LET the farmer praise his grounds, The shepherd his dew-scented lawn ; 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 Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin! Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin, 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; I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin ! Is Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a rúin! 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, 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, for wheresoe'er I go, When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore, 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 : 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, And the meadows were spangled with dew--- 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, She's the charming young sapling of Erin, Her features are killing also; She's a charming, accomplished young maiden, Fair Juno, Minerva, or Helen, Could not vie with this juvenile dame ; And anxious to know her dear name. At Coachfort, at Dripsey, and Blarney And present wherever I go; Sweet, charming young maid, I adore thee, Now aid me, ye country grammarians ! Ingeniously placed in a row, A diphthong and three semivowels This lovely, this virtuous young dame. C |