LET the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds,

The shepherd his dew-scented lawn ;
But I, more blest than they,

Spend each happy night and day

With my charming little crúiscín lán, lán, lán, My charming little crúiscín lán.

Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,-
Sláinte geal mo mhúirnín.

Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin bán.
Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,--
Sláinte geal mo mhúirnín,

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,
My siniling little crúiscín 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 !
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!\

Is

Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin!

Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin !
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail
go ciúin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

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;
Come to the door, and away we'll flee,
And safe for aye may my darling be!'

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin !
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
go d-teidh tu, a mkúrnín, slán!

Is

Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin!
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciúin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhúrnín, slán!

IRISH MOLLY O

A STREET-BALLAD

Like Shule Aroon,' this ballad has been largely kept alive by virtue of the beautiful and pathetic air to which it is sung.

OH! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town,
And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down?
A poor, unhappy Scottish youth ;-if more you wish to know,

His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O!

She's modest, mild, and beautiful, the fairest I have known —
The primrose of Ireland—all blooming here alone

The primrose of Ireland, for wheresoe'er I go,
The only one entices me is Irish Molly O!

When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore,
That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more.
He sent for young MacDonald and he plainly told him so-
'I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!'

She's modest, &c.

MacDonald heard the heavy news-and grievously did say-'Farewell, my lovely Molly, since I'm banished far away, A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro,

And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O'

She's modest, &c.

'There is a rose in Ireland, I thought it would be mine :
But now that she is lost to me, I must for ever pine,
Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go,
And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!'

She's modest, &c.

'And now that I am dying, this one request I crave, To place a marble tombstone above my humble grave! And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so"MacDonald lost his life for love of Irish Molly O!"' She's modest, &c.

THE MAID OF CLOGHROE

Air: Cailin deas cruithi-na-mbo.'

(The Pretty Girl milking the Cows.)

As I roved out, at Faha, one morning,
Where Adrum's tall groves were in view—
When Sol's lucid beams were adorning,

And the meadows were spangled with dew---
Reflecting, in deep contemplation,

On the state of my country kept low,

I perceived a fair juvenile female

On the side of the hill of Cloghroe.

Her form resembled fair Venus,
That amorous Cyprian queen;

She's the charming young sapling of Erin,
As she gracefully trips on the green ;
She's tall, and her form is graceful,

Her features are killing also;

She's a charming, accomplished young maiden,
This beautiful dame of Cloghroe.

Fair Juno, Minerva, or Helen,

Could not vie with this juvenile dame ;
Hibernian swains are bewailing,

And anxious to know her dear name.
She's tender, she's tall, and she's stately,
Her complexion much whiter than snow;
She outrivals all maidens completely,
This lovely young maid of Cloghroe.

At Coachfort, at Dripsey, and Blarney
This lovely young maid is admired;
The bucks, at the Lakes of Killarney,
With the fame of her beauty are fired.
Her image, I think, is before me,

And present wherever I go;

Sweet, charming young maid, I adore thee,
Thou beautiful nymph of Cloghroe.

Now aid me, ye country grammarians !
Your learned assistance I claim,
To know the bright name of this fair one-
This charming young damsel of fame.
Two mutes and a liquid united,

Ingeniously placed in a row,
Spell part of the name of this phoenix,
The beautiful maid of Cloghroe.

A diphthong and three semivowels
Will give us this cynosure's name--
This charming Hibernian beauty,

This lovely, this virtuous young dame.
Had Jupiter heard of this fair one,
He'd descend from Olympus, I know,
To solicit this juvenile phoenix-
This beautiful maid of Cloghroe.

C