 | Songs of Killarney |  |
1
Songs of Killarney.
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS.
“O shiel, O Shiel,
We're dead from the reel,
And destroyed at the way that our colleens are teazing us;
So tell us a story
Of love or of glory,
To soften their hearts and to set them on pleasing us.”
“Is it tired toe and heel
Of planxty and reel?
And your sweethearts are cross to you—boys, is it so?
Then make way in the middle
For me and the fiddle,
And I'll tell you the tale of the Colleen na Mo.”
O the happiest orphan that ever was seen,
Was Nora Maguire at the age of eighteen;
Her father and mother both died at her birth,
So grief for their sakes didn't trouble her mirth.
Nora Maguire was the flower of the girls,
Wid her laughin' blue eye and her sunny bright curls,
Wid her mouth's merry dimple, her head's purty poise,
And a foot that played puck right and left wid the boys:
Yes! her looks were a fortun'; yet curous to tell
Sweet Nora Maguire was an heiress as well,
For her father had left his dear child at his death
Half a hundred of cows at the side of the heath,
Where Nora na Mo in a handsome slate house
Wid her granny looked after the sheep and the cows;
For behind all the fun that her features evince,
Mistress Nora Maguire has lashins of sinse;
But though Nora was careful she never was mean,
But dear as the dew to the hot summer plain,
She'd go stealin' the poor and the sick to relieve,
Unbeknownst in the hush of the dawn or the eve:
And no girl in the service at chapel took part
Who followed the priest wid a faithfuller heart,
And no sound in the anthem rose truer and higher
Than the fresh fervent voice of sweet Nora Maguire:
But that didn't make darlin' Nora desire
To adjourn to the convent on lavin' the choir;—
No! It's thinkin' I am, where's the use to conceal?
Her first thought after chapel was Patrick O'Neale,
Wid his dark handsome looks, and his deep earnest voice,
The pet of the colleens—the pride of the boys.
We're dead from the reel,
And destroyed at the way that our colleens are teazing us;
So tell us a story
Of love or of glory,
To soften their hearts and to set them on pleasing us.”
“Is it tired toe and heel
Of planxty and reel?
And your sweethearts are cross to you—boys, is it so?
Then make way in the middle
For me and the fiddle,
And I'll tell you the tale of the Colleen na Mo.”
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Was Nora Maguire at the age of eighteen;
Her father and mother both died at her birth,
So grief for their sakes didn't trouble her mirth.
Nora Maguire was the flower of the girls,
Wid her laughin' blue eye and her sunny bright curls,
Wid her mouth's merry dimple, her head's purty poise,
And a foot that played puck right and left wid the boys:
Yes! her looks were a fortun'; yet curous to tell
Sweet Nora Maguire was an heiress as well,
For her father had left his dear child at his death
Half a hundred of cows at the side of the heath,
Where Nora na Mo in a handsome slate house
Wid her granny looked after the sheep and the cows;
For behind all the fun that her features evince,
Mistress Nora Maguire has lashins of sinse;
But though Nora was careful she never was mean,
But dear as the dew to the hot summer plain,
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Unbeknownst in the hush of the dawn or the eve:
And no girl in the service at chapel took part
Who followed the priest wid a faithfuller heart,
And no sound in the anthem rose truer and higher
Than the fresh fervent voice of sweet Nora Maguire:
But that didn't make darlin' Nora desire
To adjourn to the convent on lavin' the choir;—
No! It's thinkin' I am, where's the use to conceal?
Her first thought after chapel was Patrick O'Neale,
Wid his dark handsome looks, and his deep earnest voice,
The pet of the colleens—the pride of the boys.
For there wasn't a boy in Dunkerron was able
To dance on the ground as he could on the table;
Or sing in ould Irish wid beautif'ller shakes,
Sweeter songs or laments at our weddings and wakes;
Or tell by the fire of a dark winter's night
Tales that crowded us closer together for fright.
And where's the turf cuttin' or boghole so broad,
But he'd clear like a hare hoppin' off of the road;
At what fence would he falter or alter his steps,
And who could approach him at throwin' three leaps;
And on Sunday at hurley, who rooshed on the ball
Wid such fury as Pat, through the thick of them all,—
Or when it came buzzin' like a bee through the air
Caught it cleaner, and pucked it as strong or as fair?
