« 이전계속 »
IRISH MOLLY, O!
As I walked out one morning, all in the month of May,
CHORUS. She is young, she is beautiful, she is the fairest one I know, The primrose of Ireland before my guinea go, And the only one that entices me is my Irish Molly, 0.
I said: My pretty fair maid, will you go along with me?
When Molly's own father he came to know,
KATE OF ARRAGLEN.-Continued.
And named his name.
Were both the sameHearing no answering sound, You glanced in doubt around, With timid look, and found
It was not he;
Far, far from me.
The west their throne,
So bright, so fair,
That ev’ning there. And now you're mine alone, That heart is all my ownThat heart that ne'er hath known
A flame before.
More fond, more true?
Ho cailin ruadlı !
Since Molly has deceived me, all by her father's ways,
There is a rose in Dublin, I thought she would be mine,
Come all you pretty, fair maidens, a warning take by me,
Now it was a Monday morning in the pleasant month of May,
But as I drive my jaunting car, I drive away dull care,
And never can forget the day we went to Donnybrook fair. Arrah! Molly had on her Sunday gown, and I my Sunday coat, It as in my breeches pocket I had a one-pound note, With an odd few shillings or so, and the whip was in my hand; She jumped upon my Irish car, and away we drove so grand. But Molly and me both agreed to become man and wife, So the best we try in every way to be happy all our life; Or should the times be good or bad, we drive away dull care, We never shall forget the day we went to Donnybrook fair.
So fill the glasses full, my friends, and give one toast with me; Here's success to dear old Ireland, the bright gem of the sea ! Let us hope the day is drawing nigh, and may we live to see That poor, down-trodden Emerald Isle a land of liberty.
THE GIRL OF DUNBWY-Continued.
THE IRISH REFUGEE. But pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on herlip: Fare you well, poor Erin's Isle! I now must leave you for a And her teeth flash as white as the crescent
while, moon's tip,
The rents and taxes are so high, I can no longer stay; And her form and her step, llke the red From Dublin's quay I sailed away and landed here but yesterday; deer's go past
Me shoes and breeches and shirts now are all that's in my kit. As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast. I have dropped in to tell you now the sights I have seen before I
go, I saw her but once, and I looked n her eye, of the ups and downs in Ireland since the year of ninety-eight; And she knew that I worshipped in passing But if that nation had its own her noble sons might stay at home, her by;
But since fortune has it otherwise poor Pat must emigrate. The saint of the wayside--she granted my
prayer, Though we spoke not a word, for her mother The devil a word I would say at all, although our wages are but
small, was there.
If they left us in our cabins, where our fathers drew their breath; I can never think upon Bantry' bright hills, When they call upon rent day and the devil a cent you haven't to
рау, , But her image starts up, and my longing
They will drive you from your house and home to beg and
starve to death. And I whisper her softly, ' Again, love, we'll meet,
What kind of treatment, boys, is that to give an honest Irish Pat? And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your But I stood up with heart and hand and sold my little spot of
To drive his family to the road to beg and starve for meat ? feet.”
land. WIDOW MACHREE.
That is the reason why I left and had to emigrate. Widow MACHREE, pray then open your door, Such sights as that I've often seen, but I saw worse in Skibareen, Och, hone! widow Machree,
In 'Forty-eight (that time is no more), when famine it was great ; And show me the easiest plank in your floor,
I saw fathers, boys, and girls with rosy cheeks and silken curls, Och, hone! widow Machree,
All a-missing and starving for a mouthful of food to eat.
When they died at Skibareen no shrouds or coffins were to be seen,
But patiently reconciling themselves to their desperate, horrid Not a sound can ye hear
fateIn sleep coming from me;
They were thrown in graves by wholesale which caused many an
Irish heart to wail-
And caused many a boy and girl to be most glad to emigrate.
Where is the nation or the land that reared such men as Paddy's Widow Machree, for the third and last time,
land? Och, hone! widow Machree,
Where is the man more noble than he they called poor Irish Pat? Will you listen to reason that's seasoned with We have fought for England's queen and beat her foes wherever
rhyme ? Och, hone! widow Machree.
