked out and strolled the yard, Thinking my case was wondrous hard, All at once I heard a din. The deputy warden shouts, " All in." Then lumbering down the yard we go, Tike beasts let out of a wild beast sliow — Some cracked in mind and some in wind, And others with a crack behind; Then one by one we march around the tub To get our county allowance of grub, Which b'ew our ribs out like a sail, With a skilly and whack from County Jail! GRANDFATHER BRIAN. Grandfather Brian departed this life, it was on Saint Patrick's day, He started off to the next world without ever asking the way; Leaving me all of his riches, with a great deal of wealth, d'ye see? With a pair of his cloth leather breeches that buttoned up down to the knee. Chorus. Hurrah for my grandfather Brian! I wish he was living, och, sure ! And every day he'd be dying to be leaving me ten times as much more. He left me the whole two sides of bacon, only one half was jusl cut away, With a broomstick with the head of a rake on, and a field full of straw to make hay ; He left me some props and some patches, with a beautiful new smock frock, Six beautiful hens to lay duck's eggs, only one turned out to be a cock. He left me a well full of water, only some said it was dry, Three pitfuls of sand, lime and mortar, and a squinting Tomcat with one eye ; He left me an old dog and a kitten, his lapstone, knife and brad-awl, With a lump of Dutch cheese that was bitten and a box full of nothing at all. He left me a glass that was broken, with a pair of new boots without soles, And, faith! if the truth must be spoken, a kettle with fifty-five holes ; A knife board made out of leather, a treacle pot half full of glue, A down bed without ever a feather, and a fine coat nigh handy in two. He left me a very fine clock, too, full of brass wheels made out of wood ; A key without ever a lock, too, a stool to sit down where 1 stood. A blanket made out cf cloth patches, a bread basket made of tin- ware, A window without any sashes, and a horse collar made for a mare. He left me a starling, a beauty, but it turned out to be a thrush, He bid me in life do my duty, and never comb my hair with a brush ; He left me six pounds all n copper, with a splendid straight rule double bent, And a beautiful bacca stopper with a view of Blackwater in Kent. He left me some whisky for drinking and a beautiful stick, look at that, And also a she bull for milking and a second-hand silk beaver hat ; He left me a shirt all in tatters among other things 1 must, state, And a rare stock of old broken platter and, in fact, all tie family plate. He left me the bog for a garden, one night it got covered witli the flood, And when I went out in the morning I wenl up to my two < in mud ; He left me a fine mare for 1 reeding, it's age was over \ l score. And when I come here next evening I will tell you ten times as much more. 122 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. COUNTY JAIL.— Conti med. At five o'clock one of them said, ■• it'.-, nearly time to go to bed;" The truth from him 1 found did creep, For all turned in and went to sleep. The turnkey bawled, as stiff as Btarch, •■ Righl about face and then quick march!" We did, and made such a rush, Like monkeys marching around a bush: Such clanking of clogs, such shaking of I Such croaking of bellies and clanking of keys, Such damning beds as hard as a nail, They'd starve a poor de\il in County Jail! At six next morning up we L r "t. ; ach man was called to clean his pot, Then through the yard we did lurch, All fell in line to go to church; And there such dresses as met my view. One arm was red the other was blm — One leg was yellow, the other was gray, And then the parson began to pray. He said that Elijah went up in a cloud, And Lazarus walked about in his shroud, And that donah he lived inside of a whale, A d d sight better than County Jail! Service being over, we all got back And fell in line for skilly and whack; We crushed like pigs all in a lump — At nine each took his hand at pump. vt ten we raised a cilorious mill, Vnd smothered each other with right good will ! At eleven we raised it and quit the house, All fell in line for pans of skouse. Then if there's a man, no matter how droll, We pop him into Poinpie's hole, Where whack and water cocks his tail, There's glorious times in County Jail! 0, SONS OF ERIN. O, soxs of Erin, brave and strong, L'pon your prostrate mother gaze; Her sorrows have been overlong, Tis time her beauteous face to raise. When tyranny usurps the right, And chivalry pines in the jail. There's deep revenge in Freedom's fight — 'Tis life to win, 'tis death to fail! The power of monarchy is steel, And crushing, soul-subduing laws, Whose weight alone the toilers toil. And murmur oft, and know the cause. And battle oft tne despot's might, And scorning torture and the jail, Seek swift revenge in Freedom's Sght — 'Tis life to win, 'tis deatli to Jail! Wild — wild's (lie night e'er freedom's sun Lights up the ramparts of the free; It rolls away, the battle's won, And sounds a chorions reveille — A reveille of h( arts full light, Uncrushed by slavery and the jail, It echoed down the Alpine height, 'Twill glad the hills of Innisfail! MOLLY, ASTHORE. As down by Banna's banks I strayed one evening in May, I I,.- little birds in blithest notes made vocal every spray: They sung their little notes of love, they sung tliem o'er and o'er — Ah: gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. The daisy pied and all the sweets the dawn of nature yields, The primrose pale, the violet blue, lay scattered o'< Ids, Such fragrance in the bosom lies of her whom I ad Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. 1 laid me down upon a bank, bewailing my sad fate. That doomed me thus a slave to love and cruel Molly's hate; How can she break the honest heart that wears her in it.- core, Ah ! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. Y'ou said you loved me, Molly, dear — ah! why did 1 believe! Yet who could think such tender words were meant but to de- ceive. That love was all I asked on earth — nay, heaven could give no more, Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. Oh! had 1 all the ilocks that graze on yonder yellow hill. Or lowed for me the numerous herds that yon green pasture fill; With her I love I'd gladly share my kine and fleecy stoic Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. Two turtle doves above my head sat courting on a bough, I envied them their happiness to see them bill and coo: Soon fondness once for me was shown, but now. alas! 'tis o'er.. Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. Then fare thee well, my Molly dear, thy loss I e'er shall mourn. While lite remains in Stephen's heart 'twill beat lor thee alone! Tho' thou art false, may heaven on thee its choicest id. .-sings * pour, Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge. my Molly, asthore. THE HARP WITHOUT THE CROWN. On! how she plowed the ocean, the good ship Castle Dotcn, The day we hung our colors out. the Harp without the Crown! A gallant bark, she topped the wave: and fearless hearts were we. With guns, and pikes, and bayonets, a stalwart company. 'Twas sixteen years from Thurot; and Bweepng down the bay, The "Siege of Carrickf ergus " so merrily we did plaj ; By the old Castle's foot we went, with three right hearty cheers ; And waved our green cockades aloft, for we were Volunteers, Voluntt ,i s, Oh! we were in our prime that day. stout Irish Volunteers. 'Twas when we waved our anchor on the breast of smooth Gar- movle. Our l;uiis spoke out in thunder: "Adieu, sweet Irish soil! At Whiteabbey, and Greencastle, and Holy wood so gay, Were hundreds waving handkerchiefs, with many a loud hi: Our voices o'er the water went to the voices 'round: 5Toung Freedom, struggling at her birth, might utter such a sound. But one green slope beside Belfast, we cheered, and cheered it still: The people had changed its name that year, and called it Hunker's Hill: Bunker's Hill. Oh! that our hands, like our hearts, had been in the trench at Bunker's Hill! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 123 THE HARP WITHOUT THE CROWN.— Continued, Our ship cleared out for Quebec port; but thither little bent, TJP some New England river, to run her keel we meant. We look our course due north as out 'round old Blackhead we steered. Till Ireland bore southwest by south, and Fingal'a rock ap- peared. Then on the poop stood Webster, whle the ship hung flutteringly, About to take her taek across the wide, wide ocean sea. lie points to the Atlantic — " Yonder's no place for slaves; Haul down these British badges; for Freedom rules the waves, Rules the waves! " Three hundred strong men answered, shouting: "Freedom rules the waves! " Then altogether they arose, and brought the British ensign down ; And up we raised our island Green, without the British frown; Emblazoned there a golden harp, like maiden undefiled, A shamrock wreath around its head, looked o'er the sea and smiled. A hundred days, with adverse winds, we kept our course afar; On the hundredth day, came bearing down, a British sloop-of- war. When they spied our flag they fired a gun; but as they neared us fast, Old Andrew Jackson went aloft, and nailed it to the mast, To the mast. A sailor was that old Jackson ; he made our colors fast, Patrick Henry was our captain, as brave as ever sailed; " Now we must do or die," said he, " for our green flag is nailed." Silently came the sloop along; and silently we lay Till with ringing cheers and cannonade the foe began the fray; Then, their boarders o'er the bulwarks, like shuttlecocks we cast, One broadside volley from our guns swept down the tapering mast: — "Now, British Tars! St. George's cross is trailing in the sea; How do you like the greeting, and the handsel of the Free? Of the Free? These are the terms and tokens of men who will be free." They answered us with cannon, their honor to redeem, To shoot away our Irish Hag, each gunner took his aim; Tb y ripped it up in ribbons, till it fluttered in the air, And filled with shot-holes, till no trace of golden Harp was there; But the ragged holes did glance and gleam, in the sun's golden light, Even as the twinkling stars adorn God's unfurled flag at night. With drooping fire, we sung: "Good-night, and fare-ye-well, brave Tars! " Our Captain looked aloft: "By Heaven! the flag is stripes and stars, Stripes and stars." Right into Boston port we sailed, below the Stripes and Stars. I'M PROUD I'M AN IRISHMAN BORN. The Scotchmen may boast of their snow-covered mountains, Their wild towering rocks, woods and heath-covered dales; With their cataracts and rivers, and clear silver fountains, Their pastures of culture and their flower-covered vales. But give to me old Erin's shore, that's the land I adore, All countries I have seen, but no such beauties adorn: And where is the Irishman, who loves not his native land, Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born. Chorus. For Irishmen never yield when they're on the battlefield, With a "tin, sword or fist, or a twig of blackthorn: And oft on the battlefield our sires made their foes to yield, Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born. THE PEASANTS BRIDE. 