« 이전계속 »
"JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING.”
SHAUN'S HEAD-Continued. “ The Scots are on the border, Shaun!”-ye saints, he makes no
breathI remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death; Årt truly dead and cold? O, chief! art thou to Ulster lost? Dost hear-dost hear? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle
have crossed!" He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his ghnat aboutAnd 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.
Az, Jenny, I'm not jesting,
These seven years through.'
With words untrue ?
With her of late.
THE “HOLLY AND IVY” GIRL.
“ Fie! Jenny, since I knew you,
If truth were told.
For Sheela's gold.”
For that be worst?"
At long, long last."
At long, long last."
The spinster lone;
'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 sprigs 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
'Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas Street, I heard the wanderer
sing, I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the ragged ringMy 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 awayAnd smiling, cried—“l'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 Litrey'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.
THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. 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 chaste-till you're tempted;
While sober, be wise and discreet; And humble your bodies with fisting
Vhene'er you have nothing to eat.
Except on a festival, found :
A festival all the year round!
MANTLE SO GREEN.
As I went a-walking, one evening in June,
I stood in amaze I was struck with surprise-
Said I, Pretty fair maid if you come with me,
She answered me, Young man you must be refused,
Since you are not married tell me your love's name,
ERIN'S GREEN SHORE. ONE evening, so late, as I rambled
On the banks of a clear purling stream, I sat myseli down on a bed or primi oses,
And so gently fell into a dream. I dreamt I beheld a fair female,
Her equals I ne'cr saw before, As she sighed for the wrongs of her country,
As she strayed along Erin’s green shore. I quickly addressed this fair female,
My jewel, come tell me your name, For here in this country, I know, you're a
stranger, Or I would not have asked you the same." She resembled the Goddess of Liberty,
And of Freedom the nuantle 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 frosty 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, I 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.”
You are too poor,” says she, beside; When to convince her, then, I tried, That wealth is an invintion The wise should never mintion, And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade, And it's better be wed than die an owld
maid. The purty little sparrows Have neither plows nor hurrows, Yet they live at aise, and are contint, Bekase, you see, they pay no rint; They have no care nor flustherin' About diggin' or industherin’; No foolish pride their comfort hurtsFor they cat the flax, and wear no shirts
For wealth is an invintion, etc.
For wealth is an invintion, etc.
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,
As he was a-dying, I heard his last cry:
I stood in amazement, the paler she grew,
Oh! Nancy lovely Nancy it was I won your heart
This couple has got married ; I heard people say
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 the fields and
woods For to kick up a hubbubaloo.
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 does 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.
There was all the McFaddens, both young
Wid a peck of praties a piece ;
The Gilhooleys of Borrisokane,
Wid the elegani Widow McShane.
'Neath the shade of a tree, by a clear run.
ning brook, On the turf a cloth they spread. The same that generally covered the limbs
Of the young McFaddens in bed. Then they emptied their packs of the sweet
est of cakes, And the choicest of bacon and meat; And, for two hours, though divil a bit did
they do But drink whisky and gabble and eat.
THE GRAVE OF WOLFE TONE.
We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid,
By the pipes of McGorrisk they danced and
sung, Like divils, wid mad possessed; And Father O'Toole, in the widow's em
brace, Was shaking his foot wid the best. Ould Scally, the tailor, released from his
goose, Had the wife of McFadden in tow; And they lathered the gravel in style that
bedad! Ye can't see in a travelin' show.
The woods they presented a leautiful sighi
All thickened with maidens so sweet, And Mick Hogan a-courtin' O'Flaherty's
niece In a nate little shady retreat. Ould McFadden dead drunk and laid out
like a corpse, Wid a dozen Maloneys or more; And the swate little brats playing toy wid
potheen Wid the end of in innocent straw.
TO SUSTAIN THE FAMILY REPUTA
KILL OR CURE.
I'm a roving Irish boy, I was born in Ballaraghan,
Musha, Kitty O'Shaughnessy, she's the girl for me,
Whack fal de daddy, musha, O'Shaughnessy. Och, 'twas herself I courted, a girl so neat and cozy, She said she loved me in return-her cheeks were red and rosy: Of sovereigns I had twenty, says she, I've seventeen, We'll join ourselves and them together and live like king and
So we both set sail for Liverpool, and packed our kits together,
Och, yez may talk o' Ballyhooley, an' of
Enniscorthy, too, And the Killaloe Mounseer's exter
mination; Faix, I leave them miles behind, now
that I've made up me mind To maintain the family reputation.
In business we did well, till one day she was taken ill, sirs,
frisky He was a decent sort, so I tho't I'd stand a noggin of Irish whisky. But she grew worse and worse, which made me quake with fear,
SPOKEN-Says I, you never cured her! No, says he. Then, says I (singing) you dare not say you killed her!
