A Book of Irish Verse Part 29

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye With drums, etc.

'It grieved my heart to see you sail, Hurroo! hurroo!

It grieved my heart to see you sail, Hurroo! hurroo!

It grieved my heart to see you sail, Though from my heart you took leg bail,-- Like a cod you're doubled up head and tail.

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums, etc.

'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, Hurroo! hurroo!

You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, Hurroo! hurroo!

You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg; You'll have to be put in a bowl to beg: Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums, etc.

'I'm happy for to see you home, Hurroo! hurroo!

I'm happy for to see you home, Hurroo! hurroo!

I'm happy for to see you home, All from the island of Sulloon, So low in flesh, so high in bone, Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums, etc.

'But sad as it is to see you so, Hurroo! hurroo!

But sad as it is to see you so, Hurroo! hurroo!

But sad as it is to see you so, And to think of you now as an object of woe, Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau; Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

'With drums and guns and guns and drums, The enemy nearly slew ye, My darling dear, you look so queer, Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet b.u.t.termilk watered the plain.

O! what shall I do now! 'Twas looking at you, now; Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again; 'Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney O'Cleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas haymaking season--I can't tell the reason-- Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY ROURKE

_From an Irish keen_

'There's darkness in thy dwelling-place, and silence reigns above, And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.

Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! and Morian Shehone Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.

O! snow-white were thy virtues--the beautiful, the young, The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue: The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were bound, For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.

My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set; The sorrowful are dumb for thee--the grieved their tears forget; And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone; For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.

Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed, But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed; Not so with my heart's faithful love--the dark grave cannot hide From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.

Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow-- 'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.

Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?

Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?

Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy, Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?

O! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?

Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!

Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all; The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall; For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep-- O! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!

O! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!

O! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!

Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree, And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be, Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air, And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.

O! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?'

Then sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone!

THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER

Speak low!--speak low--the banshee is crying; Hark! hark to the echo!--she's dying! 'she's dying.'

What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water?

'Tis the swan of the lake--'tis _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

Hush, hus.h.!.+ have you heard what the banshee said?

O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!'

No shadow now dims the face of the water; Gone, gone is the wraith of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

The step of yon train is heavy and slow, There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe; What melody rolls over mountain and water?

'Tis the funeral chant of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone; 'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her!

O, why did she die, _the Geraldine's Daughter_?'

The thistle-beard floats--the wild roses wave With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave; The stars dimly twinkle, and hoa.r.s.e falls the water, While night-birds are wailing _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

BY MEMORY INSPIRED

_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 Mitch.e.l.l 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!