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

GLENFINISHK.

GLENFINISHK! where thy waters mix with Araglen's wild tide, 'Tis sweet at hush of evening to wander by thy side!

'Tis sweet to hear the night-winds sigh along Macrona's wood, And mingle their wild music with the murmur of thy flood!

'Tis sweet, when in the deep-blue vault the morn is shining bright,

To watch where thy clear waters are breaking into light;
To mark the starry sparks that o'er thy smoother surface gleam,
As if some fairy hand were flinging diamonds on thy stream!

Oh! if departed spirits e'er this dark world return,
"Tis in some lonely, lovely spot like this they would sojourn;
What'er their mystic rites may be, no human eye is here,
Save mine to mark their mystery-no human voice is near.
At such an hour, in such a scene, I could forget my birth-
I could forget I e'er have been, or am, a thing of earth;
Shake off the fleshly bonds that hold my soul in thrall, and be,
Even like themselves, a spirit, as boundless and as free!

Ye shadowy race! if we believe the tales of legends old,
Ye sometimes hold high converse with those of mortal mould:
Oh! come, whilst now my soul is free, and bear me in your train,
Ne'er to return to misery and this dark world again!

TERRY O'ROON AND HIS WONDERFUL TUNE.

OCH! there ne'er was a piper lie Terry O'Roon,
Sure he bother'd them all with his wonderful tune;
And the like of that same, when it came in his head,
It never was equall'd by living or dead.
And this is the reason-a long time ago,

As Terry's own family histories show,

A Fairy once brought to his grandfather's cot
The very same pipes that Terry has got;

"And sure," said his father, who took up the trade,
"St. Patrick himself on thesame may have played;
But none of the p pe-playing house of O'Roon,
Like Terry could strike up the wonderful tune.
Och, bothering, wheedling Terry O'Roon,

He charm'd every heart with his wonderful tune.

"Tis said when he struck up his pipes by the shore,
That the fishes danced jigs, and the sea ceased to roar,
That the rocs split with laughing, that herring and sprats
Should foot it with shell-fish, and round fish, and flats;
Be that as it may, Terry swears it's true;

But he might have been dreaming, betwixt me and you;
On a taste of the creature-that caused him ti think,
(For pipers have ever been jewels to drink,)
And Terry himself when the whisky was strong,
He ne'er played so well, nor so loud, nor so long,
Till he set them all dancing-sly Terry O'Roon,
And whatever he play'd 'twas a wonderful tune.
Och, bothering, wheedling, etc.

There was never a wake, nor a fight, nor a fair,
But Terry O'Roon he was sure to be there;
And many's the match that was made, I'll be bound,
When his wonderful pipes drew the lasses around;
But Terry himself was a rogue, and it's true

It was all one to him whether black eyes or blue;
For when his flirtations some beauty would vex,
"Arrah, honey! "he'd say "'aint I true to the sex?"
And so he went on with his wheedling ways,
And his pipe-playing tricks, to the end of his days;
But there ne'er was a piper like Terry O'Roon,
That was gifted like him with a wonderful tune!
Och, bothering, wheedling Terry O'Roon,

Sure he won ev'ry heart with his wonderful tune!

But all the boys and girls laughed,
And Willy Rhu looked shy;
God help you, Willy! sure they saw
The throuble in your eye.

"Now, by my faith!" young Connell says,
"I like your motion well-
There's a power more than gospel
In what crazy gossips tell."

Oh, my heavy hatred fell upon
Young Connell of Sliabh-Mast!
He took the cruel vengeance
For his scorned love at last.

The jokin' and the jibin'
And the banterin' went on,

One girl dared another,

And they all dared Peggy Bawn.

Till leaping up, away she flew

Down to the hollow green

Her bright locks, floating in the wind,
Like golden lights were seen.

I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break,
And softly fall on the silver sand-
And no steps intrude on thatsolitude,

And no voice, save mine, disturbs
strand.

And a mountain bold like a giant of old
Turned to stone by some magic spell,
Uprears in might its misty height,

And his craggy sides are wooded well.

"TWAS near Limerick town lived bould Paddy O’Linn,
No boy a shillelah so nately could spin;

But och! down his throat, when the whisky he'd tossed,
Sly Paddy oft found things before they were lost.

From the cabin of Widdy O'Connor one day,

A fat little pig, as pigs will, got astray;

Says Pat, "You're blind drunk, it's my feelin's you shock;
Then he fell o'er the pig, as he gave him a knock;
"Och, piggy," says he, "tis good manners you need;

It's myself you've near kilt, you disgraceto your breed.
But my bacon I've saved, so to give you your due,
It's cured you shall be-I'll make bacon of you."

The grunter Pat cured, and soon put out of sight,
the But the ghost of that pig haunted Pat day and night;
So at last to his riv'rence he went and confessed,
Having that on his mind that he couldn't digest.
Och, Pat!" said the priest, "only think of the day
When the widdy shall charge you with stealing away
The pig that she looked to for paying her rint."
"Och, murder! " says Pat, "it's of that I repint,
And so, if you plaze absolution to say,
It's a blessed thirteen that I'm willing to pay,
Or I'll marry the widdy to make her atone:
Since 'twas her flesh I took, I'll be bone of her bone."

