Irish Come-all-ye's: A Repository of Ancient Irish Songs and Ballads ...

NORAH MAGEE.

SURE it is not at reading and writing
That Terry's of genius the spark;
The boy's a deal better at fighting,
And that he calls making his mark.

'Tis true he oft sends me a letter
The strength of his passion to tell:
I can't read myself-all the better,
I can take of the writing a spell.

There's a mighty big D to begin it,
And then E, A, R, I can see;
So I guess all the rest that is in it,
For he calls me dear Norah Magee.

When I bring home the milk in the morning
I'm thinking of him all the same:

I know to deceive he'd be scorning
For love's of his letter the crame.

I can bake, I can brew, and boil praties,
And buttermilk too I can make;
And as to accomplishments-faith 'tis
Myself that can dance at a wake.

It's little that I care for learning,
For Terry is faithful to me
And says he'd my name soon be turning
To another than Norah Magee.

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When older grown, the girls ochone!
About their hearts they twisted me,

'Till Sergeant Shea, he came out one day,
When, by the powers! he listed me;
Then Betty Byrne, she left the churn,
And cried, "You've been deceiving me,"
And Kate O'Neill, faith I'll go bail,

She'll break her heart for leaving me.
Then in this plight, a soldier tight,
I marched as stout as any boy,
The fair to melt, the foe to pelt,

None equalled the Kilkenny boy;
The manly, straight, the clean, complete,
The beautiful Kilkenny boy.

But Sergeant Shea, he died one day,
A bullet laid him on the floor;

And the same poltogue who spoiled his brogue
A Sergeant made of Larry Moore.

And it's when the peace bid fighting cease,
For the girls, ochone! I had a few,
Who thought to tease, but none could please,
Like the pretty Widow Donohoe;

For 'tis herself, she has the pelf,

And 'tis myself can spend it joy,

She cried, "Ochone! you're all my own,

My thundering fine Kilkenny boy,

Oh! you're my broth of a boy, you're my jewel joy, You're my own, my fine Kilkenny boy."

To see their eyes glitter

It made my heart twitter,

But their frown-Och it's bitter

When clouded their brows!

Then their dear little noses

Seem made to smell posies,
And their breath-shames the rose's,
'Tis sweet as the cow's!

Och bone!--so comely and merry,

They're quite captivating-the sweet girls of Derry.

So sweet too each voice is,

Its music so choice is,

My heart still rejoices

To think of the strain.

And to show how they bind me,

I left them behind me,

But soon they shall find me

In Derry again.

Och hone!-so pleasant and merry,

I'd live till I die-for the sweet girls of Derry.

THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

THE winter it is past,

And the summer's come at last, And the small birds sing on every tree; The hearts of those are glad, Whilst mine is very sad,

Whilst my true love is absent from me.

I'll put on my can of black,
And fringe about my neck,
And rings on my fingers I'll wear;
All this I'll undertake,

For my true lover's sake,

For he rides at the Curragh of Kildare.

A livery I'll wear,

And I'll comb down my hair,

And I'll dress in the velvet so green:
Straightways I will repair

To the Curragh of Kildare,
And 'tis there I will get tidings of him.

With patience she did wait, Till they ran for the plate, In thinking young Johnston to see; But Fortune proved unkind To that sweetheart of mine, For he's gone to Lurgan for me.

I should not think it strange,
The wide world for to range,
If I could obtain my heart's delight;
But here in Cupid's chains

I'm obliged to remain,

Whilst in tears do I spend the whole night.

My love is like the sun,

That in the firmament doth run, Which is always constant and true; But yours is like the moon, That doth wander up and down, And in every month it's new.

All you that are in love,
And cannot it remove,

For you pitied are by me;

Experience makes me know

That your heart is full of woe, Since my true love is absent from me.

Farewell, my joy and heart,
Since you and I must part,

You are the fairest that I e'er did see;
And I rever do design
For to alter my mind,

Although you are below my degree.

