1ο Is to think of the time when his ghost So moving these last words he spoke, Oh, the throttler! I thought I could kill him ; Nor changed till he come to 'King William When he came to the nubbling chit, He was tucked up so neat and so pretty, And at darky we waked him in clover, 'JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE’ While going the road to sweet Athy, While going the road to sweet Athy, While going the road to sweet Athy, A doleful damsel I heard cry : With drums and guns, and guns and drums The enemy nearly slew ye; My darling dear, you look so queer, Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! 'Where are your eyes that looked so mild? Hurroo hurroo ! Where are your eyes that looked so mild? Where are your eyes that looked so mild, 'Where are the legs with which you run? Where are the legs with which you run? Where are the legs with which you run Indeed, your dancing days are done! With drums, &c. 'It grieved my heart to see you sail, It grieved my heart to see you sail, It grieved my heart to see you sail, With drums, &c. 'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, Hurroo hurroo ! You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, Hurroo hurroo ! You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg; You'll have to be put wid a bowl to beg : Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! With drums, &c. 'I'm happy for to see you home, I'm happy for to see you home, I'm happy for to see you home, 'But sad as it is to see you so, But sad as it is to see you so, But sad as it is to see you so, And to think of you now as an object of woe, Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau ; Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! With drums and guns, and guns and drums, The enemy nearly slew ye; My darling dear, you look so queer, Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! THE CRUISKEEN LAWN It would be difficult to imagine a more jovial, sly, rollicking and altogether irresistible bacchanalian song than the immortal Cruiskeen Lawn.' English words and the Irish blend together most happily. nounced something like Grá-ma-chree ma crooskeen, Shlántya gal ma-voorneen 'S grá-ma-chree a cooleen bán, &c. á being pronounced as in shawl.' The meaning is: Love of my heart, my little jug! Bright health to my darling! The love of my heart is her fair hair, &c. The The chorus is pro The origin of the poem is lost in obscurity. It probably sprang up, in its present form, in the convivial circles of eighteenth-century Ireland, and no doubt has a reminiscence of some Gaelic original. Lán full. 1 Ceylon. LET the farmer praise his grounds, Spend each happy night and day With my charming little crúiscín lán, lán, lán, My charming little crúiscín lán. Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,- Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin bán. Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin bán, bán, bán, Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin bán. Immortal and divine, Great Bacchus, god of wine, Create me by adoption your son; In hope that you'll comply, My glass shall ne'er run dry, Nor my smiling little crúiscin lán, lán, lán, And when grim Death appears, In a few but pleasant years, To tell me that my glass has run ; I'll say, Begone, you knave, For bold Bacchus gave me lave To take another crúiscín lán, lán, lán, Another little crúiscín lán. Then fill your glasses high, Let's not part with lips adry, Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn ; And since we can't remain, May we shortly meet again, To fill another cruiscin lán, lán, lán, To fill another crúiscín lán. SHULE AROON A BRIGADE BALLAD The date of this ballad is not positively known, but it appears to be early in the eighteenth century, when the flower of the Catholic youth of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Brigade. The inexpressible tenderness of the air, and the deep feeling and simplicity of the words, have made the ballad a popular favourite, notwithstanding its meagreness and poverty.-Note by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, Ballad Poetry of Ireland. Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin ! Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!1 I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, I'll sell my only spinning-wheel, To buy for my love a sword of steel, Is Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin! I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red, Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin! In Mr. Halliday Sparling's IRISH MINSTRELSY Dr. Sigerson versifies this chorus gracefully, and almost literally, as follows: 'Come, come, come, O Love! Quickly come to me, softly move; |