CHORUS

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Sláinte, and sláinte, and sláinte agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and

Tinderest teacher, and

Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity
Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity,

Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest :
'Is it lave gaiety

All to the laity?

Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'

CHORUS

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Sláinte, and sláinte, and sláinte agin ;
Powerfulest preacher, and

Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

FAN FITZGERL

WIRRA, wirra! ologone!

Can't ye lave a lad alone,

Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girlNot even Trojan Helen

In beauty all excellin'—

Who's been up to half the divlement of Fan Fitzgerl?

Wid her brows of silky black
Arched above for the attack,

Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admirin' man; Masther Cupid, point your arrows,

From this out, agin the sparrows,

For you're bested at Love's archery by young Miss Fan.

See what showers of goolden thread

Lift and fall upon her head,

The likes of such a trammel-net at say was niver spread ;
For whin accurately reckoned,

'Twas computed that each second

Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead.

Now mintion, if ye will,

Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill,

Or Ma'g'llicuddy's Reeks renowned for cripplin' all they can ; Still the countryside confisses

None of all its precipices

Cause a quarter of the carnage of the nose of Fan.

But your shatthered hearts suppose

Safely steered apast her nose,

She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck them rovin' ships. My maning it is simple,

For that current is her dimple,

And the cruel reef 'twill coax ye to 's her coral lips.

I might inform ye further

Of her bosom's snowy murther,

And an ankle ambuscadin' through her gown's delightful whirl; But what need, when all the village

Has forsook its peaceful tillage

And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl?

HERRING IS KING

LET all the fish that swim the sea,

Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,

Bow down the head and bend the knee

To herring, their king!--to herring, their king!

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,

'Tis we have brought the summer in.1

The sun sank down, so round and red,
Upon the bay, upon the bay;

The second line of the refrain translates the first, which is pronounced Hugamar fain an sowra linn.

The sails shook idly overhead-
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
"Tis we have brought the summer in.
Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,
The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;
'Tis he has spied your silver track,
Herring, our joy-herring, our joy.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh l ́n ́,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

It was in with the sails and away to shore,
With the rise and swing, the rise and swing
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,
After herring, our king-herring, our king.
Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

The Manx and the Cornish raised the shout,
And joined the chase, and joined the chase,
But their fleets they fouled as they went about,
And we won the race, we won the race.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

For we turned and faced you full to land,
Down the góleen long, the góleen' lòng,
And after you slipped from strand to strand
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives, 'Come, welcome us home--welcome us home,' Till they ran to meet us for their lives

Into the foam, into the foam.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

' Creek.

Oh, the kissing of hands and waving of caps
From girl and boy, from girl and boy,
While you leapt by scores in the lasses' laps,
Herring, our joy-herring, our joy.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

FRANCIS A. FAHY

BORN at Kinvara, County Galway, 1854, and entered the Civil Service in London (Board of Trade Department) 1873. Mr. Fahy has taken an active part in various Irish literary movements in London, especially in the formation of the Southwark Irish Literary Club and the Irish Literary Society which grew out of it. He wrote a play, THE Last of the O'LEARYS, at the age of sixteen, which was performed in his native town. He has contributed verses marked by much humour and grace to many Irish periodicals. His songs, of which a large number are well-known favourites in concert-rooms, have the merit of being eminently singable. His volume of IRISH SONGS AND POEMS appeared in 1887.

IF you

THE DONOVANS

would like to see the height of hospitality,

The cream of kindly welcome, and the core of cordiality :
Joys of all the olden time-you're wishing to recall again?
Come down to Donovans, and there you'll meet them all again.

Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans,

As cheery as the springtime and Irish as the cannawaun,1
The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one-

That every luck that lightens life may light upon the Donovans.

As soon as e'er you lift the latch, the little ones are meeting you; Soon as you're beneath the thatch, oh! kindly looks are greeting

you;

Bog-cotton.

Scarcely are you ready to be holding out the fist to them,
When down by the fireside you're sitting in the midst of them.
Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans, &c.

There sits the cailín deas1-oh! where on earth's the peer of her? The modest face, the gentle grace, the humour and the cheer of her

Eyes like the summer skies when twin stars beam above in them, Oh! proud will be the boy that's to light the lamp of love in them. Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans, &c.

Then when you rise to go, it's 'Ah, then, now sit down again!' 'Isn't it the haste you're in?' and 'Won't you soon come round again?'

Your caubeen and your overcoat you'd better put astray from them, 'Twill take you all your time to try and tear yourself away from them, Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans, &c.

IRISH MOLLY O

OH! fairer than the lily tall, and sweeter than the rose,

As modest as the violet in dewy dell that blows;

With heart as warm as summer noon, and pure as winter snow
The pride of Erin's isle is she, dear Irish Molly O !

No linnet of the hazel grove than she more sweetly sang,
No sorrow could be resting where her guileless laughter rang,
No hall of light could half so bright as that poor cabin glow
Where shone the face of love and grace of Irish Molly O!

But fever's breath struck down in death her father strong and brave,

And who should now his little ones from want and sorrow save?
'Oh, never fear, my mother dear, across the seas I'll go,
And win for ye a new home there,' said Irish Molly O!

And far away 'mid strangers cold she toiled for many a year,
And no one heard the heart-wrung sigh or saw the silent tear,
But letters fond the seas beyond would kind and constant go,
With gold won dear, and words of cheer, from Irish Molly O!

' Pretty girl.