Sure, me promise I will keep, an' each
night before I sleep If I'm not John Sullivan I'll be disap
pointed; An' I swore my ould dad's ghost won't lay
quiet unless I boast That daily some one's brain-box I've dis
jointed. By the magistrate one day I'll be wanted
so they say; Bu, his honor, shure, will grasp the sit
uation When I tell him wid a smile, please, I've
come to stay awhile,
So, gentlemen, enjoy yourselves, the whisky drink like thunder; You cannot help but own yourselves there's mirth in an Irish
blunder; But when for your wives a doctor you want, mind and yer be
sure, Make the bargain, as I did myself, wid the doctor, kill or cure.
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.
FAREWELL, for I must leave thec, my own, my native shore,
Och, yez may talk o' Ballyhooley, an' of
Enniscorthy, too, And the Kilaloe Mounseer's exter
mination ; But he never went to jail, or drank
“ Guinness ” from a pail, To maintain the family reputation.
My father lov'd his country, and sleeps within her breast,
It's mesilf ye may have seen, down at
Conn O'Moy's shebeen, Informing the boys 'twas my ambition Some one's batter-box to break-then we
might enjoy a wakeWhat's more-I didn't mean to ask per
mission. Gad, I'd hardly said the word, when a loud
hooroo I heard. Jerry Foley yelled, “ I'll send you to tar
naíion!" He tried-that's all he said; I lit candles
on his head To maintain the family reputation.
My own, my native island, where'er I chance to roam,
seen, When all her sons may proudly sing, “ The wearing of the Green.”
Al! then, mam, dear, did you never hear of purty Molly Bralla
ghan? Troth, dear! I have lost her, and I'll never be a man again; Not a spot on my hide will another summer tan again,
Since Molly she has left me alone for to die. The place where my heart was, you might easy rowl a turnip in, As big as any pavin' stane, and from Dublin to the Devil's Glin; If she chose to take another, sure, she might have sent mine back
again, And not leave me here all alone for to die.
THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of
Erin, The dew on his robe was heavy ard chill; For his country he sighed when, at twilight,
repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill, But the day-star attracted his eye's sad
devotion, For it rose on its own native isle of the
ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emo
tion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go
bragh. Oh! sad is my fate, said the heart-broken
stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can
Mam, dear, I remember, when the milking time was past and gone, We went into the meadows, where she swore I was the only man That ever she could love-yet, oh! the base, the cruel one,
After all that to leave me here alone for to die, Mam, dear, I remember as we came home the rain began, I rolled her in my coat, tho’ devil a waistcoat I have on; And my shirt was rather fine--dran-yet, oh! the base and cruel
one, After all that she has left me here alone to die,
I went and told my tale to Father McDonnell, mam,
Now I have only one pair, mam, and they are corduroy.
to do? Must my corduroys to Molly go? in troth, I'm bothered what to
do: I can't afford to lose both my heart and my brecches, too
Yes, what need I care, when I've only to die!
But I have no refuge from famine or den
ger, A home and a country remains not so:
me. Ah! never again in the gre?n shady bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I send
the sweet hours. Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flov.
ers, And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go
bragh. Oh! Erin, my country, though sad and for
saken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me
no more. And thou, cruel fate, wilt thou never re
place me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can
chase me? Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace
Oh! the left side of my carcass is as weak as water-gruel, mam, The devil a bit upon my bones since Molly's proved so cruel,
mam; I wish I had a carabine, I'd go and fight a duel, mam.
Sure it's better far to kill myself than stay here to die. I'm hot and determined as a live salamander, mamWon't you come to my wake when I go my long meander, mam ? Oh! I'll feel myself as valiant as the famous Alexander, mam.
Whin I hear yiz crying 'round me: “ Arrah! why did ye die?”
THE COUNTY OF MAYO.
On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight,
When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to
go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.
They died to defend me, or live to de
plore. Where now is my cabin door, so fast by the
wildwood ? Sisters and brothers did weep for its fall; Where is the mother that looked on my
childhool? And where is my bosom friend-dearer
than all? Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleas
ure, Why did it dote on the fast-fading treasure? Tears like the rain, may fall without meas
ure, But rapture and beauty they cannot reBut yet all its fond recollections suppress
ing. One dying wish my fond bosom shall
draw; Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing.
Land of my fathers, Erin-go-bragh. Buried and cold, when my heart stills its
motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle in the
ocan, And the harp-striking bards sing aloud wit'
devotion, Erin, mavour neen sweet Erin-go bragh.
They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and
high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles
byBut it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.
'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl in Irrul still,