GRAMACHREE MOLLY.

As down by Banna's banks I strayed
One evening in the may,

The little birds, in blithest notes
Made vocal every spray.

They sang their little tales of loves,
They sang them o'er and o'er;

Ah! Gramachree, ma Colleenoge,
Ma Molly Astore.

MARY OF TRALEE.

GRAMACHREE MOLLY.-Continued.

The daisy pied, and all the sweets
The dawn of nature yields;
The primrose pale, the vi'let blue,
Lay scatter'd o'er the fields.
Such fragrance in the bosom lies
Of her whom I adore.

Ah! Gramachree, etc.

I laid me down upon a bank,
Bewailing my sad fate,

That doom'd me thus the slave of love,
And cruel Molly's hate;

How can she break the honest heart
That wears her in its core?

Ah! Gramachree, etc.

Oh, had I all the flocks that graze
On yonder yellow hill,

Or low'd for me the num'rous herds
That you green pasture fill;

With her I love I'd gladly share
My kine, and fleecy store.

OCH hone! and is it true then that my love is coming back again?

And will his face like sunshine come to glad my cottage door? 'Tis then the clouds will wear away and never will look black

again,

For he's written me a letter and we soon shall meet once

more.

He tells me he has gold in tore, but oh! he tells me something

more,

He says tho' we've been parted he has still been true to me; And I've to him been faithful too, and will my dream at last come true?

Perhaps it's in a coach and four he's coming back from sea.
He's coming back to me,

And he's welcome as the sunshine to Mary of Tralee.

Och, hone! when Terry went away, it's little we'd between us then,

We pledged our hearts, 'twas nothing else that we had got to pledge:

A heart of stone I'm sure it would have melted to have seen us then,

But the only stones that saw us were the cold ones 'neath the
hedge;

But now a lady he'll make me, and Terry Lord Lieutenant be,
And won't we keep a pig or two, if that should be the case!
But spite of all his gold in store, if we but meet to part no more,
I'd give up every penny jist to see his darlin' face,

For, he's comin' back to me,

And he's welcome as the sunshine to Mary of Tralee.

Ah! Gramachree, etc. Och, Terry, and I knew it, will become a great and mighty man,

Two turtle doves, above my head

Sat courting on a bough;

I envied not their happiness,
To see them bill and coo:
Such fondness once for me was shown
But now, alas! 'tis o'er.

Ah! Gramachree, etc.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear,
Thy loss I e'er shall moan;
Whilst life remains in this fond heart,
"Twill beat for thee alone;

Tho' thou art false, may heaven on thee
Its choicest blessings pour.

Ah! Gramachree, etc.

THE GREEN ISLE.

FAIREST! put on a while

These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume
At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays,
And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,

With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, through myrtle boughs

In race majestic frowning, Like some bold warrior's brows

That Love hath just been crowning.

There never was his equal, as I told him long ago;

He only had one failing, that he often was a flighty-man,
But sure that was the whisky, and not Terry's self, you know.
But now that he has wiser grown, the whisky p'r'aps he'll let

alone,

And if the boy for spirit lacks, he'll find enough in me;
For when I ride in all my state, and he a Duke, or Magistrate,
Sure not a pair more illigant in Dublin town you'll see.
For he's coming back to me,

And he's welcome as the sunshine to Mary of Tralee.
THE LAND OF POTATOES, O!

IF I had on the clear

But five hundred a year,

'Tis myself would not fear

Without adding a farthing to 't;

Faith if such was my lot,

Little Ireland's the spot

Where I'd build a snug cot,

With a bit of garden to 't.

As for Italy's dales,
With their Alps and high vales,
Where with fine squalling gales,
Their signoras so treat us O!

I'd ne'er to them come,
Nor abroad ever roam,
But enjoy a sweet home

In the land of potatoes, O!
Hospitality,

All reality,
No formality,

There you ever see;
But free and easy
"Twould so amaze ye,
You'd think us all crazy,

For dull we never be!

