Chaunt of The Cholera Songs for Ireland. By the Authors of "The O'Hara Tales," "The Smuggler," &c. [i.e. John Banim] |
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| IRISH PEASANTS' SONGS. |
 | Chaunt of The Cholera |  |
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IRISH PEASANTS' SONGS.
61
SONG.
[Our fathers' fields we long have till'd]
I
Our fathers' fields we long have till'd,Despised and stricken down—
The Sassenach's serf! his stores we fill'd,
And trembled at his frown—
No face but his to turn unto,
And pray to save, in time,
By pity, help, or counsel true,
Our breaking hearts from crime.
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II
And ever as we turn'd to it,That proud face from us turn'd,
And left us on our hills to sit,
Forsaken, wrong'd, and spurn'd—
Until our hearts in madness woke!
And up at last we stood,
And, shrieking to the night, we broke
On him and his—for blood!
III
But now within our fields we hearA pleasant voice arise—
“The Sassenach's frown no longer fear,
And dry your wretched eyes;
For friends, with power his power to quell,
Are thinking now of you,
And listen while your griefs you tell,
To teach you what to do.
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IV
“If the oppressor strip you bare,You shall be clothed again—
And if unlawful wrong he dare,
The law shall scourge him then—
And sorely shall he rue the day
He goaded you to guilt—
And your revenge shall turn away,
And blood no more be spilt!”
64
THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS CHILD.
I
And where are you going, ma bouchelleen-bawn,From father and mother so early at dawn?
Och! rather run idle from evening till dawn,
Than darken their threshold, ma bouchelleen-bawn!
II
For there they would tell you, ma bouchelleen-bawn,That the mother whose milk to your heart you have drawn,
And the father who prays for you, evening and dawn,
Can never be heard for you, bouchelleen-bawn!
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III
That the faith we have bled for, from father to son,Since first by a lie our fair valleys were won,
And which oft in the desart, our knees to the sod,
We kept from them all, for our sons and our God—
IV
That this was idolatry, heartless and cold,And now grown more heartless because it is old;
And for something that's newer they'd ask you to pawn
The creed of your fathers, ma bouchelleen-bawn!
V
And now will you go to them, bouchelleen-bawn,From father and mother, so early at dawn?
Och! the cloud from your mind let it never be drawn,
But cross not their threshold, ma bouchelleen-bawn!
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THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS PRIEST.
I
Am I the slave they say,Soggarth aroon?
Since you did show the way,
Soggarth aroon,
Their slave no more to be,
While they would work with me
Ould Ireland's slavery,
Soggarth aroon?
II
Why not her poorest man,Soggarth aroon,
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Soggarth aroon,
Her commands to fulfil
Of his own heart and will,
Side by side with you still,
Soggarth aroon?
III
Loyal and brave to you,Soggarth aroon,
Yet be no slave to you,
Soggarth aroon,—
Nor, out of fear to you,
Stand up so near to you—
Och! out of fear to you!
Soggarth aroon!
IV
Who, in the winter's night,Soggarth aroon,
When the could blast did bite,
Soggarth aroon,
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And, on my earthen-flure,
Knelt by me, sick and poor,
Soggarth aroon?
V
Who, on the marriage-day,Soggarth aroon,
Made the poor cabin gay,
Soggarth aroon—
And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring,
At the poor christening,
Soggarth aroon?
VI
Who, as friend only met,Soggarth aroon,
Never did flout me yet,
Soggarth aroon?
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Gave, while his eye did brim,
What I should give to him,
Soggarth aroon?
VII
Och! you, and only you,Soggarth aroon!—
And for this I was true to you,
Soggarth aroon;
In love they'll never shake,
When for ould Ireland's sake,
We a true part did take,
Soggarth aroon!
70
THE CLARE ELECTION.
I
July the first, in Ennis town,There was a glorious battle,
Though not a man did there go down,
Nor not a cannon rattle;
And yet 'twas strength and courage, too,
That put them to the rout, boys—
The courage to be blunt and true,
And for ourselves speak out, boys.
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II
Before that day, they used to sayThat we could make no fight, boys,
Unless the pike did clear our way—
And, faith, we thought them right, boys;
But we and they were both astray,
For, under new-found guides, boys,
Without the pike we fought that day—
And we won the fight, besides, boys.
III
Before that day, they used to sayThat cratures in frieze coats, boys,
Were only fit to screech “Hurra!”
Whoever ask'd their votes, boys;
Although ould Ireland's precious tears,
Rebuking them, did drop, boys,
And her mild cross, uprear'd through years,
Did wave to bid them stop, boys.
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IV
But now we wonder what they'll sayWhen their mistake they see, boys,
And reckon, from that well-won day,
That their serfs no more we'll be, boys—
That we can take a manful part,
For cross and country both, boys—
That the frieze may wrap a manful heart,
As well as finer cloth, boys!