1 was a simple country girl That loved the morning dearly; My only wealth a precious pearl 1 found one morning early. I milked my mother's only cow, My kind poor lovin' Drimin; I never envied then nor now The kine of richer women. The sun shone out in bonny June, And fragrant were the meadows; A voice as sweet as an Irish tune (I know it was my Thady's), Said, " Mary dear, I fain would stay, But where's the use repining? I must away to save my hay Now while the sun is shining." Now Thady was as stout a blade As ever stood in leather, With hook or scythe, with plow or spade, He'd beat ten men together; He's just the man, thought 1, for me, He is working late and early, He shall be mine if he is free, He takes my fancy fairly. I gave my hand, though I was young, And heart, too, like a feather, Our marriage song by the lark was sung When we were wed together ; And many a noble lord, I'm told, And many a noble lady, Would gladly give a crown of gold To be like me and Thady. TONY LUMPKIN'S SONG. Let 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, 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 forever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your wid- geon- : But of all the birds in the air. Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll! L24 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. I'M PKOUD I'M AN IRISHMAN BORN.— Continued. Old Ireland can boast of her states nen and warriors, Her poets, painters and sculptors, 100; She had Princely O'Neil, Sarstield, Norris and Clifford, Tyrconnell. O'Donnell and the great Brian Boru. Oliver Goldsmith, Thomas Moore, Isaac Butt and Sergeant Power, Robert Emmet and John Mitchell, Dan O'ConneU and Curran; The gnat Duke of Wellington, and hold Marshal McMahon, b >ys, bul I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born. stranger in old Ireland is sure to find a welcome hand, And kindly they'll treat him until he departs: Be he heathen, Russian, Jew or Turk, no hatred in the Irish lurk, love( truth and friendship doth reign in their hearts, So Irishmen of each degree, come join in Erin's praise with me, For wherever 1 am, my heart to Erin doth turn; For no nation upon the earth unto such heroes has given birth, Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born. THE FOX HUNT. The 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, hoys! away, harkaway! When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore, Through \\ icklow 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! etc. With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way, He led us by sunset right intot Roserea. 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. '• 'Twas a long thirsty stretcb 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," So no more hullahoo! etc. 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! etc. 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 crft, and his skill, Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill. Hullahoo! harkaway! etc. Whin 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 th se few dying words he declared his last will, While we ceased harkaway! etc. "Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curragmore estate. And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate, And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs, and cap. I .1 no leap was so cross that you'd loo'c for a gap." And of what tie made mention thej round it no blank, For he gave them a check on the National Bank. THE CONVICT AND THE CROSS. ' Oh ! let me wear the little cross, the little cross that once I wore. When oft, a happy boy, 1 roamed along the Lee's lament iiig aliore; And as I heard the stream glide by, that sobbed to leave so sweet a land, A more lamenting human tide swept onward to the distant strand; Even then 1 vowed, come weal, come woe, if faintest hope should ever gleam That life and verdure here at home might spring from that now wasted stream, That 1 would take my liumble part — that I the glorious risk would share, And what the patriot heart inspired the pa- triot hand would do and dare. But ah! I faint, mine eyes grow dim in think- ing of the days of yore — Oh! let me wear the little cio>s ttiat once a happy child 1 wore ! " 'Twill tell me of a mother's love: forgive me, O thou sacred sign ! 'Twill tell me more than mother's love — 'twill tell me of a love divine ; 'Twill tell me of a captive bound, a captive bound by ruthless hands — The thorny crown, the draught of gall, the ruffian jeers o fribald bands — The shame, the agony, the death! ah, me! the years have rolled and rolled, And still in this most awful type, unselfish love thy fate behold! These it will tell, and oh ! perchance, a softer thought 'twill whisper too — Father, forgive, forgive even them, for ah! they know not what they do. But ah! I faint, mini ey* s grow dim, my lease of life is well nigh o'er — Oh! let me wear the little cross, that once a happy child I wore! " The cross was seni ; some kindly heart, that heard the cant he's dying prayer. Left at the gate the little cross smooth-folded round with loving care; Coarse hands, and cold the sacred fold with scorn and careless languor broke, And found, enshrined in snowy fleece, a little cross of Irish oak. '"Ho! ho! " they cried, "what emblem's this! what popish charm is this we sec? Some talisman, perchance, it is to set the Irish rebel free I And so it is, although ye mock, beyond your bolts, beyond your bars, 'Twill lead his soul enfranchised forth, above the bue, above the stars; For though ye kept it from his hands, within his faithful heart he bore The little cross, the saving cross that once a happy child he wore. A curse be on such heartless rules, and shame to them who such could shape, Could Bring to life such monstrous forms, such v orms oi iid of tape — Scourge, if ye will, the honest hacks of those who scorn your lash, and yc — SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 125 THE CONVICT AND THE CROSS.— Continuetl. But torture not the soul with thongs, and leave the immortal spirit free. From Tobolsk's mines, from Ethiop's plains, from Abyssinian tyrants tarn That men are not machines, nor move by springs, thai you alone discern — Imprison, exile, hang all those your ruthless laws have foemen made; But let the soul, in going forth, be strength- ened by Religion's aid. No; yours to judge the priceless worth, not yours to Stan the countless store Of grace and hope the cross can give, the cross a Christian child once wore. IRISH NATIONAL HYMN. Oh. Ireland, ancient Ireland, Ancient, yet forever youn 1 ; Thou our mother, home and sireland, Thou at length hast found a tongue. Proudly thou at length Resistest in triumphant strength. Thy flag of freedom floats unfurled ; And as that mighty God existeth, Who giveth victory when and where He listeth, Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the world. For this dull world still slumbers, YVeetless of its wants or loves, Though, like Galileo, numbers Cry aloud: "It moves — it moves!" In a midnight dream, Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream — All march, but few descry the goal. Oh, Ireland be it thy high duty To tench the world the might of moral beauty, And stamp God's image truly on the strug- gling soul. Strong in thy self-reliance, Not in idle threat or boast, Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance At the haughty Saxon host. Thou hast claimed, in sight Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right. Upon thy hills, along thy plains, In the green bosom of thy valleys, The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies, And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy claims! Deep, saith the Eastern story, Burns in Iran's mines a gem, For its dazzling hues and glory Worth a Sultan's diadem. But from human eyes Hidden there it ever lies! The aye-travailing Gnomes alone, Who toil to form the mountain's treasure, May gaze and gloat with pleasure without measure Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder- stone. DARRYNANE. (Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.) WHERE loams the white Torrent, and rushes the rill, Down the murmuring slopes of the ecnoing hill — Where tin' eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, And the caverns resound with the panting of stags — Where the brow oi t lie mountain is purple with heath, And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, With the foam of its waves like the snowy /< mine — Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane! Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff — And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur, commingle By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, And lit by a luster that thou alone vvearest — And dear to the eye and the free heart of man Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? Oh! no, by St. Finbar, nor cowards, nor slaves. Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves! A Chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known — Laurel his coronet — true hearts his throne — Knowledge his scepter — a Nation his elan — O'Connell, the Chieftain of proud Darrynane! A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's Lake — Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine Filling the heart of that valley divine! Then rushing in one mighty artery down To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne! Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane! In him every pulse of our bosoms unite — Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right — The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, All center within his heart's innermost core, Which gathered in one mighty current, are flung To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue ! Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Affghan Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane! But here he is only the friend and the father, Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow Rest for the present and strength for the morrow! Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him, And heard his soft tones of affection, could doubt him? My life on the truth of the heart of that man That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane! :Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore, Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more? Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, Once again in their swift ships come over the main '.' Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of Prance Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance? Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane, Are the mind-molded maidens of far Darrynane ! Dear land of the South, as my mind wandered o'er All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore. From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh ! Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast — Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! 126 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. IRISH NATIONAL HYMN.— Continued. So is it with a nation Which would win for its rich dower That bright pearl, Self-Liberation — It must labor hour by hour. Strangers, who travail To lay bare the gem, shall fail; Within itself, must grow, must glow — Within the depths of its own bosom Must flower in living night, must broadly blossom, The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's tree can blow. Go on, then, all-rejoiceful! March on thy career unbowed! Ireland! let thy noble voiceful Spirit cry to God aloud! Man will bid thee speed — God will aid thee in thy need — The Time, the Hour, the Power are near — Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard Of that illustrious band whom Heaven and Man guard; And those words come from one whom some have called a Seer THE TRUE IRISH KING. The Caesar of Rome has a wider demesne And the Ard-Riyh of France has more clans in his train ; The scepter of Spain is more heavy with gems, And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek diadems; But kinglier far, before Heaven and man, Are the emerald fields and the fiery-eyed clan, The scepter, and state, and the poets who sing. And the swords that encircle a True Irish Kin"! For he must have come from a conquering race — The heir of their valor, their glory, their grace ; His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet, His hand must be trained to each warrior feat ; His face, as the harvest moon, steadfast and clear, A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer; While the foremost to rush where the battle- brands ring, And the last to retreat is a True Irish King. Yet, not from his courage, his strength or his name. Tan he from the clansmen their fealty claim. The poorest, and highest, choose freely to- day The chief that to-night they'll as truly obey; For loyalty springs from a people's consent, And the knee that is forced had been better unbent — The Sassenach serfs no such homage can bring As the Irishman's choice of a True Irish Kin'' ! THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL. SHE lived beside the Anner, At the foot of Sliv-na-mon, A gentle peasant girl, With mild eyes like the dawn; Her lips were dewy rose-buds, Her teeth, of pearls so rare, And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough, Her neck and nut-brown hair. How pleasant 'twas to meet her On Sunday, when the bell Was filling with its mellow tones Lone wood and grassy dell ; And when at eve young maidens Strayed the river bank along, The widow's brown-haired daughter Was the loveliest of the throng. Oh. brave — brave Irish girls — We well may call you brave — Sure the least of all your perils Is the stormy ocean wave; When you leave our quiet valleys, And cross the Atlantic's foam, To hoard your hard-won earnings For the helpless ones at home. " Write word to my own dear mother — Say we'll meet with God above, And tell my little brothers 1 send them all my love ; May the angels ever guard them. Is their dying sister's prayer — " And folded in the letter Was a braid of nut-brown hair. Ah, cold and well-nigh callous, This weary heart has grown, For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland, And for sorrows of my own: Yet a tear my eye will moisten, When by Aimer side I stray. For the lily of the mountain foot, That withered far away . OULD IRELAND, YOU'RE MY DARLIN'. OrLD Ireland, you're my jewel, sure. My heart's delight and glory ; Till time shall pass his empty glass. Your name shall live in story. And this shall be the song for me, The first my heart was larnin Before my tongue one accent sung. " Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'." My blessings on each manly son Of thine, who will stand by thee; But hang the knave and dastard slave, So base as to deny thee. Then bould and free, while yet for me The globe is 'round us whirlin My song shall be Gra Galmachree, Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'. " Sweet spot of earth that gave me birth, Deep in my soul I cherish, While life remains within these veins, A love that ne'er can perish. If it was a thing thai 1 could sing. Like any thrush or st;irlin'. In cage or tree, my song should be: " Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'. " i ft U SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 127 THE TRUE IRISH KING.— Continued. Come, look on the pomp when they make an O'Neil ; The muster of dynasts — O'Hagan, O'Shiel, O'Cahan, O'Hanlon, O'Breslen, and all, From mild Ardes and Orior to rude Donegal. " St. Patrick's comharba,' with bishops thir- teen, And Ollaves, and brehons, and minstrels, are seen, 'Round Tulaeh-Og Rath, like the bees in the spring, All swarming to honor a True Irish King. Unsandaled he stands, on the foot dinted rock, Like a pillar-stone fix'd against every shock. 'Round — 'round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill, Like his bleniishless honor and vigilant will. The grey-beards are telling how chiefs by the score Have been crowned on " The Rath of the Kings " heretofore, "While, yet crowded, yet ordered, within Us green ring, Are the dynasts and priests around the True Irish King. The chronicler read him the laws of the elan, And pledged him to bide by their blessing and ban ; His skian and his sword are unbuckled to show That they only were meant for a foreigner foe; A white willow wand has been put in his hand — A type of pure, upright and gentle command — While hierarehs are blessing, he slipper they fling, And O'Cahan proclaims him a True Irish King. Thrice looked he to Heaven wth thanks and with prayer — Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare — To the waves of Loch Neagh, the heights of Strabane, And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan — One clash on their bucklers — one more — they are still — What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill? Why gaze they above him? A war-eagle wing! " Tis an omen ! Hurrah for the True Irish King! " God aid him! God save him and smile on his reign — The terror of England, the ally of Spain. May his sword be triumphant o'er Sassenach arts, Be his throne ever girt by strong hands and true hearts. May the course of his conquest run on till he see The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea! May minstrels forever his victories sing, And saints make the bed of the True Irish King. THE BONNY BUNCH OF ROSES, By the borders of the ocean. One morning in the month of June, For to hear those warlike songsters, Their cheerful notes and sweetly tune; I overheard a female talking, Who seemed to be in grief and woe, Conversing with young Bonaparte, Concerning the bonny bunch of roses oh. Then up steps young Napoleon And takes his mother by the hand, Saying: Mother, dear, haw patience Until 1 am able to command; Then I will take an army, Through tremendous dangers I will go; In spite of all the universe I will conquer the bonny bunch of roses, oh. The first time that I saw young Bonaparte, Down on his bended knees fell he; He asked the pardon of his lather, \\ ho granted it most mournfully. Dear son, he said, I'll take an army And over the frozen Alps will go, Then I will conquer Moscow, And return to the bonny bunch of roses, oh. He took five hundred thousand men, With kings likewise to bear his train; He was so well provided for That he could sweep this world alone. But when he came to Moscow. He was overpowered by the driven snow, When Moscow was a blazing, So he lost lis bonny bunch of roses, oh. O, son, don't speak so venturesome, For in England are the hearts of oak; There is England. Ireland, Scotland, Their unity was never broke. O, son, think on thy father, On the Isle of St. Helen his body lies low, And you must soon follow after him, So beware of the bonny bunch of roses, oh. Now do believe me, dearest mother, Now I lie on my dying bed ; If I had lived I would have been clever, But now I droop my youthful head. But whilst our bodies lie moldering, And weeping willows over our bodies grow, The deeds of great Napoleon Shall sting the bonny bunch of roses, oh. WE MAY ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD. We 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 tob'et 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. ;js SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. WE JIAA ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD.— Continued, In England the garden of beauty is kepi By a dragon of prudery placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has sli That the garden's hut carelessly watched after all. Oh ! they want the wild >w\ el-briery iVnce, Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, Which warms the touch while winning the sense, Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, etc. 