In the midst doth smile a little Isle,
And its verdure shames the emerald's
green-

On its grassy side, in ruined pride,
A castle of old is darkling seen.

On its lofty crest the wild crane's nest,
In its halls the sheep good shelter find;
And the ivy shades where a hundred blades
Were hung, when the owners in sleep re-
clined.

That chieftain of old could he now behold
His lordly tower a shepherd's pen,
His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed
Would rise, with anger and shame again.

"You know that can't be you would cheat me, O’Linn,
To compound with a felony's surely a sin;
And as to repintance, sure what will you say,
When the widdy accuses you at the last day?"
Says Pat, "Will your riv'rence answer me true,
When that time it shall come will the pig be there too?"
"He will," said the priest, "all your guilt to make plain,
Cheek by jowl with the pig you will stand once again."
"Then," says Pat, it's all right, absolution or not,
For when that time comes I an answer have got,
As the pig will be there, I have only to say,

Take your dirty ould pig'-so your riv'rence good day."

RORY'S KISSING SCHOOL.

'Bout a kiss, do ye ask? It's me that can tell; For ould as I am, I'm minding it well; When a spalpeen of three, with how much delight

My mither kissed Rory and bade him good night.

But my mither she died and left Rory behind; And the lasses I met brought her so to my mind

That at kissing I went, first one and anither, Because they wore bonnets and looked like my mither.

At last, would you think it, swate Bridget

O'Flynn

Had scarcely been kissed when she kissed me agin,

And tould me a praest, away down in the city, Would say, if we'd ask him, a bit of a ditty.

"A ditty, swate Bridget, and what might it be?"

"Ne'er mind, my dear Rory, but just come wid me!

We trudged to the city, and sure as my life He said a short ditty and called her my wife.

We got a wee cottage, a pig and a spade; Bridget sickened; we hired her sister for maid; The maid I was kissing when, true as ye're there,

I felt the ould divil a-pulling my hair.

"Begone, you old varmint!" I yelled in affright,

And sort o' turned round to be getting a

sight;

What did I diskiver? Instead of an elf, Swate Bridget O'Flaherty there jist herself.

'Oh, Rory!" she blubbered, still pulling away,

"But sick is my heart wid yer conduct to-day; A-kissing my sister while I'm in my bed, Nor able to raise from the pillow my head!"

The love-sick sweet Mistress Malone
So fond of the soldier was grown,
That in secret she'd sigh,
"For the serjeant I die,

Oh! would I were bone of his bone! och hone."
More of that to you, Mistress Malone.

Still the lawyer and doctor will groan,
And tease the poor widow, och hone,
Till one day Pat Mac Whack
Kick'd them out in a crack,
And a smack gave sweet Katty Malone, och hone
"O you've won me!" cried Widow Malone.

So they wedded one morn, och hone,

And with fun sure the stocking was thrown;
And he's man of the house,

And his beautiful spouse

Is sweet Mistress Mac Whack, late Malone, MaloneSo more luck to Mac Whack and Malone!

NORAH DARLING, DON'T BELIEVE THEM.

NORAH darling, don't believe them,
Never heed their flattering wiles,
Trust a heart that loves thee dearly,
Lives but in thy sunny smiles,

I must leave thee, Norah darling,
But I leave my heart with thee;
Keep it, for 'tis true and faithful
As a loving heart can be.

When the stars are round me glist'ning,
And the moon shines bright above,
Perhaps, my Norah, thou'lt be list'ning
To another tale of love.
Perhaps they'll tell thee I'll forget thee,
Teach thy gentle heart to fear;
Oh, my Norah, never doubt me-
Don't believe them, Norah dear.

They must love thee, Norah darling,
When they look into those eyes,
Oh, thou'lt never let them rob me
Of the heart I dearly prize.
Thou wilt not forget me, Norah,

When their tales of love you hear, Never heed their treacherous whispers, Don't believe them, Norah dear,

RORY'S KISSING SCHOOL.-Continued.

"Troth! my Bridget," says I, "perhaps ye can mind

When ye to the kissing were greatly inclined;
Ye kissed me and kissed me at Donnybrook
fair,

And now, by the jabers, ye're pulling my hair.
Begone, you old fool, wid a rumpus like this!
I'm only a-larning your sister to kiss!"

NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST.
We have dark lovely looks on the shores where
the Spanish

From their gay ships came gallantly forth, And the sweet shrinking violets sooner will vanish

Than modest blue eyes from our north;
But oh! if the fairest of fair-daughtered Erin
Gathered round at her golden request,
There's not one of them all that she'd think
worth comparing

With Nancy, the pride of the west.
You'd suspect her the statue the Greek fell in
love with,

If you chanced on her musing alone,

Or some goddess great Jove was offended above
with,

And chilled to a sculpture of stone;
But you'd think her no colorless, classical

statue,

When she turned from her pensive repose, With her glowing gray eyes glancing timidly

at you,

And the blush of a beautiful rose. Have you heard Nancy sigh? then you've caught the sad echo

From the wind-harp enchantingly borne. Have you heard the girl laugh? then you've heard the first cuckoo

Chant summer's delightful return. And the songs that poor ignorant country-folk fancy,

The lark's liquid raptures on high,

THE SONS OF HIBERNIA.

