Irish Come-all-ye's: A Repository of Ancient Irish Songs and Ballads ...

SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.

THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL-Continued.

As the lily was the glory

Of the olden flag 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 crowns the union
Of grandeurs interwove
'Round the temple of the chainless
To the laurel fill libations,

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 bow strings, and roses his

breath.

CHORUS.

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 shal 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 returning,

I fear that some envious plot has been laid; Or some cruel goddess has him captivated, And left me to mourn here, a dear Irish maid.

THAT ROGUE, REILLY.

THERE'S a boy that follows me every day, although he declares that I use him vilely,

But all I can do he won't go away, this obstinate, ranting Reilly;
In every street 'tis him I meet, in vain the byway path I try,
The very shadow of my feet, I might as well attempt to fly,
As that boy that follows me every day, although he declares that
I use him vilely.

Yet all I can say he won't go away, that raking, ranting Reilly.

My mother she sent me ten miles away in hopes that the fellow would never find me;

But the very 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 freedom 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 wench 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 so cute and slyly,

And there isn't a fox more tricks can play 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 bedaing, O?

First, book in hand, came Father Quipes with the bride's dadda, the bailie, O, 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 Murphy 0, And Murdock Maggs, and Tirlogh Shaggs, McLoughlin and Dick Durfy, O;

And then the girls, rigged out in white, led on by Ted O'Rily. (), While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O.

When Pat was asked if his love would last, the chapel echoed with laughter, O,

By my soul, says Pat, you may say that to the end of the world and after, 0, 0, Then tenderly her hand he gripes and kisses her genteely, While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O.

THE IRISH WEDDING.-Continued.

Then a roaring set at dinner met, so frolicksome and so frisky, O, Potatoes galore a skirrig or more with a flowing madder of whisky, O.

"STAMPING OUT."

AY, stamp away! Can you stamp it out-
This quenchless fire of a nation's freedom?

Then around, to be sure, didn't go the wipes, at the bride's ex-Your feet are broad and your le s are stout, pense so freely, 0,

While the chaunter with the merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily 0.

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 sweet liberty and smiling plenty spread,
Above the land once dark with blood-the green above the red.

The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean;
But yet, by 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 blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly 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.

But stouter for this you'll need 'em!
You have stamped away for six hundred years,
But again and again the Old Cause rallies,
Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineers,
And with scythes come the men from our
valleys;

The steel-clad Norman as he roams

Is faced by our naked gallowglasses,
But we held the hills and passes!
We lost the plains and our pleasant homes,

And still the beltane fires at night,
If not a man were left to feed em-
By widows' hands piled high and bright,
Flashed far the flame of Freedom!

Ay, stamp away!

Can you stamp it out,
Or 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 nights,
O'er every dark hill redly streaming,
And numerous as the heavenly lights
Our rebel fires were gleaming!

And though again might fail that flame,
Quenched in the blood of its devoted,
Fresh chieftains 'rose, fresh clansmen

That fire will burn, that flag 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 have hoped for ages

But, failing and failing, we try again,

And again the conflict rages.

Our hate though hot is a patient hate,

Deadly and patient to catch you trippingAnd your years are many, your crimes are great,

And the scepter is from you slipping.

But stamp away with your brutal hoof, While the fires to scorch you are upward cleaving,

For, with bloody shuttles, the warp and woof

Of your shroud the Fates are weaving!

THE PRETTY MAID MILKING HER COW.

IT being on a fine summer's morning,
As birds sweetly tuned on each bough,

I heard a fair maid sing most charming,
As she sat a-milking her cow.
Her voice was enchanting-melodious,
Which left me scarce able to go;
My heart it was soothed in solace,
By the pretty maid milking her cow.

SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.

BRENNEN ON THE MOOR.

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, I 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.
For 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."

Ir's of a fearless Irishman, a long story I shall tell;
His 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 come along with

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 Clonmore,
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 surround;
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!

ERIN-Continued.

But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep,

The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep;

At the thought of the past the tears gush from

her eyes,

And the pulse of her heart makes her white

bosom rise.

O! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time,
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 rejoic'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 forefathers' 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,

A PRIVATE STILL.

AN exciseman, once, in Dublin, at the time that I was there,
lle fancied that a private still was being worked somewhere;
He met me out one morning, perhaps he fancied that I knew,
But I didn't; Never mind that, says he, Pat, how do you do?
Says I: I'm very well, your honor, but allow me for to say,
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 I: 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 to take him a thund'ring many miles.
Says he: How much further, Pat? for I am getting very tired.
Said 1: Then let us have a car. And a jaunting car 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 flat.
A flat! your 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 I: 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! says 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,
Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would 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!

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.
The cause it is good, and the men they are true,
And the Green shall outlive both the Orange
and Blue!

And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall
share,

With the full swelling chest, and the fair flowing hair.

Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and brave.

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'RANN 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 had 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 his home, to the grief of the lasses of Derry.

and night 'twas his delight to play this game, without any shame,

But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling

Day

Till

stopped by death, which took his breath, and killed him with whisky in Derry;

His

loss to the lasses was grievous, but from death there is nothing can save us,

TERRY O'RANN.-Continued.

And every soul in terror dia howl, saying, Och, Terry, why did ye lave 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 shoemaker, 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.

I say to your face, you must alter my case, or I'll tell all the people in Derry.

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 measure 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 blackguards 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 anatomised Terry of Derry.

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 flying 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 Ballykillarty; And I'll be d-d if we hadn't to pay For the frolic we had at the party.

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