 | Leaves from Margaret Smith's journal in the province of Massachusetts Bay, 1678-9 |  |
March ye 15.
One Master O'Shane, an Irish scholar, of whom my
Cousins here did learn the Latin tongue, coming in
last evening, and finding Rebecca and I alone, (Uncle
167
merry, entertaining us rarely with his stories
and songs. Rebecca tells me he is a learned Man, as
I can well believe, but that he is too fond of strong
drink for his good, having thereby lost the favor of
many of the first Families here, who did formerly employ
him. There was one Ballad which he saith is of
his own making, concerning the selling of the daughter
of a great Irish lord, as a Slave in this land, which
greatly pleased me, and on my asking for a copy of it,
he brought it to me this morning in a faire hand. I copy
it in my Journal, as I know that Oliver, who is curious
in such things, will like it.
KATHLEEN.
Oh Norah! lay your Basket down,
And rest your weary hand,
And come and hear me sing a Song
Of our Old Ireland.
There was a Lord of Galaway,
A mighty Lord was he;
And he did wed a second Wife,
A maid of low degree.
But he was old, and she was young,
And soe in evil spite,
She baked the black Bread for his kin,
And fed her own with white.
Oh Norah! lay your Basket down,
And rest your weary hand,
And come and hear me sing a Song
Of our Old Ireland.
There was a Lord of Galaway,
A mighty Lord was he;
And he did wed a second Wife,
A maid of low degree.
But he was old, and she was young,
And soe in evil spite,
She baked the black Bread for his kin,
And fed her own with white.
168
She whipped the Maids, and starved the kern,
And drove away the poor;
“Ah, woe is me!” the old Lord said,
“I rue my bargain sore!”
This Lord he had a Daughter faire,
Beloved of old and young,
And nightly round the shealing fires
Of her the Gleeman sung.
“As sweet and good is young Kathleen
As Eve before her fall;”
So sang the Harper at the Fair,
So harped he in the Hall.
“Oh, come to me my Daughter dear!
Come sit upon my knee,
For looking in your face, Kathleen,
Your Mother's own I see!”
He smoothed and smoothed her Hair away,
He kissed her Forehead fair:
“It is my darling Mary's brow,
It is my darling's hair!”
Oh, then spake up the angry Dame,
“Get up, get up,” quoth she,
“I'll sell ye over Ireland,
I'll sell ye o'er the sea!”
She clipped her glossy Hair away,
That none her rank might know,
She took away her Gown of silk
And gave her one of tow,
And drove away the poor;
“Ah, woe is me!” the old Lord said,
“I rue my bargain sore!”
This Lord he had a Daughter faire,
Beloved of old and young,
And nightly round the shealing fires
Of her the Gleeman sung.
“As sweet and good is young Kathleen
As Eve before her fall;”
So sang the Harper at the Fair,
So harped he in the Hall.
“Oh, come to me my Daughter dear!
Come sit upon my knee,
For looking in your face, Kathleen,
Your Mother's own I see!”
He smoothed and smoothed her Hair away,
He kissed her Forehead fair:
“It is my darling Mary's brow,
It is my darling's hair!”
Oh, then spake up the angry Dame,
“Get up, get up,” quoth she,
“I'll sell ye over Ireland,
I'll sell ye o'er the sea!”
She clipped her glossy Hair away,
That none her rank might know,
She took away her Gown of silk
And gave her one of tow,
And sent her down to Limerick town,
And to a Captain sold
This Daughter of an Irish Lord
For ten good Pounds in gold.
The Lord he smote upon his breast,
And tore his beard so gray;
But he was old, and she was young,
And so she had her way.
Sure that same night the Baushee howled
To fright the evil Dame,
And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen,
With funeral torches came.
She watched them glancing through the Trees
And glimmering down the Hill;
They crept before the dead-vault Door,
And there they all stood still!
“Get up, old Man! the wake-lights shine!'
“Ye murthering Witch,” quoth he;
“So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care
If they shine for you or me.”
“Oh whoso brings my Daughter back,
My gold and land shall have!”