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-by; While the daughters of Erin keep the boy, liver smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows ol woe, and beams of joy, The same as he looked when he left the shore. Then remember, etc. " THE GLEN OF THE LAKES." Glen of the Lakes! I hail thee with emotion, Long-sighed-for object of the poet's soul — A pilgrim-bard presents his heart's devotion Beside the hills where Avon's waters roll. Now sweetly o'er me steals a happy feeling, That thou art one I oft beheld before ; The hazy curtains seem to rise, revealing The long-sought beauties of thy magic shore. The silv'ry lakes! what solemn awe around them, Embosom'd safely 'mid the mountains brown ; The heathy cliffs, the waving forests bound them, Lugduff, the giant, proudly looketh down. The summer sun at midday softly peepeth Adown the heather, o'er the shadow'd streams; The gloomy brook awhile in silence sleepeth, Then wakes and smiles amid the sunny beams. So grand, so solemn seems the silence reigning Across the Glen in summer's brightest hour, That nature wearied here in peaee remaining, Seems slave awhile to slumber's mighty pow'r. She scarcely breathes beside the streamlet sighing, Beneath the pines that guard the sobbing lake; Till autumn leaves beside the waters lying. With rustling voices bid the sleepers wake! A home was here for sainted hermit glowing, With sacred love and wondrous faith divine! A calm retreat for youth in virtue growing Where nature's God could have a fitting shrine. And so the lakes, through brightest golden ages Rellected forms of Erin's sainted nun: And while their names illume historic pages, Saint Kevin's works shall speak amid the glen! They stand majestic — ruined churches lowly, Whose mold'ring porches ereeping-ivy climbs; The princes, prelates, hermits meek and holy Rest 'neath the cross that tells of better times. And, grandest sight! "the pillar-tow'r '' that telleth Of glories gone amid the glooms of time; For though no more the Abbey-bell out swelleth, The voiceless ruins tell their tale sublime! Unnumbered legends, quaint, and sweet, and tender, Are still preserv'd and heard beside the glen Of holy Kevin, peasants' kind defender — The friend and father dear to suffering men. One summer day, alas! it soon departed. When seated nigh the lake with friends most dear, I heard of Kevin, kind and tender-hearted, And felt 1 then had kindred spirits nearl PAT MALONY'S FAMILY. ME name is Mike Malony, I'm a carpenter by t rade, I married Molly Higgins, who all my trouble made ; She'u as many of relation- as fish They ate me out of house and home, and de- ' stroyed me family. Chorus. There's her father and her mother and her sister and her brother, Seventeen hundred babies laying on 1 1 kill i - : Her uncles >nd her cousins, and her aunties by t lie dozen. Lived upon the earnings of Patrick Malony. My pants would i't her uncle, her dress would fit her niece, I have to sleep upon the roof, or I never have no peai i ; They made me buy them dainties, root beer by the pail, I'd have to w r ait till they were full before I'd get me male. Chokus. There was a puddin', there was mutton that'd make you hurst a button ; And a fiery-headed Corkonian by the name of Pat Cloney, To superintend the table, to put me in a stable While they ate up all the labor of Patrick Malony. Her un< le wore my stockings, my hat would fit his hcao Whin tired out wid labor thev'd kick me out of bed ; I put up every pinny for to keep them from Bellevue, I wish the Coroner would sit on my wife and all the crew. Chokus. There's her nephews and her nieces, that come from several places: Seventeen hundred grandmothers and mothers- in-law, you see ; A wagon load of Dalvs, McSweegan and the Halys Lived on the earnings of Patrick Malony. There's her second cousin's brother, and his tooth'ess old stepmother. And sixteen hundred emigrants from Ire- land, you see ; Wid their boxes and their bedding, on my in- grain carpet treading. They lived upon the earnings of Patrick Malony. Chorus. There's the Bradys and the Gradys — dacent, perfect ladies. Always axiug charity from my family, you see ; One husband was a loafer, the other was a toper, Depending on the friendship of Patrick Malony. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 129 •• THE BRIGADE " AT FONTENOY. By our camp tires 'rose a murmur At the dawning of the day, And Lhe Head of many footsteps Spoke the advent of a fray; And as we took our places, Few and stern were our words, While some were tightening horse-girths, And some were girding swords. The trumpet blast lias sounded Our footmen to array — The willing steed has bounded, Impatient for the fray — The green flag is unfolded, While arose the cry of joy — " Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner To-day at Fontenoy." We looked upon that banner, And the memory arose Of our homes and perished kindred, Where the Lee or Shannon flows; We looked upon that banner, And we swore to God on high, To smite to-day the Saxon's might — To conquer or to die. Loud swells the charging trumpet — "Tis a voice from our own land — God of battles — God of vengeance, Guide to-day the patriot band; There are stains to wash away — There are memories to destroy, In the hest blood 01 the Briton To-day at Fontenoy. Plunge deep the fiery rowels In a thousand reeking flanks — Down, chivalry of Ireland, Down on the British ranks — Now shall their serried columns Beneath our sabers reel — Through their ranks, then, with the war- horse — Through their bosoms with the steel. With one shout for good King Louis, And the fair land of the vine. Like the wrathful Alpine tempest We swept upon their line — Then rang along the battle-field Triumphant our hurrah. And we smote them down still cheering, ''Erin, slanthagal go bragh! " As prized as is the blessing From an aged father's lip— As welcome as the haven To the tempest-driven ship — As dear as to the lover The smile of gentle maid — Is this day of long-sought vengeance To the swords of the brigade. See their shattered forces flying, A broken, routed line — See England, what brave laurels For your brow to-day we (wine. Oh, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed The Briton turn to flee From the chivalry of Erin, And France's " flcur de lis." IRELAND WILL YET BE FREE. Let tyrants exult and their mandates proclaim, Their scepters with iron hands sway; Oppression the Irish heart never can tame, Nor drive hope of freedom away. The yoke may be heavy and firm in its place. The fetters secure all may be; But blood will wash out this most shameful disgrace, And Ireland ere long shall be free. The day may be distant — perhaps it is mar, When freedom shall dawn on our land : When Ireland no longer a tyram need i Her rights she will seek and demand. Her fields, now deserted, shall blossom once more. Her ships will skim over the sea; The hirelings of England be hurled from our shore, And Ireland will truly be free. Then toast our fair island, my countrymen all, " Success to her struggle so nigh ; " Her sons will spring forth at the first trumpet call, And battle for freedom or die. Then when we have conquered and peace smiles again, Let this our grand toast ever be: "Confusion to tyrants wherever they reign! " And Ireland shall ever be free. THE IRISH MOTHER'S DREAM. One night, as the wind of the winter blew loud, And snow swathed the earth, like a corse in its shroud, An aged mother mused in her dim cottage shed. O'er the young soldier-son of her heart far away, Where the cannon flames red o'er the low lying dead, And the desolate camp bleakly spreads in the day. And near stood her daughter, with sad strained smile, And kind cheek of care that long weeping had worn. As she whispered, " Now sleep, dearest mother, a while — God is good, and our Dermod will surely return." The poor mother turned on her pillow, and there Soon slept the kind sleep Heaven sheds on our care. Silence filled the dusk chamber — the low ashy hearth Sunk lower, and noiselessly sifted the snow, O'er the white, spacious girth of the cold, solemn earth, Where the muffled moon fitfully glimmer'd below; But vanished the while are her visions of fear. And passed, for a space, is her sorrow and pain; For an angel has wafted her soul from its sphere, And in dreams she beholds her own Dermod again. Dear joy! how she loves him! A long year has passed Since she kissed his pale forehead, and hung on his breast ; She looks in his face — 'tis the same, still the same — Still soft are those eyes as the dew on the sod: No thirst for the game of wild battle or fame Have lessened their love for her. thanks be to God! But away! they are speeding o'er mountain at d moor — O'er city and forest — o'er tempest and tide; But little she heeds of their terrors, be sure. While that son of her bosom seen s still at her Bide. Lo! at length they have passed the wild ocean, and stand On a summit, that looks o'er a desolate land; Far od the great fortresses loom o'er the spray Anear, the bleak tents drift the slopes of the ground; And a sense of decay fills the solitude -ray. For an army in ruins is scattered around. "And is it for this," said the poor dreaming soul, My Dermod has wandered from home's blessed'air? Here Death tills the wind blowing keen from the pole- Here the pestilence strikes what the cannon may spare." 130 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IKEL.' THE IRISH MOTHER'S DREAM.— Continued. They passed through the streets of the tents lying still — They passed by the trenches that ridge the brown hill — They saw the pale faces that famine has worn: They pace where the wounded lie lonely and lost — Where the corse, cannon-torn, to its red bed was borne — Where the poor frozen sentinel died on his post. " Ah, why, Dermod, why did you cross the wide foam, To fortune, my child, in this land of the dead? Sure we'd plenty at home — there was better to eorne: Why, for this, did yen leave me, acushla?" she said. '• 1 thought, as you grew fond and brave by my side, No sorrow could cloud us — no fate could divide; 1 fancied the daj- when our home would grow bright, \> :. : ile of some colleen I'd cherish for thee— When I'd sing thro' the night by the hearth's ruddy light, With your boy, my own Di i mod, i sleep on my knee; And when, circled round friends, Old age drooped my head, after many a year. As 1 passed to my God, through the death that He sends, The kind Father would bless me, and you would be near.'' Still close in the gloom seems he standing by her; But hark! "lis the drum, and the camp is astir; And a sound fills the air, from the hill to the star, Like an earthquake, along the wild bastion it runs, While echoes afar roar the voice of the War, As it doubles its thunder from thousands of guns. And she wakes. In the gleam of the pale morning air One gives her a letter — soon, soon is it read; But a low piteous moan only speaks her despair — "Ah, Mother of God! my own Dermod is dead! " INNISHOWEN. God bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal, God bless Royal Aileaeh, the pride of them all; For she sits evermore like a Quei n on her throne, And smiles on the valleys of Green Innishowen. And fair are the valleys of Green Innishowen, And hardly the fishers that call them their own — A race that nor traitor nor coward have known Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innishowen. O! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear, Like the hills that with silence and nature they share; For our God, who hath planted their home near his own, Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Innishowen. Then praise to our Father for wild Innishowen, Where fiercely forever the surges are thrown — Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Innishowen. See the l>ountiful Couldah careering along — A type of their manhood so stately and strong — On the weary forever its tide is bestown, So they share with the stranger in fair Innishowen. God guard the kind homesteads of fair Innishowen, Which manhood and virtue have chosen for their own; Not long shall that nation in slavery <_ r roan. That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen. Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor Dane, Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her fane. They have clunj,' by the creed and the cause of their own 'that reais I he tall peasants of fair Innishowen. Then shout for the glories of old Innishowen, The stronghold that foemen have never o'ei thrown — The sou i and the >pirit, the blood and the bone. That guard the green valleys of true Innishowen. THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. One blessing on my native isle! One curse upon her f While yet her skie> above me smile, Her breeze around me blow-: Now, never more my cheek be wet; Nor si^h, nor altered mien. Tell the dark tyrant 1 regret The Wearing of the Green. Sweet land! my parents loved you well; They Bleep within your breast; With theirs — for love no words can tell— My bones must never I And lonely must my true love stray, That was our village queen, When 1 am banished far away, For the Wearing of the Green. But, Mary, dry that bitter tear, 'Twould break my heart to And sweetly sleep, my parents dear. That cannot weep for me. I'll think not of my distant tomb, Nor seas rolled wide between. But watch the hour that yet will come, For the Wearing of the Green. Oh, I care not for the thi>tle, And 1 care not for the rose, For when the cold winds whistle Neither down nor crimson shows; But like hope to him that's friendless Where no gaudy flower is seen. By our graves with love that's endless, Waves our own true-hearted Green. Oh, sure God's world was wide enough, And plentiful for all! And ruined cabins were no stuff To build a lordly hail; They might have "let the poor man live, Yet all as lordly I een ; But Heaven its own good time will give For the Wearing of the Green. KATY's LETTER. Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter, And although he cannot read, I thought 'twas all the better ; For why should he be puzzled with hard spell- ing in the matter, When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully, And he knows it — oh, he knows it — without one word from me. I wrote it and I folded it, and put a seal upon it, 'Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet ; For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it, As I'd said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully. And he knows it — oh. he knows it — without one word from me. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 131 KATY'S LETTER.— Continued. My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put it half in, The neighbors know I love him, and they're mighty fond of chaffing j So I dare not write his name outside for fear they would be laughing, So I wrote: -From little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully," And he knows it— oh, he knows it— without one word from me. Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman, so eonsated, No answer will he bring me, so long as I have wai t But maybe there mayn't be one for the rason tliat I stated, That my love can neither read nor write, but loves me faithfully, And I know where'er my love is, that he is true to me. SWEET ERIN, MY COUNTRY. Sweet Erin, my country, oh, wilt thou for- ever Enslaved by the tyrant be, doomed to de- spair ? Will the day ever come, when with joy we can sever The despotic grasp from our Isle, pure and fair? Though thy sons, by the cruel oppressor were banished Far from their native shore, over the sea, Still the spirit of Plope from their hearts had not vanished, They'd die for "the cause" still, dear Erin machree. Sweet Erin, my country, oh, could I but free thee From those chains of serfdom that bind you in pain ; My life's blood I'd sacrifice freely to see thee Crowned with the halo of freedom again. How proudly, dear Erin, you stood 'midst your glory, When your name was revered in those bright days of yore; And honor illulmes the grand old, old story, Which speaks of thy prowess then, Erin asthore. Sweet Erin, my country, the sad tears of mourning Now glisten like dew on your cheek, oh, so worn ; Thy smile once was bright as the sun when adorning Your mountains and vales, on a sweet sum- mer morn ; But some day the hand of a just retribution Shall strike, yes, and sweep from thy emer- ald shore The laws that enslave thee in cruel persecu- tion. And proudly you'll stand forth a nation once more. INNISHOWEN. Contiv wed. Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael, When the charging uboo made the foreigner quail; Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft tone, In the home-loving cabins of kind lnnisiiowen. 0! flourish, ye homesteads 01 Kind Innishowen, Where seeds of a people's redemption are sown; Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown, To bless the kind homesteads of green Innishowen. When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in hand, Who await hut the word to give Erin her own, Through the midnight of danger in true Innishowen. Hurrah for the Spaenien of proud Innishowen! — Long live the wild Seers of slout Inn ! May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moa Who love not the promise of proud lnni-1 o\ MISTER MICHAEL MURPHY. Ten years ago I stepped on board a ship to England bound; My heart and pockets both were light, though I'd not got a pound. I was but a young " Greesheen," then, without deceit or sham; But times and things have altered with myself, and now I am — Chorus. Misfcr Michael Murphy, a man of great ability, Known and respected, too, by all the gentility ; Patronized by all the nobs, amongst tie great nobility, For Mister Michael Murphy is a well-known man. I got some work to carry bricks, at fourteen bob a week, But soon I got the sack, because they said I'd too much cheek; So I fell back upon the club, and when I let them si e, That I was full of book-learning, they made a i ecretary of — Chorus. From that they made me president of our new Home Rule League, And I soon got acquainted with an M. P., Mr. Teague. My speechifying was so good, I soon got into fame. And everybody tells me that the man to make a name is — Chorus. My letters are now all addressed, "Michael Murphy, Esquire;" And if I get in Parliament, I'll set the house on fire. With my great and burning eloquence I'll teach them the right way To satisfy the Home Rule League; then every one will say — Chorus. I LOVE OLD IRELAND STILL. Where is the man that does not love the land where he wis born, Who does not think of it with pride, no matter how forlorn? I only know that I love mine, and long again to see Oppression from it banished, and old Ireland once more free. Chorus. Let friends all turn against me, let foes say what they will, My heart is with my country, I love old Ireland still. You'll find no better island if you search the wide world o'er; And yet she's sneered at and despised, because her offspring's poor ! If she could only have the wealth that lies beneath her soil, She'd once more prosper, and her sons might live by honest toil. — Chorus There's not an Irishman to-day would ever wish to roam Into a foreign land to live, if he could live at home. Then give her liberty, and let her banner be unfurled. Then Ireland and her sons may prove a credit to the world. — Chorus. 132 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. BRIDGET MOLLOY. In an ivy elad cabin there dwelt a colleen, Fresh and fair as the goddess of morn, In v. - full of witchery, roguish and dark, Young cupids each moment were born. In the village >iie reigned like a beautiful queen, was every one's treasure and joy, And there was m.t a boy but would die for a smile From the lips of sweet Bridget Molloy — And there was not a boy but would aie for a smile From the lip.-, of sweet Bridget M0II03-. When the birds in the springtime were choosing their mates, Young Dermot won her virgin hear) : And tin; vowed as they stood hand in hand by the brook There was nothing could tear them apart. And they'd picture the time when united they'd be, For a lifetime of love and joy; And no happier lovers there ever was seen, Than young Dermot and Bridget Molloy — And no happier lovers there ever was seen, Than 3 r oung Dermot and Bridget Molloy. When his hopes were the brightest misfortune came 'round, And a boy couldn't well live at home. So a pathway of fortune he tried to cut out, For his love in a land o'er the foam. " Heaven bless you, my Dermot asthore, Your affections and faith will you buoy. And may fortune to you be as constant and true As the heart of your Bridget Molloy — And may fortune to you be as constant and true As the heart of your Bridget Molloy." With a heart beating high he returned for his love, He was fortunate over tne wave, But the form of his loved one was gone from his sight, He was led to a newly made grave. She left him a message, a lock of her hair, With the words: "For my own darling boy!" And the hopes of his life have been sunk in the grave Of his own darling Bridget Molloy — And the hopes of his life have been sunk in the grave Of his own darling Bridget Molloy. THE BANTRY GIRLS' LAMENT FOR JOHNNY. On, who will plow the field, or who will sell the corn? Oh, who will wash tin- sheep, an' have 'em nicely shorn? The stack that's on the haggard unthrashed it 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 tight the King o' Spain. 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-maeliree : 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 mosrn; 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. THE IRISHMEN OF TODAY. I am told every day that the Irish are fools And degraded by every shame; And that everj effort they make for their rights Adds onh disgrace to their name. Murder is wrong and for vengeance 'twill cry, To the zenith of heaven's great dome; But how can a man see the ones that he loves Just driven like dogs from their home? Chorus. So don't form opinions until you know well Who's 1o blame, and then what you say Will cast no reflection on true-hearted men, The Irishmen of to-day. I have seen sons and daughters of Irish de- scent. Who would fain pass their old parents by, For maybe their clothes w r ere not cut in the style. Or their walk wasn't fair to the eye. And perhaps their old father to educate them Had spent all that hard labor gains: To see them grow up to deny both his name And the blood that sent life through their veins. Do you think we would stand England's tyranny here In this mightiest land of the free? Do you think she don't know it for many a year, Since she lost the tax on the tea? Then why should poor Paddy 1 e held in dis- dain For holding his place on th : s earth? For a man is a coward who would not stand up And fight for the land of his birth. RIDING DOUBLE. Trottin' to the fair. Me and Moll Malony, Seated, 1 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 h< n . Trot til,' to the fair. Me and .Moll Malony, Scaled. T declare, On a single pony. Yerrig Masthcr Jack. Lift your forelegs higher, Or a rousin' crack Surely you'll require. 