 | Legends of the wars in Ireland |  |
159
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM.
[“The woods of Drumlory]
“The woods of Drumlory
Are greenest and fairest,
And flowers in gay glory
Bloom there of the rarest:
They'll deck without number
A red grave and narrow,
Where he'll sleep his last slumber,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Are greenest and fairest,
And flowers in gay glory
Bloom there of the rarest:
160
A red grave and narrow,
Where he'll sleep his last slumber,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
The canavaun's blooming
Like snow on the marish,
The autumn is coming,
The summer flowers perish;
And, though love smiles all gladness,
He's left me in sorrow,
To mourn in my madness,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Like snow on the marish,
The autumn is coming,
The summer flowers perish;
And, though love smiles all gladness,
He's left me in sorrow,
To mourn in my madness,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Sweet love filled forever
His kind words and glances;
Light foot there was never
Like his in the dances,
By forest or fountain,
In goal on the curragh,
Or chase on the mountain,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
His kind words and glances;
Light foot there was never
Like his in the dances,
By forest or fountain,
In goal on the curragh,
Or chase on the mountain,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
When cannons did rattle,
And trumpets brayed loudly,
In the grim van of battle
His long plume waved proudly:
As the bolts from the bowmen,
Or share through the furrow,
He tore through the foemen,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
And trumpets brayed loudly,
In the grim van of battle
His long plume waved proudly:
As the bolts from the bowmen,
Or share through the furrow,
He tore through the foemen,
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Alas! when we parted
That morn in the hollow,
Why staid I faint-hearted?
Why ne'er did I follow,
To fight by his side there,
The red battle thorough,
And die when he died there?
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
That morn in the hollow,
Why staid I faint-hearted?
Why ne'er did I follow,
161
The red battle thorough,
And die when he died there?
Young Hugh of Glenurra!
Ah, woe is me! woe is me!
Love cannot wake him:
Woe is me! woe is me!
Grief cannot make him
Quit, to embrace me,
This red couch of sorrow,
Where soon they shall place me
By Hugh of Glenurra.”
Love cannot wake him:
Woe is me! woe is me!
Grief cannot make him
Quit, to embrace me,
This red couch of sorrow,
Where soon they shall place me
By Hugh of Glenurra.”
179
[“Och, be my sowl! but we've got de Talbote]
“Och, be my sowl! but we've got de Talbote,
Lillabulero bullena la!
And our skeans we'll make good at de Englishman's throat,
Lillabulero bullena la!”
Lillabulero bullena la!
And our skeans we'll make good at de Englishman's throat,
Lillabulero bullena la!”
180
“Dere was an ould prophecy found in a bog,
Lillabulero bullena la!
Dat Ireland should be ruled by an ass and a dog;
Lillabulero bullena la!
Lillabulero bullena la!
Dat Ireland should be ruled by an ass and a dog;
Lillabulero bullena la!
And now dis ould prophecy is come to pass,
Lillabulero bullena la!
For Talbote's de dog and James is de”—
Lillabulero bullena la!
For Talbote's de dog and James is de”—
191
“THE PRODESTAN' GUN.
“There are threasures in Ireland as good as a throne,
Mighty pleasant an' fine, could we make them our own;
An' this Prodestan' gun is a very fine thing
Fwhen it fights for ould Ireland and Shemus the king.
Yet to-day in the fray, be my sowl! 'twas no joke,
Fwhen its Prodestan' balls through the Rapparees broke;
But its race' nathe the sway o' the Dutchman is run,
For the Rapparees now own this Prodestan' gun!
Mighty pleasant an' fine, could we make them our own;
An' this Prodestan' gun is a very fine thing
Fwhen it fights for ould Ireland and Shemus the king.
Yet to-day in the fray, be my sowl! 'twas no joke,
Fwhen its Prodestan' balls through the Rapparees broke;
But its race' nathe the sway o' the Dutchman is run,
For the Rapparees now own this Prodestan' gun!
192
Dum erlium di tay, dum erlium ri da,
Dum erlium, fol edrium, dum murlium ri da!
Dum erlium, fol edrium, dum murlium ri da!
'Tis nate at the patthern to dance a moneen;
'Tis nate for to sit by a purty colleen;
'Tis sweet for to bask by a hedge at your aise,
Fwhen the winds are all warm an' the sun in a blaze;
There's a plisure in strikin' your innimy sore;
There's a plisure in friendship an' whiskey galore;
But the greatest o' plisures that's ondher the sun
Is to turn to a Papish this Prodestan' gun!—
'Tis nate for to sit by a purty colleen;
'Tis sweet for to bask by a hedge at your aise,
Fwhen the winds are all warm an' the sun in a blaze;
There's a plisure in strikin' your innimy sore;
There's a plisure in friendship an' whiskey galore;
But the greatest o' plisures that's ondher the sun
Is to turn to a Papish this Prodestan' gun!—
Dum erlium di tay, dum erlium ri da,
Dum erlium, fol edrium, dum murlium ri da!”
Dum erlium, fol edrium, dum murlium ri da!”
| Legends of the wars in Ireland | |