Oh, then spake up his handsome Page,
“No gold nor land I crave!
“But give to me your Daughter dear,
And by the Holy Tree
Be she on Sea or on the Land,
I'll bring her back to thee.”
And to a Captain sold
This Daughter of an Irish Lord
For ten good Pounds in gold.
The Lord he smote upon his breast,
And tore his beard so gray;
But he was old, and she was young,
And so she had her way.
Sure that same night the Baushee howled
To fright the evil Dame,
And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen,
With funeral torches came.
She watched them glancing through the Trees
And glimmering down the Hill;
They crept before the dead-vault Door,
And there they all stood still!
“Get up, old Man! the wake-lights shine!'
“Ye murthering Witch,” quoth he;
“So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care
If they shine for you or me.”
“Oh whoso brings my Daughter back,
My gold and land shall have!”
Oh, then spake up his handsome Page,
“No gold nor land I crave!
“But give to me your Daughter dear,
And by the Holy Tree
Be she on Sea or on the Land,
I'll bring her back to thee.”
170
“My Daughter is a lady born,
And you of low degree,
But she shall be your Bride the day
Ye bring her back to me.”
He sailed East, he sailed West,
And North and South sailed he,
Until he came to Boston town,
Across the great salt Sea.
“Oh have ye seen the young Kathleen,
The flower of Ireland?
Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue,
And by her snow-white hand!”
Out spake an ancient man, “I know
The Maiden whom ye mean;
I bought her of a Limerick man,
And she is called Kathleen.”
“No skill hath she in household work,
Her hands are soft and white,
Yet well by loving looks and ways
She doth her cost requite.”
So up they walked through Boston town,
And met a Maiden fair,
A little Basket on her arm
So snowy-white and bare.
“Come hither Child, and say hast thou
This young man ever seen?”
They wept within each other's arms,
The Page and young Kathleen.
And you of low degree,
But she shall be your Bride the day
Ye bring her back to me.”
He sailed East, he sailed West,
And North and South sailed he,
Until he came to Boston town,
Across the great salt Sea.
“Oh have ye seen the young Kathleen,
The flower of Ireland?
Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue,
And by her snow-white hand!”
Out spake an ancient man, “I know
The Maiden whom ye mean;
I bought her of a Limerick man,
And she is called Kathleen.”
“No skill hath she in household work,
Her hands are soft and white,
Yet well by loving looks and ways
She doth her cost requite.”
So up they walked through Boston town,
And met a Maiden fair,
A little Basket on her arm
So snowy-white and bare.
“Come hither Child, and say hast thou
This young man ever seen?”
They wept within each other's arms,
The Page and young Kathleen.
171
“Oh give to me this darling child,
And take my purse of gold:”
“Nay, not by me,” her Master said,
“Shall sweet Kathleen be sold.”
“We loved her in the place of one
The Lord hath early ta'en;
But since her heart's in Ireland,
We give her back again!”
Oh for that same the Saints in Heaven
For his poor Soul shall pray,
And Holy Mother wash with tears
His heresies away.
Sure now they dwell in Ireland,
As you go up Claremore
Ye'll see their Castle looking down
The pleasant Galway shore.
And the old Lord's Wife is dead and gone,
And a happy man is he,
For he sits beside his own Kathleen.
With her darling on his knee.
And take my purse of gold:”
“Nay, not by me,” her Master said,
“Shall sweet Kathleen be sold.”
“We loved her in the place of one
The Lord hath early ta'en;
But since her heart's in Ireland,
We give her back again!”
Oh for that same the Saints in Heaven
For his poor Soul shall pray,
And Holy Mother wash with tears
His heresies away.
Sure now they dwell in Ireland,
As you go up Claremore
Ye'll see their Castle looking down
The pleasant Galway shore.
And the old Lord's Wife is dead and gone,
And a happy man is he,
For he sits beside his own Kathleen.
With her darling on his knee.
| Leaves from Margaret Smith's journal in the province of Massachusetts Bay, 1678-9 | |