« ForrigeFortsett »
So my father, poor man! was first drown'd,
Then shipwreck'd in sailing from Cork, But my mother-she got safe to land,
And a whisky-shop opened in York. Just a year after father was dead
One night about five i' the morn, An odd accident happen'd to me,
For 'twas then that myself was first born; All this l've been tould by my mammy,
And surely she'll not tell me wrong, But I don't remember nought of it,
'Caze it happen'd when I were quite young, On the very same day, the next year,
(For so ran the story of mother,) The same accident happen'd again,
But not to me then, that were brother;
Who dissolv'd all our family sins,
That we certainly must have been twins. 'Twas agreed I should not go to school,
As learning I never should want; Nor would they e'en teach me to read,
For my genus they said it would cramp; Now this genus of mine, where it lay
Do but listen a while and you'll hear'Twas in drawing—not landscapes and pictures;
No-mine were for drawing of beer.
But I, it appears, had got two,
I'd a genus for drinking it too:
Without in my pocket a farden, But since I've earn’d many a crown,
By the shop here in sweet Common Garden:
Now the end of my song's drawing near,
PU tell ye-but that's nothing new,
And to do what I can to draw you:
And my efforts beguile you of pain,
To come often and see me again.
AWAKE THE HARP'S SLUMBER.
Tune—“ Save me from death."
The taper shall dart its beams thro' the hall; From the tempest of war, and the battle's loud bray,
We'll dearly obey mirth's heart thrilling call. Ah! change the light strain! bid the sorrow arise, To the ghost of each warrior, as pensive it flies;
To triumph or death
They strode o'er the heath,
On the breast of the brave melting beauty shall cling
And nobly for him the goblet be crown'd; The feast shall be spread, and the harp's throbbing string
Shall stream to his praise its magic around. Oh! blest is the effort, and light is the toil, When we raise the bright spear for our dear native soil!
To triumph or death
We stride o'er the heath,
SHEPHERDS, I HAVE LOST MY LOVE.
TUNE—" The Banks of Banna.”
Have you seen my Anna,
Upon the banks of Banna?
Near yon misty mountain,
Greenwood shade, and fountain.
Never shall I see them more,
Until her returning;
From gladness chang'd to mourning.
Shepherds, tell me whither:
For ever, and for ever,
DARBY M-SHANE'S VISIT TO LONDON.
TUNE_" Sprig of Shillelah.”
On a fine summer's day in a shower of rain;
What a comfort it was that my patience was proof, When I met with a coach without ever a roof,
Full of ladies, who titter'd at Darby M'Shane; I wanted to go to St Giles's that day, So I axed the coachman to show me the way, And offer'd to trate him-but sharp was the word, The man on the coach-box I found was a Lord;
There was fine botheration for Darby M‘Shane.
In a shop full of pictures I stopp'd for to stare, When a thief pick'd my pocket, and faith he took care
To lave not a copper for Darby M'Shane. But a beautiful crature, to soften my grief, Fell in love with my person it was my belief; But when she found out that my cash was all flow, Och hone! to be sure how she alter'd her tone,
And swore like a trooper at Darby M‘Shane.
Then a gentleman meeting a lady so gay,
O, that can't be grammar, said Darby M‘Shane.
Oh, that don't offend Mr. Darby M'Shane. But tho’ English fashions we don't understand, While pace and good harmony reigns in this land,
You'll near hear a murmur from Darby MʻShane. May England ne'er want the brave boys of the sod, To carry the musket or carry the hod; As for Ireland, where wholesome shillelah does grow, There the devil himself, in the shape of a foe,
Would get dacently leather'd by Darby M'Shane
SWIFT FLY THE HOURS.
TUNE_" Open the door softly.” SWIFT fly the hours, when in youth's happy day,
Love and wine wreath the garland of pleasure;
Oh! swift fly, &c.
That vibrates to Sympathy's finger;
And, 'raptur’d, by beauty we linger.
Each cheek with a smile is enlighten'd:
Oh! sweet is the time, &c.
Who lov'd a cloister'd nun,
For what was to be done.
And he could not get in:
And he sung sweetly,