SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. POOR PAT MUST EMIGRATE.-Continued. MOLLY CAREW. With spirits bright and purses light, my boys, we can no longer OCH hone! and what will I do? I told the truth, by great Saint Ruth, believe me what I say. Good night, my boys, with heart and hand, all you who take Ireland's part, I can no longer stay at home, for hear of being too late; Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit I, too, shall be gone-but my name shall be spoken Sure my love is all crost And there's no use at all in my going to bed; head: And 'tis all about you, My sweet Molly Carew And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame: The snow can't compare With your forehead so fair, And I rather would see just one blink of your eye Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky And by this and by that, For the matter o' that, You're more distant by far than that same! Och hone! wirrasthrue! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone! but why should I spake Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would And then for your cheek! Throth, 'twould take him a week In their beautiful glow 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago; Och hone! wirrasthrue! man's I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone! by the man in the moon, That a woman can plaze, Pat Magee, As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me, Tho' the piper I bate, For fear the owld chate Wouldn't play you your favorite tune; While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, Oh, lave off that bonnet, The loss of my wandherin' sowl! Day is night, dear, to me, without you! MOLLY CAREW.-Contiinued. And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the sthreet; Throth, you'd open your eyes, To think 'twasn't you was come to it! And her cow, I go bail, Would jump if I'd say "Katty Naile, name the day." And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May, While she's short and dark like a cowld winther's day, Yet if you don't repent My ghost will haunt you every night. BROSNA'S BANKS. YES, yes, I idled many an hour- How deeply has my spirit nursed! A rescued land, a nation's thanks, For these I sued, and sought, and strove, To die upon the Brosna's Banks. Yet idle as those visions seem, They were a strange and faithful guide, When Heaven itself had scarce a gleam To light my darken'd life beside; And if from grosser guilt escaped I fel no dying dread, the thanks Are due unto the power that shaped My visions on the Brosna's Banks. And love, I feel, will come at last, Albeit too late to comfort me; And fetters from the land be cast, Though I may not survive to see. If then the gifted, good, and brave Admit me to their glorious ranks, My memory may, tho' not my grave, Be green upon the Brosna's Banks. "Twas but four days thereafter, of a stormy evening late, When a horseman reared his charger in before the castle gate, And gazing upwards, he descried by the light of the pale moon shed, Impaled upon an iron stake, a well-known gory head! "So, Parez! thou hast met thy meed!" he said, and turned away "And was it a foe that thus avenged me on that fatal day? Now, by my troth, albeit I hate the Saxon and his land, I could, methinks, for one brief moment press the Talbot's hand! EMMET'S FAREWELL TO HIS SWEETHEART. FAREWELL, love, farewell, love, I now must leave you, The pale moon is shining her last beam on me; In truth, I do declare I never deceived you, Draw near to my bosom, my first and fond true love, Oh, never again in the moonlight we'll roam, love, Oh, should a mother's love make all others forsake me, That you'll come to my grave when all others forsake me, And there with the soft winds breath sigh then for sigh. My hour is approaching, let me take one fond look, love, And watch thy pure beauty till my soul does depart; Let thy ringlets fall on my face and brow, love, Draw near till I press thee to my fond and true heart. Farewell, love, farewell, love, the words are now spoken, The pale moon is shining her last beams on me: Farewell, love, farewell, love, I hear the death token, Never more in this world your Emmet you'll see. THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN. For, all the way to Glenmalure, But neither household cares, nor yet She brought us in a beechen bowl, Sweet milk, that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll Of butter-it gilds all my rhyme! And while we ate the grateful food, (With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listened to the wind. Kind wishes both our souls engaged From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought-we stood pledged, and THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE LOCH DAN. "The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary-bless those budding charms! Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms!" She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen; But, Mary, you have nought to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger men. Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign; Nor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel, "Tis all in vain-she can't but smile! Just like sweet April's dawn appears Her modest face-I see it yet- The white teeth struggling into sight; The rosy cheek that won't be still!O! who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill? For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again! SHULE AROON. I WOULD I were on yonder hill, CHORUS. Shule, shule, shule aroon, Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin, I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red, I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, I wish I had my heart again, And vainly think I'd not complain, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. But now my love has gone to France, To try his fortune to advance. If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. OH! the days are gone, when beauty bright But there's nothing half so sweet in life Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before, A joy so sweet As when first he sung to woman's ear In all his noon of fame, His soul-felt flame; And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name! Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream! "Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream! Oh! 'twas light, that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream! THE DEAR EMERALD ISLE. KIND friends, will ye help a poor, weary stranger, That rears its proud head o'er the dear em'rald isle. My father and mother, God bless their dear mem'ry, From toiling so hard on the bleak, barren soil; Although my poor mother was careful and tender, He died, and now lies 'neath the dear em'rald isle. Then the sheriff he came with a band of armed ruffians Then hunger and sorrow soon told on my mother; And with a last blessing, while her poor child caressing, Then they laid my dear mother beside my poor father— And dream of the time when nature did smile Then if ever the Father shall look down in pity, And to think of her wrongs, oh, it makes my blood rile; MCCARTHY'S MARE. WE started for the fair, with spirits light and hearty, CHORUS. Off she wint! off she wint! be gob, I was not worth a cint; The sate was just as hard as flint, behind McCarthy's mare. "Hould her in!" McCarthy cried, " 'Stop her! says McCue, I tho't I'd shake to pieces, as along the road we flew; McCarthy held the reins, and Murphy held McCarthy, Me dacent coat was tore, me hat was left behind me, I rattled and I swore, and I thought the dust would blind me In holes and ditches wint the wheels, oh, murther, what a day Sure, myself was kilt entirely, with the mare that run away. |