V
Before that day, they used to say,That when we ought to think, boys,
For what we screech'd our votes away,
We could n't—for the drink, boys:
But, though the sun came strong that day,
And almost scorch'd us up, boys,
We waited to “give them their tey,”
Afore we took a sup, boys!
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VI
Ould friends of ours were there, that day,With the steel for all our throats, boys,
But from the raps we turn'd away,
To beat them—with our votes, boys;
And the sojer-chaps, both red and blue,
With their cannon, they drew near, boys—
But, red and blue, we bet them, too,
With just one Irish cheer, boys!
VII
Och! 'twas a sight worth looking at!Their caps and feathers tall, boys,
An army come to kill poor Pat,
With gun, and soord, and all, boys—
And then to see how one strong thought,
And one good blast of breath, boys,
To nothing all their grandeur brought—
These sons of fire and death, boys!
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VIII
Ay! as that parting cheer we cheer'dTo send them to their beds, boys,
And as their open files we clear'd
With Dan above our heads, boys—
Who then was strong? The sojer grand,
A hireling for his pay, boys,
Or we, the tillers of God's land,
Unarm'd, but free, that day, boys!
IX
A glorious battle, fought and won,By heads and hearts—not hands, boys—
Yet worth the whole that we have done
With all our nightly bands, boys—
And it has shown us there's more strength
In Union, wise and cool, boys,
Than in a pike, a mile in length,
And a giant that's a fool, boys.
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X
Ould Shamus fought another fight,On the first day of July, boys,
And his field show'd another sight,
When from it he did fly, boys—
For there lay Ireland's loyal youth,
Too stiff to run away, boys,
And, what was worse—to tell God's truth—
Ould Shamus lost the day, boys.
XI
But, “July the first,” it comes aboutAgain, and 'tis our own, boys!
Without a drop of blood, without
One widow's sigh or groan, boys!
So, hurra! hurra! and let us pray
For all our future fights, boys,
Bloodless, though bould, like this, to-day,
For all our future rights, boys.
The favorite Orange song goes to this air, and its first lines are—
“July the first, in Old Bridge town,
There was a glorious battle—”
There was a glorious battle—”
76
DEMAND AND SUPPLY.
PAUDEEN AND MOYA.
I
“Arrah, Moya, my pet, do you know what they sayAbout what we're for doing next marrying day?
They say, that to go to the Soggarth, that way,
Is a shame and a schandle—faith, that's what they say!
Is a shame and a schandle—faith, that's what they say!”
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II
“A-thin, how's it a shame and a schandle, Paudeen?”“There's too much of us in it, already, petteen,
And to go to the priest, is to go in the way
Of more of us coming—and that's what they say—
Of more of us coming—and that's what they say.”
III
“And how would some more be too many, Paudeen?”“Sure the gintleman makes it quite plain to be seen—
For—if more comes than's wantin', or call'd for, says they—”
“Och! Paudeen, the bastes! and is that what they say?
If more comes than's call'd for!—Is that what they say?”
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IV
“No—but more than there's room for, or ating, or drink”—“Och! ould Ireland, Paudeen, can hould more than they think,
And the Lord never lets a new mouth see the day,
But He sends something for it—for all that they say!
For all that from morning to night they can say!
V
“And so we must shame our poor people of ould,Or wait till the love goes away, or grows could?
Is that what they say, Paudge? Is that what you say?
Och, Paudeen, is that what yourself means to say!
Och, Paudeen, is that what yourself means to say!”
VI
“In one thing they're right, pet, as I understand;Sure enough, we're too many for them in this land—
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Ere we make ourselves scarce for them—that's what I say!
Arrah, Moya, my darlent, and that's what I say!
VII
“Ere the name that we got from our mothers, to giveTo our wives and our daughters, as long as they live,
Has a spot to be seen in the sunniest day—
By St. Bridget, the vargin! and that's what I say!
By St. Bridget, the vargin! and that's what I say!
VIII
“Ay—or wait till the love goes away, or grows could,And be doin' God's will when we're bother'd and ould;—
80
To the face o'the priest there's some more that I'll say!
To the face o'the priest there's some more that I'll say!”
81
THE PEASANT'S UNARMED POLICE.
I
Not by fear, or terror, or pain,So much as by union and love, we reign,
And good resolution, which fast doth bind,
All the land over, good men in one mind.
II
Good resolve, that has not been madeBy signs or in whispers, like people afraid,
But that of itself all minds will gripe,
When the cause is good, and the time is ripe.
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III
And none pay us, and no oaths we swear,And nor sword nor gun in our hands we bear;
And yet our duties we will go through,
And them we are able, as willing, to do.
IV
Our duty is, like an army brave,From sorrow and sin the land to save,
And though like an army we go not about,
Our strength, in its spirit, we have sent out.