BRAVE Sons of Hibernia, your shamrocks display,
For ever made sacred on St. Patrick's day;
'Tis a type of religion, the badge of our saint,
And a plant of that soil which no venom can taint.

Both Venus and Mars to that land lay a claim
Their title is own'd and recorded by fame;

But St. Patrick to friendship has hallow'd the ground,
And made hospitality ever abound.

Then with shamrocks and myrtles let's garnish the bowl,
In converse convivial and sweet flow of soul,
To our saint make oblations of generous wine
What saint would have more ?-sure 'tis worship divine!
Tho' jovial and festive in seeming excess,
We've hearts sympathetic of others' distress.
May our shamrock continue to dourish and prove
An emblem of charity, friendship, and love.
May the blights of disunion no longer remain,
Our shamrock to wither, its glories to stain;
May it flourish for ever, we heaven invoke,
Kindly shelter'd and fenc'd by the brave Irish oak.

A SWEET IRISH GIRL IS THE DARLING FOR ME.
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 maʼamselle,
That has charms to please me, or can coax me so well
As the sweet Irish girl so charming to see;
Och, a sweet 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, she's 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;

Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of Still none can please me, or can coax me so well

Nancy,

Flowing up and refreshing the sky.

And though her foot dances so soft from the heather

To the dew-twinkling tussocks of grass, It but warms the bright drops to slip closer together

To image the exquisite lass;

We've no men left among us, so lost to emotion,
Or scornful, or cold to her sex,

Who'd resist her, if Nancy once took up the
notion

To set that soft foot on their necks.

Yet, for all that the bee flies for honey-dew fragrant

To the half-opened flower of her lips; And the butterfly pauses, the purple-eyed vagrant,

To play with her pink finger-tips;

From all human lovers she locks up the treas

ure

A thousand are starving to taste,

And the fairies alone know the magical meas

ure

Of the ravishing round of her waist.

As the dear Irish girl, so charming to see-
Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me.
And sing filliloo, etc.

THE FAIRY BOY.*

A MOTHER came when stars were paling,
Wailing round a lonely spring;
Thus she cried while tears were falling,
Calling on the fairy king:

"Why with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy;
Why destroy a mother's blessing,

Wherefore steal my fairy boy?

"O'er the mountain, through a wild wood,
Where his childhood loved to play;
Where the flowers are freshly springing,
There I wander day by day.
"There I wander, growing fonder
Of the child that made my joy;
On the echoes wildly calling,

To restore my fairy boy.

When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant belleves the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.

SWEET KILKENNY TOWN.

I was working in the fields near fair Boston city,
Thinking sadly of Kilkenny-and a girl that's there;
When a friend came and tould me-late enough and more's the
pity!-

"There's a letter waitin' for ye, in the postman's care!" Oh! my heart was in my mouth, all the while that he was spaking,

For I knew it was from Katy!-she's the girl that can spell! And I couldn't speak for crying, for my heart had nigh been breaking,

With longing for a word from the girl that I love well. Oh! I knew it was from Katey. Who could it be but Katey? The poor girl that loves me well, in sweet Kilkenny Town.

Oh! 'twas soon I reached the place, and I thanked them for the trouble

They wor taking with my letter, a-sorting with such care; And they asked was it a single?" and I tould them 'twas a double!

For wasn't it worth twice as much as any letter there? Then they sorted and they searched, but something seemed the matter,

And my heart it stopped beating when I thought what it might be:

Och! boys, would you believe it? they had gone and lost my letter,

My poor Katey's letter that had come so far to me.
For I knew, etc.

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Then they laughed in my face, and they asked me (tho' in kindness),

What good would letters do me that I couldn't understand.

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"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?"

""Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under."

"What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on,

And singing all wrong the old song of the Coolun?"

There's a form at the casement-the form of her true love

And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waitfor you, love.

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly;

We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly and lightly and airly ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

And I answered, "Were they cursed with deafness and with The maid shakes her hand, on her lips lays

blindness,

Would they care less for the clasp of a dear loved hand?"

Oh! the folks that read and write (though they're so mighty

clever),

See nothin' but the words, and they're soon read through; But Katy's unread letter would be speaking to me ever

Of the dear love that she bears me, for it shows she is true! Oh! well I know my Katey, my own darling Katey, The poor girl that loves me well, in sweet Kilkenny Town.

TERRY MALONE.

ONE ev'ning from market returning,
Just thinking of what I'll not name;

May be some of ye guess, ah! now don't ye?
For 'tis few have not thought of the same.
But my heart is as open as sunshine,
A secret lies heavy as stone;

So I'll even confess, without blushing,
I was thinking of Terry Malone.

her fingers,

Steals up from the seat-longs to go, and yet lingers;

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand

mother,

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