Still an' all to my mind

No maiden you'll find

As lovely and modest, as merry and kind,
As our Limerick lasses;

Our Limerick lasses

So lovely and modest, and merry and kind.

THE IRISH SPINNING-WHEEL

SHOW me a sight
Bates for delight

An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
Oh no!

Nothing you'll show

Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.

Look at her there

Night in her hair,

The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us!

Faix, an' a foot,

Perfect of cut,

Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us

That there's a sight

Bates for delight

An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it— Oh no!

Nothin' you'll show

Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.

See the lamb's wool

Turns coarse an' dull

By them soft, beautiful weeshy white hands of her. Down goes her heel,

Roun' runs the wheel,

Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her.

Then show me a sight

Bates for delight

An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.

Oh no!

Nothin' you'll show

Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.

Talk of Three Fates,

Seated on sates,

Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me!
You may want three

For your massacree,

But one Fate for me, boys-and only the one for me!
And isn't that fate
Pictured complate-

An ould Irish wheel with a young Irish girl at it?

Oh no!

Nothin' you'll show

Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.

IRISH LULLABY

I'D rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow,

To the shoheen ho of the wind of the west and the lullalo of the soft sea billow.

Sleep, baby dear,

Sleep without fear,

Mother is here at your pillow.

I'd put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful river,

Where a shoheen whisper the white cascades, and a lullalo the green flags shiver.

Sleep, baby dear,

Sleep without fear,

Mother is here with you for ever.

Shoheen ho! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 'tis sleep has bound you,

And, O my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have found you?

Sleep, baby dear,

Sleep without fear,

Mother's two arms are clasped around you.

FATHER O'FLYNN

OF priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned for larnin' and piety;
Still, I'd advance ye widout impropriety,

Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

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.

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,

Faix and the divels and all at Divinity—

Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all!
Come, I vinture to give ye my word,
Niver the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from mythology

Into thayology,

Troth and conchology if he'd the call.

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.

Och Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,
All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,

All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a way wid you, Father avick!

Still, for all you've so gentle a soul,

Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control,
Checking the crazy ones,

Coaxin' onaisy ones,

Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

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 girl-Not 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 ;

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