The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned for larnin' and piety;
Still, I'd advance you, widout impropriety,
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

Chorus

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfullest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,
Dad and the divels and all at Divinity,
Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all.
Come, I vinture to give you my word,
Never the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from Mythology
Into Thayology,
Troth! and Conchology, if he'd the call.

Chorus

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfullest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,
All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a way wid you, Father avick!
Still, for all you've so gentle a soul,
Gad, you've your flock in the grandest conthroul;
Checking the crazy ones,
Coaxin' onaisy ones,
Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

Chorus

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfullest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,
Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,
Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality Father, wid you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
“Is it lave gaiety
All to the laity?
Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?”

Chorus

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfullest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

O'FARRELL, THE FIDDLER

Now, thin, what has become
Of Thady O'Farrell?
The honest poor man,
What's delayin' him, why?
O, the thrush should be dumb,
And the lark cease to carol,
Whin his music began
To comether the sky.

Three summers have gone
Since we've missed you, O'Farrell
From the weddin' and patron
And fair on the green.

In an hour to St. John
We'll light up the tar-barrel,
But ourselves we're not flatter'n'
That thin you'll be seen.

O, Thady, we've watched
And we've waited for ever
To see your ould self
Steppin' into the town—
Wid your corduroys patched
So clane and so clever,
And the pride of a Guelph
In your smile or your frown—

Till some one used say,
“Here's Thady O'Farrell;”
And “God bless the good man!
Let's go meet him,” we cried;
And wid this from their play,
And wid that from their quarrel,
All the little ones ran
To be first at your side.

Soon amongst us you'd stand,
Wid the ould people's blessin',
As they leant from the door
To look out at you pass;
Wid the colleen's kiss-hand,
And the childer's caressin',
And the boys fightin', sure,
Which'd stand your first glass.

Thin you'd give us the news
Out of Cork and Killarney—
Had O'Shea married yet?—
Was ould Mack still at work?—
Shine's political views—
Barry's last bit of blarney—
And the boys you had met
On their way to New York.

And whin, from the sight
Of our say-frontin' village,
The far frownin' Blasquet
Stole into the shade,
And the warnin' of night
Called up from the tillage
The girl wid her basket,
The boy wid his spade—

By the glowin' turf-fire,
Or the harvest moon's glory,
In the close-crowded ring
That around you we made,
We'd no other desire
Than your heart-thrillin' story,
Or the song that you'd sing,
Or the tune that you played.

Till you'd ax, wid a leap
From your seat in the middle,
And a shuffle and slide
Of your foot on the floor,

“Will we try a jig-step,
Boys and girls, to the fiddle?”
“Faugh a ballagh,” we cried,
“For a jig to be sure.”

For whinever you'd start
Jig or planxty so merry,
Wid their caperin' twirls
And their rollickin' runs,
Where's the heel or the heart
In the Kingdom of Kerry
Of the boys and the girls
Wasn't wid you at once?

So you'd tune wid a sound
That arose as delightin'
As our own colleen's voice,
So sweet and so clear,
As she coyly wint round,
Wid a curtsey invitin'
The best of the boys
For the fun to prepare.

For a minute or so,
Till the couples were ready,
On your shoulder and chin
The fiddle lay quiet;
Then down came your bow
So quick and so steady,
And away we should spin
To the left or the right!

Thin how Micky Dease
Forged steps was a wonder,
And well might our women
Of Roseen be proud—
Such a face, such a grace,
And her darlin' feet under,
Like two swallows skimmin'
The skirts of a cloud.

Thin, Thady, ochone!
Come back, for widout you
We are never as gay
As we were in the past!
O, Thady, mavrone,
Why, thin, I wouldn't doubt you
Huzzah! boys, huzzah!
Here's O'Farrell at last!

BAT OF THE BRIDGE

On the Bridge of Dereen,
Away up by Killarney,
You'll be sure to be seein'
Poor Batsy O'Kearney,
A big stick in the air
So lazily swingin',

Smokin' and jokin'
And carelessly singin'
Some snatch of a song,
Out over the river,
As it rushes along
For iver and iver
To the Bay of Kenmare.

Six foot six
Is the fix
Of his height,
Honour bright!
Forty-eight the diminsion
Round his ribs by my inchin';
It's murther to say
Such a man's thrun away!

He's the last to delay
And the earliest comer
On the bridge by the bay,
Winter and summer.
Do you question why so?
What keeps him for iver
Smokin' and jokin'
And out on the river,
That rushes below,
Serenadin' so gaily?
'Twas the cowardly blow
Of a tinker's shillelagh
Left the proper man so.

But you're wonderin', why,
How at all it could happen
Such a broth of a boy
Got the scandalous rappin'.
'Twas September fair day,
And the Adragole faction
Wid Dereen for the green
And the bridge were in action;
And from off the bridge road,
Wid his cudgel so clever,
Bat was leatherin' a load
Of Cork men for ever,
Just as if it was play.

