KATE OF ARRAGLEN.-Continued. And when some rustling, dear, I could not answer, though, Turning away your head, The swan upon the lake, The lily robed in white, That form of mould divine, Was lover ever seen More fond, more true? Thine is my every vow! Mo cailin ruadh! IRISH MOLLY, O! 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, 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, O. I said: My pretty fair maid, will you go along with me? I will show you the straight way across the country. When Molly's own father he came to know, That she had been courted by a Scotch laddie, O, 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, There is a rose in Dublin, I thought she would be mine, That young McDonald lies here for his poor Irish maid- Come all you pretty, fair maidens, a warning take by me, For the green leaves may wither, and the root it will decay, DONNYBROOK FAIR. Now it was a Monday morning in the pleasant month of May, I'll tell you all about it, just as my story goes. CHORUS. But as I drive my jaunting car, I drive away dull care, But Molly and me both agreed to become man and wife, 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 her lip, FARE you well, poor Erin's Isle! I now must leave you for a And her teeth flash as white as the crescent WIDOW MACHREE, pray then open your door, Och, hone! widow Machree, And show me the easiest plank in your floor, Och, hone! widow Machree, Ye have nothing to fear, I tell you, my dear, Not a sound can ye hear Barrin' that I should creep, Widow Machree, for the third and last time, Och, hone! widow Machree. Just think of the time When you'd get past your prime, Darlin' widow Machree, will you fully explain, For the good of your conscience and soul, what I mean? Och, hone! widow Machree. Didn't old Adam loan From his rib a back-bone To manufacture, och, hone! For posterity The first female man? Deny that if you can, Widow Machree, pay your debts, fie for shame, As you owe man a rib, I lay claim to that same, And by paying the debt, Of that same property; Shall be yours while life bides, Och, hone! widow Machree. while, That is the reason why I left and had to emigrate. Such sights as that I've often seen, but I saw worse in Skibareen, They were thrown in graves by wholesale which caused many an 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 land? Where is the man more noble than he they called poor Irish Pat? We have fought for England's queen and beat her foes wherever The land from which we love the best poor Paddy must emigrate. There is not a son from Paddy's land but respects the memory of Dan, Who fought and struggled hard to part that poor and plunder'd country. He advocated Ireland's rights with all his strength and might, And he would not desert us or leave us to our fate; But death to him no favor showed, from the begging to the throne. Since they took our liberator poor Pat must emigrate. With spirits bright and purses light, my boys, we can no longer stay, 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. I can no longer stay at home, for fear of being too late: 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! BONNY IRISH BOY. His name I love to mention, in Ireland he was born, It was in Londonderry that city of note and fame, Where first my bonny Irish lad a-courting to me came. He told me pleasant stories, and said his bride I'd be, But the face of my bonny Irish boy I can no longer see. I engaged my passage for New York, and, on arriving there, To seek and find my Irish boy I quickly did prepare; I searched New York and Providence, and Boston, all in vain, But the face of my bonny Irish boy was nowhere to be seen. I went to Philadelphia, and from there to Baltimore, I searched the State of Maryland, I searched it o'er and o'er. One night as I lay in my bed, I dreamt I was his bride, Early then next morning a knock came to my door, I heard his voice, I knew it was the lad I did adore; I hurried up to let him in, I never felt such joy As when I fell into the arms of my darling Irisa boy. Now that we are married, he never shall go to sea, He knows I love him dearly, and I'm sure that he loves me; Farewell to Londonderry, I ne'er shall see you more, And talked about a happy home and the land of liberty. CROOSKEEN LAWN. LET the farmer praise his grounds, as the hunter does his hounds, While I, more blest than they, spend each happy night and day Leante ruma crooskeen, Sleante gar, mavourneen, Agus gramachree, ma colleen, ban, ban, ban, Agus gramachree, ma colleen, ban. In court with manly grace, should Sir Toby plade his case, Without his cheerful glass he'd be stupid as an ass, Then fill your glasses high, let's not part with lips so dry, But if we can't remain, may we shortly meet again 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. Now, boys, if you will listen to the story I'll relate, When Breslin and brave Desmond brought the prisoners to the shore They gave one shout for freedom-soon to bless them evermoreAnd manned by gallant hearts, they pulled toward the Yankee flag, For well they knew, from its proud folds no tyrant could them drag. They have nearly reached in safety the "Catalpa," taut and trim, The steamer reached the bounding bark and fired across her bow, The Britisher he sailed away-from the stars and stripes he ran- LARRY O'GAFF. NEAR a bog in sweet Ireland, I am told, sure there born 1 was, With my didrewhack off I am, none of your blarney, man, Och! it's then I grew up, and a sweet looking child I was, I rambled to England, where I met with a squad of boys, LARRY O'GAFF.-Continued. They made me a master, then dressed like a fop I was, Get out of my house, or I'll lay this about your back; Said I: This don't suit you, Mr. O'Gaff. With my didrewhack hub bub bo, drums beating row de row, Then they made me a soldier, mut, oh! how genteel I was! This sort of fighting don't suit you by half. We fought like the devil, as Irishmen ought to do, 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 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. "Shall we ever again see Ireland, Frank, The foe was gone with the morning's light, * Eire ar taev-ne; a frequent cry at Irish hurling matches THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL. THERE'S a lofty love abounding In the flow'ret of a race; To the hearthstones and hamlets Where gush the native fountains; To the valleys and the streamlets, The cities and the mountainsWith a pride as high as Ilion's! |