V
'Tis on the hill, and 'tis in the vale,And o'er crime and o'er bloodshed it shall prevail—
So we watch the land, like her mountains old,
With footing as firm, and front as bold!
Some successful efforts have been made to inspire districts of Ireland with the spirit of these lines.
83
THE NEW REFORMATION.
I
Oh, did you hearWhat roaring cheer,
What brave new coats and breeches, O,
And new shoes, too,
For all of you,
Whose ould brogues wanted stitches, O,
Were ready got,
When that they thought
The popish of this nation, O,
To dress, and do,
And feed into
Their grand new Reformation, O?
84
Hubbabubboo!
Their grand new Reformation, O!
That, in a shake,
They swore would make
Its own of our poor nation, O!
II
Their cause to prop,The praty-crop
That year fail'd in ould Erin, O;
And hungry sowls,
Wid windy bow'lls,
And duds apast all wearin', O,
To Cavan went,
And home were sent
Well coated and soft-hearted, O,
Who, all the way,
To the Saints did say—
“Och! it's we that are convarted, O!
With your diddheradoo!
And your hubbabubboo!
And your grand new Reformation, O;
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Its own will make
Of our poor bastely nation, O!”
III
A nate young cropMeantime did pop
Up through ould Erin, gratis, O,
Which, when they found,
The raps turn'd round
Again, wid the new praties, O—
Saying—“As fine saints,
And Protestants,
We et your good mate dinners, O,
But the praty-food
Must now be chew'd
By common popish sinners, O!
Diddheradoo!
Hubbabubboo!
Your grand new Reformation, O!
That, in a shake,
Ye swore would make
Its own of Ireland's nation, O!”
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IV
The saints grew crossAt their dead loss,
And at such popish traison, O,
And, day by day,
I'm loth to say,
For the same they got more raison, O;
Some convarts fell,
Through fear of hell,
Back to the ould persuasion, O—
Some did demand
Too much in hand
To work out their salvation, O;
Diddheradoo!
Hubbabubboo!
The grand new Reformation, O!
Sure, in a shake,
Its own 'twill make
Of our benighted nation, O!
V
Tom Hews did crave,His sowl to save,
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For the Romish rogues
Alone wear brogues,
And the shoes are nate and sainty, O;—
And the saints said “Yes,”
But nevertheless,
Wid the brogues they thought to blind him, O;
“No,” says Tom Hews,
“You promised—shoes”—
And he left the brogues behind him, O;—
“Diddheradoo!
And hubbabubboo!
Your grand new Reformation, O!
Is this the way
Ye think to pay
The convarts of the nation, O?”
VI
In church, you know,From hait, below,
(And faith, I like their notion, O,)
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To keep alive
The warmth of their devotion, O,
And, to be sure,
Down in the flure
They've holes made in ould iron, O,
Through which the hait
Comes up, complate,
And you never see the firin', O;
Diddheradoo!
And hubbabubboo!
Your grand new Reformation, O!
And, loock and speed
To the snuggest creed
That's prach'd in Paddy's nation, O!
VII
Not knowing this,Poor Bridget Twiss,
Bent on her recantation, O,
Stood over the holes,
Till she thought the coals
Of red-hot hell her station, O;
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Did puff and float,
By the hait swell'd like a bladder, O—
Then Breedge ran out,
Wid her murther-shout,
And swore 'twas the divvle had her, O!
“Diddheradoo!
Hubbabubboo!
Is this your Reformation, O?
Och! here I'm back,
Ye bastely pack,
To the ould faith of the nation, O!”
VIII
Ould blind Moll Roe,Her zale to show,
Of a Friday et their bacon, O,
And the spare-rib claw
Stuck in her maw,
The first bite she had taken. O—
Then sore she bawl'd,
And loudly call'd
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Crying, in her race,
As she quit the place—
“Och, where are you father Darcy, O!
Ullaloo!
And my curse on you,
For one grand Reformation, O,
That makes us ate
Your divvle's mate
Of a Friday, in this nation, O!”
IX
These things, and more,The saints made sore,
Until at last 'twas tould 'em, O,
That not a rap
They did entrap,
But to the priest had sould 'em, O;
And, worse than that,
Ould father Pat
Was spreading through the nation, O,
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By tens and twelves,
The thruth of a Reformation, O!
Diddheradoo!
Now what'll they do
Wid their grand new Reformation, O,
That, in a shake,
They swore would make
Its own of our poor nation, O?
X
Lord Farnham tax'dHis brains, and ax'd
His lady for direction, O—
And, says she, “My lord,
Upon my word,
The day of true election, O,
Is not so near
As we did hear,
For this benighted nation, O,
So, till it comes,
Let's save our crumbs
For the next new Reformation, O!
92
And wirrasthroo!
Their grand new Reformation, O,
That now must take
Some time to make
Its own of Ireland's nation, O!
| Chaunt of The Cholera | |