When up from beneath,
Still further and further,
Houldin' tight in his teeth
A stick that was murther,
That black tinker stole,
By the ivy boughs clingin',
On the edge of the bridge
The knees softly swingin';
And, unknownst at his back,
From the wall of the river
Fetched O'Kearney a crack
That left him for iver
Wid a poor, puzzled poll.

Did he fall? Not at all!
But he picked off that tinker

Like a snail from the wall
And before you could think or
Repate your own name,
Cot the stick from the ruffi'n,
Knocked him dead on the head,
And widout shroud or coffin
Tossed him into the tide.
And his black corpse for ever
From Ireland should glide,
For her good soil could never
Cover up such a shame.

Thin backward agin
Wid a bitter screech flyin'
On the Adragole men,
Just as they were cryin'
“The bridge is our own”—
In their thick, like a flail, he
Swung, till it sung,
The tinker's shillelagh;
So that staggerin' down,
Broken and batthered,
Out of the town
All Adragole scatthered
Before Batsy alone.

Ever since which
Poor Bat's only iday
Is to sit on the bridge,
Wet day or dry day,

Wid that stick in his fist;
And no tinkerin' fellas
Dare to come there
Wid their pots and their bellas,
And all Adragole
Takes the ford down the river,
For fear that the fool
On the bridge end for iver
Should give them a twist.

So he's come by a name,
The English of which, Sir,
Translatin' that same,
Is “Bat of the Bridge,” Sir.
But the hour's growin' late;
Good-night and safe journey!
It's afloat in your boat
You should be, Doctor Corney.
By myself, now, bad scran
To the tribe of the tinkers!
For they've left a good man,
Like a horse widout blinkers,
All bothered and bate.

Six foot six
Is the height
Of poor Batsy to-night,
Forty-eight the diminsion
Round his ribs by my inchin',
It's murther to say
Such a man's thrun away!

RODDY MOR, THE ROVER

Of all the roaming Jacks that yet to Farranfore kem over
As paramount I'd surely count ould Roddy Mor, the Rover;
Wid steeple hat and stiff cravat and nate nankeen knee breeches,
And on his back a pedlar's pack just rowlin' o'er wid riches.

For so it was when o'er the hill his coat-tails they'd come flyin',
The sharpest tongue of all was still, the crossest child quit cryin',
Ould women even left their tay, ould men their glass of toddy,
An', spoon in hand, a welcome grand would wave and wave to Roddy.

An' when his treasure he'd unlade in view of all the village,
In from her milkin' ran the maid, the boy from out the tillage,
The while the rogue in each new vogue the lasses he'd go drapin',
Until their lads his ribbons, plaids and rings had no escapin'.

“Now, whisht your prate, and take your toys,” cried he, “my darlin' childer,
Or my new ballads wid your noise complately you'll bewilder.”

Then his Come-all-Yees he'd advance wid such a quare comether,
That you might say he tuk away our sinse and pince together.

But there! of all the roaming Jacks that trass the counthry over,
For paramount I'd ever count ould Roddy Mor, the Rover.
For 'deed an' I believe that when his sperrit parts his body,
If he's allowed, he'll draw a crowd in Heaven itself will Roddy.

OULD DOCTOR MACK

Ye may tramp the world over from Delhi to Dover,
And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon;
Circumvint back through the whole Zodiack,
But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon.
Have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy?
Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez;
No way infarior in skill, but suparior
And lineal postarior to ould Aysculapius.

Chorus

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety;
Here's to his health,
Honour and wealth,
The king of his kind and the cream of all charity.

How the rich and the poor, to consult for a cure,
Crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages,
Showin' their tongues or unlacin' their lungs,
For divel wan symptom the docther disparages.
Troth an' he'll tumble for high or for humble
From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety;
Makin' as light of nursin' all night
The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

Chorus

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety,
Here's to his health,
Honour and wealth,
The king of his kind and the cream of all charity.

And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical,
Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother,
And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness,
Prescribin' the right boys and girls to each other.
And the sufferin' childer! Your eyes 'twould bewilder
To see the wee craythurs his coat tails unravellin'—
Each of them fast on some treasure at last,
Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

Chorus

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety;
Here's to his health,
Honour and wealth,
The king of his kind and the cream of all charity.

Thin, his doctherin' done, in a rollickin' run
Wid the rod or the gun he's the foremost to figure;
Be Jupiter Ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon
E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!
And hark that view holloa! 'Tis Mack in full follow
On black “Faugh-a-ballagh” the country-side sailin'!
Och, but you'd think 'twas ould Nimrod in pink,
Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park wall and palin'.

Chorus

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety.
Here's to his health,
Honour and wealth,
Hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity!

Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way!
All at once widout disparity!
One more cheer for our docther dear,
The king of his kind and the cream of all charity
Hip, hip, hooray!