We have taken the town of Delhi, if you please, come tell me that! Just think of the time
We have pursued the Indian chief and Nena Sahib, that cursed When you'd get past your prime,
thief, Would you think it a crime Who skivered babes and mothers and left them in their gore; That you cheated mankind
But why should we be so oppressed in the land St. Patrick Of what nature designed ?
The land from which we love the best poor Paddy must emigrate. Darlin' widow Machree, will you fully explain, Och, hone! widow Machree,
There is not a son from Paddy's land but respects the memory of For the good of your conscience and soul, what
Dan, I mean?
Who fought and struggled hard to part that poor and plunder’d Och, hone! widow Machree.
country. Didn't old Adam loan
He advocated Ireland's rights with all his strength and might, From his rib a back-bone
And he was but poorly recompensed for all his toil and pains. To manufacture, och, hone!
He told us for to be in no haste, and in him for to place our For posterity
And he would not desert us or leave us to our fate;
But death to him no favor showed, from the begging to the
Since they took our liberator poor Pat must emi'rate.
With spirits bright and purses light, my boys, we can no longer
For the Shamrock is immediately bound for America;
For there is bread and worth which I cannot get in Donegal,
I told the truth, by great Saint Ruth, believe me what I say. And an armful you'll get
Good night, my boys, with hand and heart, all you who take old
If ever again I see this land I hope it will be with a Fenian band,
So God be with old Ireland, poor Pat must emigrate!
Leante ruma crooskeen,
In court with manly grace, should Sir Toby plade his case,
And the merits of his cause made known, Without his cheerful glass he'd be stupid as an ass,
So he takes a little crooskeen lawn.
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green, It was not her soft magic of streamlet or hillOh, no; it was something more exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosoni,
were near, Who made every scene of enchantment more
dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature
improve When we see them rellected from looks that we
love. Sweet vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love
best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold
world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, Le mingled in
Then fill your glasses high, let's not part with lips so dry,
Though the lark should proclaim it is dawn;
To fill another crooskeen lawn.
And when grim death appears, after few but happy years,
And tells me my glass it is run. I'll say: Begone, you slave, for great Bacchus gives me lave
Just to fill another crooskeen lawn.
THE FENIAN'S ESCAPE.
“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from your Now, boys, if you will listen to the story I'll relate, wheel;
I'll tell you of the noble men who from the foe escaped; Your neat little foot will be weary from Though bound with Saxon fetters in the dark Australian jail. spinning,
They struck a blow for freedom, and for Yankee land set sail, Come, trip down with me to the sycamore On the 17th of April last the Stars and Stripes did fly tree
On board the bark “Catalpa,” waving proudly to the sky; Half the parish is there, and the dance is be. She showed the green above the red, as she did calmly lay ginning.
Prepared to take the Fenian boys in safety o'er the sea.
“ The sun is gone down, but the full harvest. When Breslin and brave Desmond brought the prisoners to the
shore Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened They gave one shout for freedom-soon to bless them evermorevalley;
And manned by gallant hearts, they pulled toward the Yankee While all the air rings with the soft, loving flag, things
For well they knew, from its proud folds no tyrant could them Each little bird sings in the green, shaded drag. alley."
They have nearly reached in safety the “ Catalpa," taut and trim,
Georgette,” and on her dock there stood With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up, the It was the steamer
One hundred hired assassins, to shed each patriot's blood. while Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing.
The steamer reached the bounding bark and fired across her bow, 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues ; Then in loud voice commanded that the vessel should heave to; So she could not but choose to go off to the But noble Captain Anthony, in thunder tones did cry: dancing.
You dare not fire a shot at that bright flag that floats on high;
My ship is sailing peacefully beneath that flag of stars, And now on the green the glad groups are
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, Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his 'Tis the banner I'll protect, old Ireland's flag of green.
choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty The Britisher he sailed away-from the stars and stripes he ranNeil
He knew his chance was slim to fight the boys of Uncle Sam; Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought So Hogan, Wilson, Harrington, with Darragh off did go, of refusing!
