« ForrigeFortsæt »
Like an owl that sits moping I wander about,
go; And without a new
service shall soon be, no donbt, Out of elbows from top to the toe.
Spoken.! I hav’nt a whole thread upon me that isn't in tatters, and if I keep Lent much longer, I'll be a perfect rag-bag of bones. I'm a great mind to travel to London, where they say the flint-stones in the street are all gold; and the pigs, plum-puddings, and other poultry, run about ready dressed, crying, 'Cut and come again. No I won't, for though I am out of bread, I know on which side it's buttered; and though London may be the place for the loaves and fishes,'
(Imitation of the original singer.) • They're fishermen all, fishermen all;
• Tol de rol lol, fishermen all.” 0, Ireland, why from thee did ever I stray?
While I stop here, 'mid pother and strife, I'd better go back; for if here I should stay
I'll be kilt all the rest of my life.
Spoken.] I've made up my mind at first sight, because second thoughts are best, I'll be married to Patty, and if she won't have me, I'll die an old maid for her sake; though I could return to Kilkenny and wed old Deborah Dogherty, whose first husband died the day before they were married, and left her a disconsolate widow.
(Imitation of the original singer.) • With a rich pair of pockets o’erflowing with charms, * And very much in fashion, for she'd very little
clothes,' • The old maid cast a roguish eye,
“At me, says I, 0, great Ramchoodra' • You love dancing, so do I.'
Ri tol lol, &c.
THE SPRIG OF SHELLELAGH.
With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green;
With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green Who has ere had the luck to see Donnybrook fair, An Irishman all in his glory is there,
With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new without ever a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neck; He goes to a tent and he spends ha'f a crown, He meets with a friend and for love knocks him down,
With his sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green. At evening returning, as homeward he goes, IIis heart soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows
From a sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green; He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries, get ye gone, Pat,' yet consents all the while; To the priest then they go—and, nine months after
that, A fine baby cries out, “how d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green!'
Additional verse. Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,
Where grows'the shellelagh and shamrock so green, May the sons of the Thames, the 'Tweed and the Shan
non, Drub the foe who dares plant on our confines a cannon; United and happy, at loyalty's shrine,
May the rose, leek, and thistle, long flourish and twine
Round a sprig of shellelagh and shamrock so green.
NED Grogan, dear joy, was the son of his mother,
hay; Always ask my advice, when the business is done; For two heads, sure, you'll own, are much better than
Spoken.] So, Neddy, taking it into his pate to fetch a walk over to England, stepped to ask the advice of his second head; but by St. Patrick, a drop of the crature had made her speechless, and so being dead into the bargain, all that he could get out of her was
Phililu, bodderoo, whack, gramachree. Ned's mother being waked, to England he came, sir, Big with hopes of promotion, of honor, and fame, sir, Where a snug birth he got, d’ye mind, by my soul, To be partner, dear joy, with a knight of the pole; For Larry to teach him his art proving willing, Soon taught him the changes to ring with a shilling, And that folks, when not sober, are easily won; Which proves that two heads, joy, are better than one.
Spoken.] Och, to be sure and they didn't carry on a roaring trade, till Larry having the misfortune to take a drop too much at the Old Bailey, poor Grogan was once more left alone to sing
Left alone, sure, O’Grogan set up for himself,
Spoken.] Och, bad luck to her! cried Grogan: to be sure, I took her for better or worse; but since she's proved all worse and no better, faith! her loss makes me sing
FAREWELL TO MY HARP.
TUNE—New Langolee.' DEAR harp of my country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er hee long, When proudly my own Island Harp I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song; The warm lay of love, and the light note of gladness,
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine, Go-sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb’d at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own!
THE IRISH HAYMAKER. And did you ne'er hear of an Irish haymaker
One Mr. O'Rafferty? Then it is me;
And my father he was, yes he was, a stay-maker,
And I am the whalebone he danced on his knee, And och! ever since with the girls I've been jigging,
Who cry, but don't mean it, . Pat leave me alone,' Then for whiskey, I an’t, joy, eternally swigging,
By my soul from the cradle I've suck'd it, I own. Then what d'ye think of an Irish haymaker?
Och! an't he a devil the lasses to smack? With his didderoo-bub, and his little shellelagh,
Sing up and down friskey, and fire away whack. There's Judy M’Brawn, and I ne'er will forsake her,
For, faith we are tied, so I can't get away, Then, she sings like an owl, when the maggot does
take her, And growls, bites, and scratches, the long summer's
day. Then her friend as she calls him, one Teddy O'Shaf.
ferty, To be sure she don't hug him as puss did the mouse, While he fondles, and calls her his sweet Mrs. Raf
ferty, What a blessing to have such a friend in a house!
Then what, &c. Then do what I will, or wherever I'm walking, By my soul, I am watch’d, night and day, out of
sight, Nor the devil a word they believe when I'm talking,
As if I was given to swear black is white, One day, to be sure, I looked into a kitchen,
And saw the pot boiling, but not for poor Pat; But for love and for thieving I'd always an itching, So I took out the mutton and popped in the cat.
Now what, &c. Och, luck to sweet summer, the fields, and the lasses,
For sure we don't frisk it up hill and down dale,