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

KATE OF ARRAGLEN.-Continued.

And when some rustling, dear,

Fell on thy listening ear,
You thought your brother near,
And named his name.

I could not answer, though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same-
Hearing no answering sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
It was not he;

Turning away your head,
And blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.

The swan upon the lake,
The wild rose in the brake,
The golden clouds that make

The west their throne,

The wild ash by the stream,
The full moon's silver beam,
The ev'ning star's soft gleam,
Shining alone;

The lily robed in white,
All, all are fair and bright;
But ne'er on earth was sight
So bright, so fair,
As that one glimpse of thee,
That I caught then, machree,
It stole my heart from me
That ev'ning there.
And now you're mine alone,
That heart is all my own-
That heart that ne'er hath known
A flame before.

That form of mould divine,
That snowy hand of thine-
Those locks of gold are mine
For evermore.

Was lover ever seen
As blest as thine, Kathleen?
Hath lover ever been

More fond, more true?

Thine is my every vow!
Forever dear, as now!

Queen of my heart be thou!
Mo cailin ruadh!

THE GIRL OF DUNBWY.

"TIS pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy Stepping the mountain statelily

Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,

No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies-
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of
her eyes;

The child of a peasant-yet England's proud
Queen

Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.

Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if

A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy

cliff,

And love, and devotion, and energy speak From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.

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 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
In sleep coming from me;

Barrin' that I should creep,
Or walk in my sleep,
Och, hone! widow Machree.

Widow Machree, for the third and last time,
Och, hone! widow Machree,
Will you listen to reason that's seasoned with
rhyme?

Och, hone! widow Machree.

Just think of the time

When you'd get past your prime,
Would you think it a crime
That you cheated mankind
Of what nature designed?

Darlin' widow Machree, will you fully explain,
Och, hone! widow Machree,

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,
Och, hone! widow Machree.

Widow Machree, pay your debts, fie for shame,
Och, hone! widow Machree,

As you owe man a rib, I lay claim to that same,
Och, hone! widow Machree.

And by paying the debt,
You'll draw interest yet,
And an armful you'll get
Of that same property;

Shall be yours while life bides,
And a great deal besides,

Och, hone! widow Machree.

while,

The rents and taxes are so high, I can no longer stay;
From Dublin's quay I sailed away and landed here but yesterday;
Me shoes and breeches and shirts now are all that's in my kit.
have dropped in to tell you now the sights I have seen before I
Of the ups and downs in Ireland since the year of ninety-eight;
But if that nation had its own her noble sons might stay at home,
But since fortune has it otherwise poor Pat must emigrate.

go,

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,
In 'Forty-eight (that time is no more), when famine it was great;
I saw fathers, boys, and girls with rosy cheeks and silken curls,
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
fate-

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 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 was but poorly recompensed for all his toil and pains.
He told us for to be in no haste, and in him for to place our
trust,

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.
Good night, my boys, with hand and heart, all you who take old
Ireland's part.

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!

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of choosing;

his
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty
Neil-
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought
of refusing!

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,
And with flourish so free sets each couple in

motion;

With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground;

The maids move around, just like swans on the

THE FENIAN'S ESCAPE.

Now, boys, if you will listen to the story I'll relate,
I'll tell you of the noble men who from the foe escaped;
Though bound with Saxon fetters in the dark Australian jail.
They struck a blow for freedom, and for Yankee land set sail,
On the 17th of April last the Stars and Stripes did fly
On board the bark "Catalpa," waving proudly to the sky;
She showed the green above the red, as she did calmly lay
Prepared to take the Fenian boys in safety o'er the sea.

The steamer reached the bounding bark and fired across her bow,
Then in loud voice commanded that the vessel should heave to;
But noble Captain Anthony, in thunder tones did cry:
You dare not fire a shot at that bright flag that floats on high;
My ship is sailing peacefully beneath that flag of stars,
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,
'Tis the banner I'll protect, old Ireland's flag of green.

The Britisher he sailed away-from the stars and stripes he ran-
He knew his chance was slim to fight the boys of Uncle Sam;
So Hogan, Wilson, Harrington, with Darragh off did go,
With Hassett and bold Cranston, soon to whip the Saxon foc.
Here's luck to that noble Captain, who well these men did free,
He dared the English man-of-war to fight him on the sea.
And here's to that dear emblem which in triumph shall be seen,
The flag for which those patriots fought, dear Ireland's flag of
green.

LARRY O'GAFF.

NEAR a bog in sweet Ireland, I am told, sure there born I was,
Well I remember a bright Monday morn it was;
My daddy, poor man, would cry: What a greenhorn I was-
Three months I am married, hurrah! how they laugh.
Says he to my mother: Troth, Judy, I'll leave you joy.
Says Judy to him: Oh! the devil may care, my boy.
By St. Patrick, I'll leave you both here to weep and cry,
What shall we do for our daddy O'Gaff?

With my didrewhack off I am, none of your blarney, man,
Keep your brat to your chat all the day so you may;
By the powers! I won't tarry; so he left little Larry,
I never saw more of my daddy O'Gaff.

Och! it's then I grew up, and a sweet looking child I was,
Always the devil for handling the stick I was;

But somehow or other, my numbskull so thick it was.
Go where I would, all the folks they did laugh.

I rambled to England, where I met with a squad of boys.
They got me promoted to carry the hod, my boys;
I crept up a ladder like a cat newly shod, my boys,
A steep way to riches, says Larry O'Gaff.
With my didrewhack in and out, head turning round about,
Ladder crack, break your back, tumble down, crack your crown.
My dear Mr. Larry, this hod that you carry
Disgraces the shoulders of Mr. O'Gaff.

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 calf,

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,
O 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.

Then they made me a soldier, mut, oh! how genteel I was!
Scarlet and tapes from the neck to the heels I was;
Larry, says I, when brought into the field I was,

This sort of fighting don't suit you by half.

We fought like the devil, as Irishmen ought to do,
So sweetly we beat Mr. Bony at Waterloo;

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.

"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
Than I hope to play some day or other
To the goal of an Irish green!

The foe was gone with the morning's light,
And the flag of emerald hue
Waved proudly above the wooded height,
Begemmed with the morning's dew.
And o'er many a fight did that banner wave,
And o'er many an Irish warrior's grave
Its mourning folds were seen;-
But how many of all that phalanx brave
Will again see an Irish green?

Eire ar taev-ne; a frequent cry at Irish hurling matches

THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL.

THERE'S a lofty love abounding
In the emblem of a land;
There's fellowship confounding
The evil mind and hand;
In the token of a nation,

In the flow'ret of a race;
And a multiform oblation
Is uplifted by the grace
And patriotism of millions-

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!

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