With Hassett and bold Cranston, soon to whip the Saxon foc.
Here's luck to that noble Captain, who well these men did free, Now Felix Magce puts his pipes to his knee,
He dared the English man-of-war to fight him on the sea. And with flourish so free sets each couple'in And here's to that dear emblem which in triumph shall be seen, motion;
The flag for which those patriots fought, dear Ireland's flag of With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the
green. ground; The maids move around, just like swans on the
NEAR a bog in sweet Ireland, I am told, sure there born 1 was, Cheeks bright as the rose-feet light as the Well I remember a bright Monday morn it was; doe's,
líy daddy, poor man, would cry: What a greenhorn I was -Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing: Three months I am married, hurrah! how they laugh. Search the world all around, from the sky to Says he to my mother: Troth, Judy, I'll leave you joy. the ground
Says Judy to him: Oh! the devil may care, my boy. No such sight can be found as an Irish lass By St. Patrick, I'll leave you both here to weep and cry, dancing.
What shall we do for our daddy O'Gaff?
With my didrewhack off I am, none of your blarney, man, Sweet Kate, who could view your eyes of deep Keep your brat to your chat all the day so you may; blue
By the powers! I won't tarry; so he left little Larry, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes I never saw more of my daddy O'Gaff,
so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded Och! it's then I grew up, and a sweet looking child I was, form,
Always the devil for handling the stick I was; Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb But somehow or other, my numbskull so thick it was. wildly?
Go where I would, all the folks they did laugh.
I rambled to England, where I met with a squad of boys, Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, They got me promoted to carry the hod, my boys; Subdued by the smart of such painful yet I crept up a ladder like a cat newly shod, my boys, sweet love:
A steep way to riches, says Larry O'Gaff. The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a With my didrewhack in and out, head turning round about, sigh:
Ladder crack, break your back, tumble down, crack your crown. “Dance light, for my heart it lics under your My dear Mr. Larry, this hod that you carry fcet, love!
Disgraces the shoulders of Mr. O'Gaff.
HURLING OF THE GREEN.
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 I was; But the old fellow popt in as taking a drop I was,
Says he: Mr. Larry, you bog-trotting cali, 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 I: This don't suit you, Mr. O'Gaff. With my didrewhack hub bub bo, drums beating row de row, 0 dols my life plays the fife, Patrick's day, fire away; In the army so frisky, we'll tipple the whisky, With the whack for ould Ireland and Larry O'Gaff.
'Twas night. On Antietam's height
The weary warriors lay,
Had tried their worth that day.
Where the drowsy out-post sank,
“You're surely dreaming, Frank.”
Then they made me a soldier, mut, oh! how genteel I was!
This sort of fighting don't suit you by half.
Welcome to old Ireland and Larry O'Gaff. With my didrewhack save my neck, round and sound free from
wound, With a wife to 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.
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 tossed the ball like mad On a fair broad Irish green.”
As I walked one morning down by the Sligo dock,
Oh, yes, my pretty Irish boy, I have a ship or two,
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 I 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
To the goal of an Irish green!
And the flag of emerald hue
Begemmed with the morning's dew.
Its mourning folds were seen ;-
Will again see an Irish green? * Eire ar taev-ne; a frequent cry at Irish hurling matches
Straightway then I started, 'twas on the yellow-grog road,
The very day we started, 'twas on the first of May,
One day as we were sailing in the Channel of St. James,
THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL.
And then I went to Liverpool, walking thro' the street,
THERE's a lofty love abounding
In the emblem of a land ;
The evil mind and hand;
In the flow'ret of a race;
Is uplifted by the grace
To the hearthstones and hamlets
The cities and the mountains, With a pride as high as Ilion's !
But now I'm in America, and working upon the canal,
sail, Where I'll get lashings of corned meat and none of your yellow