4- Ah!" says Moll. "I'm frightened That the pony '11 start." And her hands she tightened SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 133 RIDING DOUBLE.— Continued. On my happy heart; Till widout reflectin', 'Twasn't quite the vogue, Somehow, Tin suspeetin' That 1 snatched a pogue. Trottin' to the fair, etc. A SWEET IRISH GIRL IS THE DARLING. If they talk about ladies, I'll tell them the plan Of myself — to be sure I'm a nate Irishman; There is neither sultana nor foreign ma'mselle That has charms to please me, Or can coax me so well As the sweet Irish girl, so charming to see; Och! a tight Irish girl is the darling for me. And sing filliloo, fire away, frisky she'll be, Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me; For she's pretty, She's witty, She's hoaxing And coaxing, She's smiling, Beguiling to see, to see; She rattles, She prattles, She dances And prances, Och ! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me. Now, some girls they are little and some they are tall, Och, others are big, sure, and others are small; And some that are teasing are bandy, I tell ; Still none can please mo, or can coax me so well, As the dear Irish girl, so charming to see; Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me; For she's pretty, She's witty. She's hoaxing And coaxing, Beguiling to see, to see; She rattles. She prattles, She's smiling, She dances And prances, Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me. SONG OF THE IRISH EXILE. Alone, all alone, by the wave-washed strand, And alone in the crowded hall! The hall it is gay, and the waves are grand But ii. y heart is not there, at all. It flies far away, by night and by day, To the time and the place that are gone — Oh, I never can forget the maiden I met In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban! It was not the grace of her queenly ar, Nor her cheek like the rose's glow, Nor was it the wave of her braided hair, Nor the gleam of her lily white brow; 'Twas the soul of truth, and the melting ruth, And the eye like the summer dawn. That stole my heart away, one mild day, In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban! THE LAMENT OF GRANU WAIL. John Bull was a bodach, as rich as a Jew, As griping, as grinding, as conscienceless, too; A wheedler, a shuffler, a rogue by wholesale, And a swindler, moreover, says Granu Wail! John Bull was a banker, both pursy and fat. With gold in his pockets, and plenty of that ; And he tempted his neighbors to sell their entail: 'Tis by scheming he prospers, says Granu Wail! John Bull was a farmer, with cottiers galore — Stout chawbacons once that like bullocks could roar; Hard work and low wages, and Peel's sliding scale, Have bothered their courage, says Granu Wail! John Bull was a bruiser, so sturdj' and stout, A boisterous bully— at bottom a clout — For when you squared up he was apt to turn tail- Brother Jonathan lashed him, says Granu Wail ! John Bull was a merchant, and many his ships, His harbors, his dock-yards, and big building slips; And the ocean he claimed as his rightful entail — Monsieur Parley-vouz bars that, says Granu Wail ! John Bull had dependencies, many and great — Fine, fertile, and fat — every one an estate ; But he pilfered and plundered wholesale and retail — There's Canada signs on it, says Granu Wail ! John Bull was a saint in the western clime, Stood fast for the truths of the Gospel sublime, Vowed no other faith in the end could avail — Isn't the Jugghernaut champion? says Granu Wail! John Bull had a sister, so fair to be seen, With a blush like a rose, and a mantle of green. And a soft, swelling bosom! on hill or in dale, Oh ! where could you follow, sweet Granu Wail ! And John loved his sister, without e'er a flaw, Like the fox and the pullet, the wolf and the lamb; So he paid her a visit — but mark her bewail: My title deeds vanished ! says Granu Wail ! Then he rummaged her commerce and ravaged her plains, Razed her churches and castles — her children in chains; With pitch-caps, triangles, and gibbets wholesale, Betokened John's love to poor Granu Wail! But one of her children more bould than the rest, Took it into his head for to make a request! Our rights, Uncle John! Else our flag on the gale? Faix, he got an instalment, says Granu Wail ! And now he is at the Ould Growler again. With his logic and law, and three millions of men! And nothing will plaise him, just now, but repale, "Mo seast or anam astig tu,' says Granu Wail! 134: SONGS AND BALLADS OF 1KELAND. SONG OF THE IRISH EXILE.— Continued. Alone, all alone, by the wave-washed shore, My restless spirit trios — My love, oh, my love, will I never see you more ? And my land! will you ever uprise? By night and by day I ever pray, While lonelily the time rolls on, To see our flag unrolled and my true love to unfold In that valley near Sliebh na m-ban ! THE GLASS OF WHISKY. At the side of the road, near the bridge of Drumcondra, 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. "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 think- ing? 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 whisl y galore. Oagh, 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. " 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; Neiher frost, snow, nor rain any harm can do me, The hedge is my pillow, my blanket the sky.' "Now merry be the Christmas! success to good neighbors! Here's a happy New \ear, and a great many too! With a plenty of whisky to lighten their la- bors, \ sweet luck attend every heart that is ' true! " Poor Murrough, then joining his old hai ds togel her, High held up the glass while he vented this prayer: "May whisky, by sea or by land, in all weather, Be never denied to the children of care! " PATRIOTS OP IRELAND. Now, friends, if you will listen, I will sing to you a song Of Ireland and her sons we loved ?o dear; There were patriots and heroes, and their names we love to heaT, For the green they were not afraid to wear. There was one so young and noble, who for his country died, To remember him the Irish won't forget ; Perhaps you've read his speeches in the Irish history, This hero's name was Robert Emmet. Chorus. Then give three cheers for Ireland, and let the people see That our rifles all are ready to set old Ireland free. There's another I will mention, and to Irishmen most dear, And for Ireland he proved a useful tool, I mean Dan O'Connell, may his soul now rest in peace, For deany he loved Ireland and home rule. There were three patriots to this world did bid good-by Before they could finish their design; They died hand ill Land trying to free their native land — Three martyrs, Allen, Larken and O'Brien. — Chorus. Now America had her hero s, and she loved them well, I'm sure, Take the history and you'll know what they have done: There was General Lafayette, Frenchman so true, And our own immortal General Washington. 'Tis now one hundred years since the country they did free, And drove the English tyrant from our shore — 1 wish that every Irishman eou'd have the same to say, Then Ireland would be free for evermore. — Chorus. BARNEY McCOY. I am going far away, Norah, darling, And leaving such an angel far behind; It will break my heart in two, which I fondly gave to you, And no other one so loving, kind and true. Chorus. Then come to my arms, Norah, darling, Bid your friends in dear old Ireland good-by, And it's happy we will be, in that dear land of the free, Living happy with your Barney McCoy. I would go with you, Barney, darling, But the reason why 1 told you oft before: It would break my poor mother's heart if from her I had to part . ind go roaming with you, Barney McCoy. ing far away, Norah, darling, sure as l God that 1 adore, But remember what I say, that until the judgment day, Stou will never see your Harney any more. [ would go with you, Barney, darl y mother and the test of them were there. I know we would be blest in that dear land of the West, Living happy with yon, Barney McCoy. I am going far away, Norah, darling, \ni Micky moved into the shanty. u'id the widdy, an' praties, an' pig, Said he: " Pace to the soul of poor Patrick! " When he passed round the jug at the jig. Said the widdy, a tear on her lashes: " \h, Micky's the broth of a b'hy ; While me heart is a-breaKin- for Patrick Ale body is thrillin' wid joy! " ORANGE AND GREEN. The night was falling dreary in merry Bandon town, When, in his cottage, weary, an Orangeman lay down. The summer sun in splendor had set upon the vale, And shouts of: "No surrender! " arose upon the gale. Beside the waters laving the feet of aged trees, The Orange banner waving, flew boldly in the breeze — In mighty chorus meeting, a hundred voices joined, And life and drum were beating the Battle of the Boyne. Ha! tow'rd his cottage hieing, what form is speeding now, From yonder thicket flying, with blood upon his brow? " Hide: — hide me. worthy stranger, though green my color be, And in the day of danger may Heaven remember thee! " In yonder vale contending alone against that crew, Mv life and limbs defending, an Orangeman I slew. Hark ! hear that fearful warning, there's death in every tone — Oh, save my life till morning, and Heaven prolong your own!'' The Orange heart was melted in pity to the Green; He heard the tale, and felt it his very soul within. "Dread not that angry warning though death be in its tone — I'll save your life till morning, or I will lose my own." Now 'round his lowly dwelling the angry torrent press'd, A hundred voices swelling, the Orangeman addressed — "Arise — arise, and follow the chase along the plain! In yonder stony hollow your only son is slain! " With rising shouts they gather upon the track amain, And leave the childless father aghast with sudden pain. He seeks the righted stranger, in covert where he lay — "Arise! " he said, "all danger is gone and past away! i " I had a son — one only, one loved as my life, Thy hand has left me lonely, in that accursed strife. I pledged my word to save thee until the storm should cease. I kept the pledge I gave thee — arise, and go in peace! " The stranger soon departed from that unhappy vale ; The father, broken-hearted, lay brooding o'er the tale. Full twenty summers after, to silver turned his beard; And yet the sound of laughter from him was never heard. The night was falling dreary in merry Wexford town. When in his cabin, weary, a peasant laid him down. And many a voice was singing along the summer vale, And Wexford town was ringing with shouts of: " Granna Uile." Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees. The green flag, gaily waving, was spread against the breeze — In mighty chorus meeting, loud voices filled the town. And fife and drum were beating, Doicn, Orangeman, lie down! Hark! "mid the stirring clangor that woke the echoes there. Loud voices, high in anger, rise on the evening air, Like billows of the ocean, he sees them hurry on — And 'mid the wild commotion, an Orangeman alone. "My hair." he said, "is hoary, and feeble is my hand. And I could tell a story would shame your cruel band. Full twenty years and over have changed my heart and brow. And 1 am grown a lo\er of peace and concord now. " It was not thus I greeted your brother of the Green; When, fainting and defeated, I freely look him in. I pledged my word to save him from vengeance rushing on, I kept the pledge I gave him, though he had Killed my son." SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 139 ORANGE AND GREEN.— Continued. That aged peasant heard him, and knew him as he stood, Remembrance kindly stirr'd him, and tender gratitude. With gushing tears of pleasure, he pierced the listening train — "I'm here to pay the measure of kindness back again! " Upon his bosom falling, that old man's tears came down; Deep memory recalling the cot and fatal town. "The hand that would offend thee, my being first shall end; I'm living to defend thee, my savior and my friend! " He said, and slowly turning, address'd the wondering crowd, With fervent spirit burning, he told the tale aloud. Now pressed the warm beholders, their aged foe to greet; They raised him on their shoulders and chaired him through the street. As lie had saved that stranger from peril scowling dim, So in his day of danger did Heav'n remember him. By joyous crowds attended, the worthy pair were seen. And their flags that day were blended of Orange and of Green. HOLYCROSS ABBEY. " From the high sunny headlands of Bere in the west, To the bowers that by Shannon's blue waters are blest, I am master unqucstion'd and absolute " — said The lord of broad Munster — King Donald the Red — " A ad now that my sceptre's no longer the sword, In the wealthiest vale my dominions afford, I will build me a temple of praise to that Power Who buckler'd my breast in the battle's dread hour." He spoke — it was done — -and with pomp such as glows Round a sunrise in summer that Abbey arose. There sculpture, her miracles lavish'd around, Until stone spoke a worship diviner than sound. There from matins to midnight the censers were swaying, And from matins to midnight the people were praying; As a thousand Cistercians incessantly raised Hosannas round shrines that with jewejry blazed; While the palmer from Syria — the pilgrim from Spain, Brought their offerings alike to the far-honor'd fane; And, in time, when the wearied O'Brien laid down At the feet of Death's Angel his cares and his crown, Beside the high altar a canopied tomb Shed above his remains its magnificent gloom, And in Holyeross Abbey high masses were said, Through the lapse of long ages, for Donald the Red. In the days of my musings, I wander'd alone, To this Fane that had flour ish'd ere Norman was known; And its dread desolation was saddening to see, For its towers were an emblem, O Erin, of thee! All was glory in ruins — below and above — From the traeeried turret that shelter'd the dove, To the cloisters dim stretching in distance away, Where the fox skulks at twilight in quest of his prey. Here soar'd the vast chancel superbly alone, While pillar and pinnacle moulder'd around — There, the choir's richest fretwork in dust overthrown, With corbel and chapiter " cumber'd the ground." O'er the porphyry shrine of the Founder all riven, No lamps glimmer'd now but the cressets of heaven — From the tombs of crusader, and abbot, and saint, Emblazonry, scroll, and escutcheon were rent ; While usurping their banners' high places, o'er all The Ivy — dark mourner — suspended her pall. With a deeper emotion the spirit would thrill, In beholding wherever the winter and rain Swept the dust from the relics it cover'd — that still Some hand had religiously glean'd them again. Then I turn'd from the scene, as I mournfully said — " God's rest to the soul of King Donald the Red." WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? What will you do, love, when I am going, With white sail Bowing, To seas beyond? What will you do, love, whi n wives divide us, And friends may chide us, For being fond? Though waves divide us, and friends be chid- ing, In faith abiding, I'll still be true. And I'll pray for thee on stormy ocean, In deep devotion — That's what I'll do! What would you do, love, if distant tidings, Thy fond confidings Should undermine; And I abiding 'neath sultry skies, Should think other eyes. Were as bright as thine? Oh, name it not, though guilt and shame Were on thy name, I'd still be true; But that heart of thine, should another share it, I could not bear it — What would I do? What would you do, when home returning, With hopes high burning, With wealth for you — If my bark, that bounded o'er foreign foam, Should be lost near home — Ah, what would you do? So thou wert spared, I'd bless the morrow, In want and sorrow, That left me yon ; And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow,. My heart thy pillow! That's what I'd do. AVONDHU. Oh, Avondhu, I wish I were As once upon that mountain bare. W T here thy young waters laugh and shine On the wild breast of Meenganine. I wish I were by Cleada's hill, Or by Glenruachra's rushy rill; But no! I never more shall view Those scenes I loved by Avondhu. Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks Of evening on the beauteous Reeks; Farewell, ye mists, that loved to ride On Cahirbearna's stormy side. Farewell, November's moar.i: I Wild minstrel of the dying trees; Clara! a fond farewell to yoi , No more we meet by Avondhu. No more — but thou, glorious hill, Lift to the moon thy forehead still; Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river, Upon thy free wild course forever. Exult, young hearts, in lifetime's spring, And taste the joys pure love can bring; But wanderer, go, they're not for you — Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondhu. 140 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. LARRY'S ON THE FORCE. Well. Katie, and is tins yersilf? And where was you this whoile? And ain't ye dhrissed! You are the wan to illusthrate the stoile ! Bat never moind thim mattheis now — there's toime enough for thim : And Larry— that's me by — I want to shpake to you av him. Sine, Larry bates thim all for luck! — 'tis he will make his way, And be the proide and honnur to the sod beyant the say; We'll soon be able — whist! 1 do be singin' till I'm hoorse, For iver since a month or more, my Larry's on the foorce! There's not a proivate gintleman that boords in all the row Who houlds himself loike Larry does, or makes as foine a show, Thim eyes av his, the way they shoine, his coat and butthons too — He bates them kerrige dhroivers that be on the avenue! He shtips that proud and shtately-loike, you'd think he owned the town, And houlds his shtick convanient to be tappin' some wan down— Aich blissed day, I watch to see him comin' up the shtrate, For, by the greatest bit av luck, our house is on his bate. The little b'ys is feared av him, for Larry's moighty shtrict, And mam's the little blagyard he's arristed, I expict ; The beggyars gets acrass the shtrate — you ought to see thim fly— And organ-groindhers scatthers whin they see him comin' by. I know that Larry's bound to roise, he'll get a sergeant's post, And afther that a captincy widhin a year at most, And av he goes in politics he has the head to throive — I'll be an Aldherwonian, Katae, afore I'm thirty-foive? What's that again? Y'are jokin', surely, — Kate, is it thrue? Last noight, you say, he — married? and Alleen O'Donahue? O Larry, c'u'd ye have the hairt — but let the spalpeen be; Ay he demaneshmsilf to her, he's nothing more to me. The ugly shcamp! I alwas said, just as I'm tellin' you, That Larry was the biggest fool av all I iver knew; And many a toime I've tould mesilf — you see it now, av coorse — He'd niver come to anny good av he got on the foorce. THE GOAT. Oh! now my dear friends, I'm going to relate, If you pay attention, you've not long to wait; My father lived in a place called Graymote, He'd a sow, and a cow, and a fine billy goat. This goat, sure, he had a queer, curious way, He'd go out each morning and stop out all day; When he'd come home at night, like a bull he would roar, Till my father got up for to open the door. One day we sat down, and was going to ate, The goat leaped on the table and shtole all the mate : And without saying a word, shure the dirty ould gommagh, He druv his two horns in my poor father's stomach. Says me mother to me, " Jamsey." " Yis, ma'am," says I. " fake the goat to the market, and sell him, now try: " The words she scarce spoke, when the goat gave a jump, And struck me mother, oh, gorra ! such a murthering thump. Then all in the house bate a hasty retrate, And the goat 1 eked away at the divil's own rate: He spied in v father's coal hanging up, gave a bawl. Made a charge on the " frize," and druv his head in the wall. Some tini" afther they went to look for the goat. They searched all around, till they came to the coat; Bui' all of the gnat that was left the ne\t day. Was only the shtump of his tail, and it bucking away. A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. 0, Postman ! speed thy tardy gait — Go quicker round from door to door; For thee I watch, for thee I wait, Like many a weary wanderer more. Thou bringest news of bale and bliss — Some life begun, some life well o'er. He stops— he rings! — O Heaven! what's this? A shamrock from the Irish shore! Dear emblem of my native land. By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; The pressure of an unfelt hand — The kisses of a lip unseen ; A throb from my dead mother's heart — My father's smile revived once more — Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, Sweet Shamrock from the Irish shore! Enchanter, with thy wand of power, Thou mak'st the past be present still: The emerald lawn — the lime-leaved bower — The circling shore — the sunlit hill ; The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, Half hiding, 'neath their trembling llowers, The Shamrock of the Irish shore! And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, By queenly Florence, kingly Rome — By Padua's long and lone arcade — By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam — By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed My poet sailing calmly o'er ; By all, by each, I mourned and missed The Shamrock of the Irish shore! I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, Irresolute "twixt the sand and sea ; I saw upon the trellised roof Outspread the wine that was to be; A giant-flowered and glorious tree I saw the tall magnolia soar ; But there, even there, I longed for thee, Poor Shamrock of the Irish shore ! Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, As lately by the lonely Ranee, At evening as 1 watched the sun, I look! I dream! Can this be France? Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, He seems to love to linger o'er; But gilds, by a remoter sea. The Shamrock on the Irish shore! I'm with him in that wholesome clime — That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod — Have still a simple faith in God. Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, \\ here hearts unstained by vulgar crime The more they're trod rebound the more, Like thee, when wet with Heaven's own rain, Shamrock of the Irish shore! Memorial of my native land. True emblem of my land and race — Thy small and tender leaves expand, But only in thy native place. Thou needesl for thyself and seed Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; transplant) rl the merest weed, Shamrock of the Irish shore! SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 141 A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE.-Coni'rf. Here on the tawny fields of Fiance, Or in the rank, red English clay, Thou showest a stronger form, perchance; A bolder front thou may'st display, More able to resist the scythe But tnen thou art no more the Wythe That cut so keen, so sharp before; Bright Shamrock of the Irish shore: Ah, me! to think thy scorns, thy slights, Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, Or by Potomac's purple wave! Ah. me! to think that power malign Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, And what calm rapture might be thine, Sweet Shamrock of the Irish shore! Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, Tine type of trustful love thou art; Thou iiesc the whole year at my feet, To live but one day at my heart. One day of festal pride to lie Upon the loved one's heart — what more? Upon the loved one's heart to die, Shamrock of the Irish shore! And shall I not return thy love? And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be Placed on thy son's proud heart above The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? Yes, from these heights the waters beat, 1 vow to press thy cheek onee more, And lie forever at thy feet, Shamrock of the Irish shore! YOU REMEMBER ELLEN! You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she blest her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride. And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toiled through winds and rains, Till William at length in sadness said: '• We must seek our fortune on other plains! '"' Then sighing, she left her lowly shed. They roamed a long and weary way, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy clay. They see a proud castle among the trees. " To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there. The wind blows cold, the hour is late! " So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bowed as they passed the gate. "Now welcome, lady! " exclaimed the youth, "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." She believed him crazed, but his words were truth. For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall. And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William, the stranger, wooed and wed ; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Shines pure as it did in tfie lowly shed. NORAH O'NEAL. On, I'm lonely to-night, love, without you, And I sigh for one glance of j'our eye; For sure there's a charm, love, about you, \\ henever I know you are nigh. Like the beam of the star when 'tis smiling, is the glance which your eye can't conceal; And your voice is so sweet and beguiling, That I love you, sweet Norah O'Neal. Chorus. Oh, don't think that ever I'll doubt you, my love, I will never con- ceal; I'm lonely to-night, love, without vou, my darling sweet Norah O'Neal. Oh, the nightingale sings in the wildwood, As if every note that he knew Was learned from your sweet voice in childhood, To remind me, sweet Norah, of you. But 1 think, love, so often about you, And you don't know how happy I feel; But I'm lonely to-night, love, without you, My darling, sweet Norah O'Neal. Oh, why should I weep tears of sorrow? Oh, why let hope lose its place? Won't 1 meet you, my darling, to-morrow, And smile on your beautiful face? Will you meet me? oh, say will you meet me With a kiss at the foot of the lane: And I'll promise, whenever you greet me, That I'll never be lonely again. THE SWEET SONGS OF ERIN ASTHORE. On where is the true Irish heart that don't beat With rapture, and sweet ecstasy. When he I is! ens with joy, to the loved songs of home, Filled with romance and sweet melody. Their notes thrill the heart, of the wanderer that roams Far away from his dear native shore; And the one only solace that cheers him through life, Are the sweet songs of Erin asthore. Refraix. "Come back to Erin, Oh Kathleen Mavourneen," Their music so grand, thrills my heart o'er and o'er, The world knows no sweeter, no grander, or purer Sweet songs, than the loved ones of Erin asthore. How well I remember those days long ago, Ere I left my loved country to roam ; All the boys, and the girls, (hey would gather at eve, On the old village green by my home. How their sweet voices rang, as the old songs they sang, Oh I long for to live those days o'er; But their mem'ries I'll hold, till the day that I die, With the sweet songs of Erin asthore. Refrain. " Come back to Erin, Oh Kathleen Mavourneen," Their music so grand, thrills my heart o'er and o'er, The world knows no sweeter, no grander, or purer Sweet songs, than the loved ones of Erin asthore. 142 SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER. It was the eve of holy St. Bride, The Abbey bells were ring And (he meek-eyed nuns at eventide The vesper hymns were singing. Alone, by the well of good St. Bride, A novice fair was kneeling! And there seem'd not o'er her soul to glide One shade of earthly feeling. For ne'er did that clear and sainted well Refieel . I om its crj stal water, A form more fair than the shadow that fell from O'Niall's lovely daughter. Her eye was brighl ;is the blue concave, Ami beaming with devotion; Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave Of Erin's rolling ocean. Yet O! forgive her that starting tear; From home and kindred riven, Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year, .Must be the Bride of Heaven. Her beads were told, and the moonlight shone Sw lllan Water, When 1' r path was cross'd by a holy nun; — " Uenediete, fair daughter! Fair Kathleen started — well did she know — O what will not love discover! Her country's scourge, and her father's foe, — 'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. "Raymond! " — "Oh hush, my Kathleen dear, My path's beset with danger; But cast not, love, those looks of fear Upon thy dark-haired stranger. "My red roan steed's in yon Culdee grove, My bark is out at sea, love! My boat is moored in the ocean cove; Then haste away with me, love! My father has sworn my hand shall be To Sidney's daughter given ; And thine, to-morrow will offer thee A sacrifice to heaven. " But away, my love, away with me! The breeze to the west is blowing; And thither, across the dark-blue sea, Are England's bravest going. To a land where the breeze from the orange bowers Comes over the exile's sorrow, Like the light-wing'd dreams of his early hours Or his hope of a happier morrow. " And there, in some valley's loneliness, By wood and mountain shaded, We'll live in the light of wedded bliss, Till the lamp of life be faded. Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly! The storms of life we'll weather, Till in bliss beneath the western sky, We live, love, die together! " — " Die, Saxon, now ! " — At that fiend-like yell An hundred swords are gleaming: Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well, His heart's best blood is streaming. In vain does he doff the hood so white, And vain his falchion flashing: Five murderous brands through his corslet bright Within his heart are clashing! OLD IRELAND'S HEARTS AND HANDS. Erin, home of lovely scenes, O land of love and song! In joy once more my loud heart leans On thee, so true and strong; For like a restless bird I've strayed, And oft on far-off stran - , 1 dreamed of "love-knots" years have made With Ireland's hearl d hands. Chorus. sweetheart Erin! good old land! Tho' near or far 1 love them all, thy hear) an.' hand, I love thy si .\ ; Old Ireland's hearts and hands! < >ld Ireland's he;u rids! sweethearl Erin! good old land! 1 love thy h( arts ■ nd i welcome was thy In i shore, That rose upon my si Like dawn upon the wave once more To chase the long, Ion:: night : For tho' in many an hour of joy 1 wove the tendril bands Of friendships great, th i < mid cloy Old Ireland's hearts and hands. O rimmed wil bright, Thy em'rald b lauty set, Within my heart gave gleams of light, And 1 could no! For this I prayed with many a tear, Alone in distant lands, The starry hour that rives me here Old Ireland's hearts and hands. ROSE OF KILLARNEY. Oh! promise to meet me where twilight is fall- ing Beside the bright waters that slumber so fair; Each bird in the meadow your name will be calling, And every sweet rosebud will look for you there. It's morning and evening for you I am sighing; The heart in my bosom is yours evermore; I'll watch for you, darling, when daylight is dying, Sweet rose of Killarney, Mavournecn Asthore. My heart is a nest that is robbed and forsaken. When gone from my sight is the girl that 1 love ; One word from your lips can my gladness awaken — Your smile is the smile of the angels aliovp. Then meet me at twilight, beside the bright waters : The love that I've told you, I'd whisper once more : Oh! sweetest and fairest of F.rin's fair daughters, Dear rose of Killarney, Mavourneen Aathore. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. 14? SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER. -Continued. His last groan echoing through the grove, His life blood on the water, He dies, — thy first and thy only iovc, O'Niall's hapless daughter! Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow! In \ain thai eye would sustain him, Through his Kathleen's heart the murderous blow Too deadly aimed, has slain him. Th<- spirit lied with the red, red blood fast gushing from her bosom; The blast of death has blighted the bud Erin's loveliest blosso a! "i'is morn; — in the deepest