THE LAND OF POTATOES, O!-Continued.

If my friend honest Jack,
Would but take a small hack,
And just get on his back,

And with joy gallop full to us;
He throughout the whole year,
Then should have the best cheer,
For faith none so dear

As our brother John Bull to us!
And we'd teach him, when there,
Both to blunder and swear,
And our brogue with him share,

Which both genteel and neat is, O!

And we'd make him so drink,
By St. Patrick, I think

That he never would shrink

From the land of potatoes, O!
Hospitality, &c.

Though I freely agree

I should more happy be

If some lovely she

From Old England would favor me;

For no spot on earth

Can more merit bring forth,

If with beauty and worth

You embellish'd would have her be:

Good breeding, good nature,
You find in each feature,
That nought you've to teach her—

So sweet and complete she's, O! Then if Fate would but send Unto me such a friend,

What a life would I spend

In the land of potatoes, O!
Hospitality, &c.

SHAMUS O'BRIEN.

OH! sweet is the smile of the beautiful morn
As it peeps through the curtain of night;

And the voice of the nightingale singing his tune,
While the stars seem to smile with delight.
Old nature now lingers in silent repose,
And the sweet breath of summer is calm;
While I sit and wonder if Shamus e'er knows

How sad and unhappy I am.

CHORUS.

Oh! Shamus O'Brien, why don't you come home?
You don't know how happy I'll be;

I've but one darling wish, and that is that you'd come,
And forever be happy with me.

I'll smile when you smile, and I'll weep when you weep,
And I'll give you a kiss for a kiss;

And all the fond vows that I've made you I'll keep,
What more can I promise than this?

Does the sea have such bright and such beautiful charms,
That your heart will not leave it for me?

Oh! why did I let you get out of my arms,

Like a bird that was caged and is free?-CHORUS.

Oh! Shamus O'Brien, I'm loving you yet,
And my heart is still trusting and kind;

It was you who first took it, and can you forget
That love for another you'd find?

No! no! if you break it with sorrow and pain,
I'll then have a duty to do;

If you'll bring it to me, I'll mend it again,
And trust it, dear Shamus, to you.-CHORUS.

THE GREEN ISLE.-Continued. Islets, so freshly fair,

That never hath bird come nigh them, But from his course through air He hath been won down by them. Types, sweet maid, of thee,

Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see

From Heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,
And caves where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid

Lets fall in lonely weeping.
Glens, where Ocean comes,

To 'scape the wild wind's rancor, And harbors, worthiest homes,

Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee.
Pride for thy own dear land

Should haply be stealing o'er thee, O, let grief come first,

O'er pride itself victorious—

Thinking how man hath curst

What Heaven had made so glorious!

PADDY, YE RASCAL.

YE have been to the fair wid ye, Paddy, ye rascal;

Ye had Biddy O'Hair wid ye,

Paddy, ye rascal;

It's mesilf is a flame at ye,
Ye a'ght to think shame uv ye-
Paddy, ye rascal.

Ye swore by the sun and moon, Paddy, ye rascal,

Ye'd marry me late or soon,

Paddy, ye rascal;

Is this how you sigh for me, Pretendin' to die for me?

Och! you told a big lie to me, Paddy, ye rascal.

Give me none uv your blarney now, Paddy, ye rascal;

For what do I care me now?

Paddy, ye rascal;

Ochone, ye oppriss me now-
Ye what? ye did miss me now?
Musha! wud ye kiss me now?
Paddy, ye rascal.

Arrah, now! don't bother me,
Paddy, ye rascal;

In truth, and ye'll smother me!
Paddy, my rascal-

Ye "dreamed uv me!" did ye now?
Now, wasn't it Biddy, now?

Go to the-praise, and luck wid ye now!
Paddy, ye rascal.

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