JENNY FROM BALLINASLOE

This reads remarkably like a conscious burlesque on the hedge schoolmaster's style of love poem.

You lads that are funny, and call maids your honey,
Give ear for a moment; I'll not keep you long.
I'm wounded by Cupid; he has made me stupid;
To tell you the truth now, my brain's nearly wrong.
A neat little posy, who does live quite cosy,

Has kept me unable to go to and fro ;
Each day I'm declining, in love I'm repining,
For nice little Jenny from Ballinasloe.

It was in September, I'll ever remember,
I went out to walk by a clear river side
For sweet recreation, but, to my vexation,
This wonder of Nature I quickly espied ;
I stood for to view her an hour, I'm sure :

The earth could not show such a damsel, I know,
As that little girl, the pride of the world,

Called nice little Jenny from Ballinasloe.

I said to her: Darling this is a nice morning;
The birds sing enchanting, which charms the groves ;
Their notes do delight me, and you do invite me,
Along this clear water some time for to rove.
Your beauty has won me, and surely undone me;
If you won't agree for to cure my sad woe,
So great is my sorrow, I'll ne'er see to-morrow,
My sweet little Jenny from Ballinasloe.'

'Sir, I did not invite you, nor yet dare not slight you ;
You're at your own option to act as you please :
I am not ambitious, nor e'er was officious;
I am never inclined to disdain or to tease.

I love conversation, likewise recreation;

I'm free with a friend, and I'm cold with a foe But virtue's my glory, and will be till I'm hoary,' Said nice little Jenny from Ballinasloe.

'Most lovely of creatures! your beautiful features
Have sorely attracted and captured my heart;
If you won't relieve me, in truth you may b'lieve me,
Bewildered in sorrow till death I must smart;

I'm at your election, so grant me protection,

And feel for a creature that's tortured in woe.
One smile it will heal me; one frown it will kill me ;
Sweet, nice little Jenny from Ballinasloe !'

'Sir, yonder's my lover; if he should discover
Or ever take notice you spoke unto me,
He'd close your existence in spite of resistance;

Be pleased to withdraw, then, lest he might you see.
You see, he's approaching; then don't be encroaching
He has his large dog and his gun there also.
Although you're a stranger, I wish you from danger,
Said nice little Jenny from Ballinasloe.

I bowed then genteelly, and thanked her quite freely ;
I bid her adieu, and took to the road;

So great was my trouble my pace I did double;

My heart was oppressed and sank down with the load. For ever I'll mourn for beauteous Jane Curran,

And ramble about in affection and woe,

And think on the hour I saw that sweet flower,
My dear little Jenny from Ballinasloe !

THE BOYNE WATER

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy rightly observes that these fragments of the original Boyne Water' are far more racy and spirited than the song by Colonel Blacker which has superseded them.

July the First, of a morning clear, one thousand six hundred and ninety,

King William did his men prepare-of thousands he had thirty

To fight King James and all his foes, encamped near the Boyne Water;

He little fear'd, though two to one, their multitudes to scatter.

King William call'd his officers, saying: 'Gentlemen, mind your

station,

And let your valour here be shown before this Irish nation;

My brazen walls let no man break, and your subtle foes you'll

scatter,

Be sure you show them good English play as you go over the water.'

Both foot and horse they marched on, intending them to batter, But the brave Duke Schomberg he was shot as he crossed over the water.

When that King William did observe the brave Duke Schomberg falling,

He rein'd his horse with a heavy heart, on the Enniskilleners calling:

'What will you do for me, brave boys-see yonder men retreating? Our enemies encourag'd are, and English drums are beating.' He says, 'My boys, feel no dismay at the losing of one commande",

For God shall be our king this day, and I'll be general under.”

Within four yards of our fore-front, before a shot was fired,
A sudden snuff they got that day, which little they desired;
For horse and man fell to the ground, and some hung in their
saddle:

Others turn'd up their forked ends, which we call coup de ladle.

Prince Eugene's regiment was the next, on our right hand advanced,

Into a field of standing wheat, where Irish horses pranced

But the brandy ran so in their heads, their senses all did scatter, They little thought to leave their bones that day at the Boyne Water.

Both men and horse lay on the ground, and many there lay bleeding,

I saw no sickles there that day-but, sure, there was sharp shearing.

Now, praise God, all true Protestants, and heaven's and earth's
Creator,

For the deliverance that He sent our enemies to scatter.
The Church's foes will pine away, like churlish-hearted Nabal
For our deliverer came this day like the great Zorobabel.

So praise God, all true Protestants, and I will say no further,
But had the Papists gain'd the day, there would have been open
murder.

Although King James and many more were ne'er that way inclined,

It was not in their power to stop what the rabble they designed.

BY MEMORY INSPIRED

Said to have been composed by J. Kearney, a Dublin street-singer, but believed by Mr. D. J. O Donoghue to have been merely popularised by him. It is a fair example of the modern street-ballad.

By memory inspired

And love of country fired,

The deeds of MEN I love to dwell upon
And the patriotic glow

Of my Spirit must bestow

A tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys - gone.
Here's a memory to the friends that are gone!

In October 'Ninety-Seven

May his soul find rest in Heaven!—
William Orr to execution was led on :

The jury, drunk, agreed

That IRISH was his creed :

For perjury and threats drove them on, boys-on.
Here's the memory of John Mitchel that is gone!

In 'Ninety-Eight-the month July

The informer's pay was high;

When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann ;
But MacCann was Reynolds' first —

One could not allay his thirst;

So he brought up Bond and Byrne that are gone, boys-gone.
Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!

We saw a nation's tears

Shed for John and Henry Shears ;
Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong ;

We may forgive, but yet

We never can forget

The poisoning of Maguire' that is gone, boys -gone :
Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!

How did Lord Edward die?

Like a man, without a sigh !

But he left his handiwork on Major Swan!

But Sirr, with steel-clad breast

And coward heart at best,

Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys—

gone.

Here's the memory of our friends that are gone!

September, Eighteen-Three,

Closed this cruel history,

When Emmet's blood the scaffold flowed upon.

Oh, had their spirits been wise,

They might then realise

Their freedom-but we drink to Mitchel that is gone, boys

gone.

Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!

THE SHAN VAN VOCHT

One of the most popular of Irish street-ballads. Written in 1796, when the French fleet arrived in Bantry Bay. The Shan Van Vocht' (Sean Bhean Bhocht) means The Poor Old Woman '- a name for Ireland.

OH! the French are on the sea,

Says the Shan Van Vocht;

The French are on the sea,

Says the Shan Van Vocht;

Father Tom Maguire, the well-known Catholic controversialist, who with other members of his family was poisoned, it was alleged, by his housekeeper, 1847.