SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE LADS WHO LIVE IN IRELAND. My name is Ned O'Manney, I was born in sweet Killarney, I've something more alluring, which perhaps you'd like to know. Oh! I'm of the O's and Mac's, and likewise the sturdy Whacks, That live and toil in Ireland where the apple praties grow, That live and toil in Ireland where the apple praties grow. I could a deal relate if I could but trace my pedigree: My mother was a Hogan, but my father I don't know; For I was born in Ireland where the apple praties grow, May Heaven still protect our hospitable country, Where first I drew my living breath and heard its cocks to crow! Adieu to its green hills and its lovely bay of Banty, Where many a pleasant evening my love and I did go— Where shoals of fish so pleasantly did sport about so merrily, Beneath its glassy surface their wanton tricks to showOh! those scenes I did enjoy like a gay, unthinking boy, With the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow, With the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow. St. Patrick was our saint, and a blessed man in truth was he, He banished all the frogs and toads that sheltered in our country, Than the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow. THE RIVER ROE. As I went out one evening, all in the month of June, I quickly stepped up to her, and this to her did say: She quickly made me answer, and this to me did say: They both shook hands and parted, from each other did go, THE RIVER ROE.-Continued. When she came up to him he thus to her did say: I'm glad to meet you here, my love, on this very day. If you're going to wed with me and dwell beside the river Roe. I kissed and embraced her, and away both went: We were married next evening, as you will shortly know, She has servants to attend her, and she dwells upon the Roe. It was within ten miles of Newton, convenient to the tide, PADDY AT THE THEATER. FROM the county of Monaghan lately I came, Derry down, down, down, Derry down. Is it the play that you mean, are you sure that you're right? Well, the green curtain drew up, and a lady I spied, In the days of ould Goury, a long time ago, The Spaniards claimed war 'gainst Peru, you know; When a boy, they called Rowler, says: No, if you please. Then Rowler came in, like a day-star appeared, Then Mr. Murphy Alonzo somehow went to jail, He was shot by some blackguard behind the big screens. Then Rowler came forward, and with him a child, Here's your gossoon, dear Cora, it's my own blood that's spilt Then Alonzo and Pizzaro had a terrible fight, For the audience came down with showers of applause, Then Alonzo came forward and handsomely bowed, We will murder Pizzaro over again. Derry down, down, down, Derry down. UP FOR THE GREEN. THE BLARNEY. THERE's a castle in Dublin, convenient to Cork And Killarney, Killarney; There's a stone in its tower that a wonder can work And that's blarney, that's blarney. There's a neat little village in which stands a mill, That goes grinding out cloth and that's grinding there still; And a plaising discoorse you can larn, if you will, And that's blarney, that's blarney. There are tie-ups and strikes in all parts of the land, Let them warn yer, yes, warn yer, That the rich and the poor must each one understand, And no blarney, no blarney. For when labor and capital each has their right, There's no striking by day or no burning by night; We will all live in peace without dynamite, And no blarney, no blarney. Uncle Sam got his dander rize way up on end, And says, darn yer, yes, darn yer; A stout helping hand to ould Ireland I'll lend, And no blarney, no blarney. I've helped with cash, and I've helped with "TIs the green, oh, the green is the color of the true, And we'll back it 'gainst the orange and we'll raise it o'er the blue; For the color of old Ireland alone should here be seen, "Tis the color of the martyr'd dead, our own immortal green. Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green, Oh, 'tis down to the dust, and a shame to be seen; But we've hands, oh, we've hands, boys, full strong enough, 1 ween, To rescue and raise again our own immortal green. They may say they have powers 'tis vain to oppose, ween, To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green. They may swear, as they often did, our wretchedness to cure, Oh, remember the days when their reign we did disturb, But we've hearts and we've hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own unsullied green! THE BARD OF ARMAGH. On, listen to the lay of a poor Irish harper, And scorn not the strains of his old withered hands, But remember those fingers they once could move sharper In raising the merry strains of his dear native land; It was long before the shamrock, dear isle, lovely emblem, Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw, And all the pretty colleens around me would gather, Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh. How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood, For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men. In truth I have wandered this wide world over, DARLING OLD STICK. My name is bold Morgan McCarthy from Trim, My relations all died except one brother, Jim; He is gone a-sojering out to Cow Bull, I dare say he's laid low with a kick in the skull. A prayer for his corpse I'll be giving, For he left me his darlin' ould stick. If that stick had a tongue it could tell you some tales, How it battered the countenances of the O'Neils; It made bits of skull fly about in the air, And it's been the promoter of fun at each fair. It has often broke bridges of noses Of the faction that dared to oppose us- The last time I used it 'twas on Patrick's Day, We went on a spree to the fair of Athboy, A doldhrum they would have knocked us in War was the word when the factions came in, I smathered her sweetheart until he was black, She then tipped me the wink-we were off in a crack; We went to a house t'other end of the town, And we cheered up our spirits by letting some down. When I got her snug into a corner, And the whisky beginning to warm her; She told me her sweetheart was an informer, Oh, 'twas then I said prayers for my stick. We got whiskificated to such a degree, For support my poor Kate had to lean against me; I promised to see her safe to her abode, By the tarnal, we fell clean in the mud on the road. Was myself and my innocent stick. When the trial came on, Kate swore to the fact The adventure of me and my stick. |