To dance on the ground as he could on the table;
Or sing in ould Irish wid beautif'ller shakes,
Sweeter songs or laments at our weddings and wakes;
Or tell by the fire of a dark winter's night
Tales that crowded us closer together for fright.
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But he'd clear like a hare hoppin' off of the road;
At what fence would he falter or alter his steps,
And who could approach him at throwin' three leaps;
And on Sunday at hurley, who rooshed on the ball
Wid such fury as Pat, through the thick of them all,—
Or when it came buzzin' like a bee through the air
Caught it cleaner, and pucked it as strong or as fair?
But for all these distractions the boy wasn't spoilt,
And no honest poor Irishman ever has toiled
For the wife and the childer wid heartier zeal
Than did Pat for his mother, good Widow O'Neale;
And no honest poor Irishman ever has toiled
For the wife and the childer wid heartier zeal
Than did Pat for his mother, good Widow O'Neale;
For his father—God rest him!—had drooped down and died
When the praties turned black through the whole country-side.
And soon after his uncle Cornelius, I've heard,
From New York to his brother and sister sent word,
That the passage of both he was wishful to pay,
And they'd find a new home on his side of the say.
So they went—wid their poor mother's blessin' and tears,
Micky, twelve, but a stout little lad for his years,
And Honora, the darlin' sweet child of eleven,
All alone—but in safety wid the blessing of heaven.
When the praties turned black through the whole country-side.
And soon after his uncle Cornelius, I've heard,
From New York to his brother and sister sent word,
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And they'd find a new home on his side of the say.
So they went—wid their poor mother's blessin' and tears,
Micky, twelve, but a stout little lad for his years,
And Honora, the darlin' sweet child of eleven,
All alone—but in safety wid the blessing of heaven.
Now Widow O'Neale, the brave woman had once
For a twelvemonth been novice and lived wid the nuns,
Though when that was out—I've no time for the tale—
She took Patrick's father—instead of the veil—
Well for nun and for novice, there's time and to spare
For the needle and thread from devotion and prayer—
And that time was well spent by the Colleen who now
Has no cause to repent her noviciate vow;
For though many's the night she's gone fastin' to bed,
Little Patrick to treat to some meat or some bread,
Though it's many's the beautiful sunshiny day
She's sewed herself blind for his schoolin' to pay,
Still an' all sure she managed to struggle along
Till her Patrick, now growin' up hearty and strong,
Came home from the haggard one night in July,
Shoutin,' “Mother mavrone; bid your needle good-bye!
I'm to have a man's wages on the Master's estate,
And help teach at the night school—Mother, isn't it great!”
For a twelvemonth been novice and lived wid the nuns,
Though when that was out—I've no time for the tale—
She took Patrick's father—instead of the veil—
Well for nun and for novice, there's time and to spare
For the needle and thread from devotion and prayer—
And that time was well spent by the Colleen who now
Has no cause to repent her noviciate vow;
For though many's the night she's gone fastin' to bed,
Little Patrick to treat to some meat or some bread,
Though it's many's the beautiful sunshiny day
She's sewed herself blind for his schoolin' to pay,
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Till her Patrick, now growin' up hearty and strong,
Came home from the haggard one night in July,
Shoutin,' “Mother mavrone; bid your needle good-bye!
I'm to have a man's wages on the Master's estate,
And help teach at the night school—Mother, isn't it great!”
So when the spuds whitened in the gardens again
Young Patrick O'Neale, now the pride of the men,
Foot to foot down the ridge wid O'Flaherty pressed,
Who of all pratee-diggers was counted the best;
And after inspectin' the mowers at work
In his glebe on the hill, Parson Fetherston Bourke,
“Why, Patrick O'Neale, boy,” said he, wid a laugh,
“Why, Patrick, you're worth any man and a half,”—
For your clane cliver coorse wid your scythe through the grass
Was a picture, more power to you, Patrick, it was.
And yourselves would be pleased to have heard him at night
In the Master's new school-house, so smart and polite,
Explainin' the earth's longitudinal plan
To a wild-headed stump of a mountainy man,
Or settin' a sum in Algebbra, begor,
To the priest's crabbed nephew and one or two more.
Young Patrick O'Neale, now the pride of the men,
Foot to foot down the ridge wid O'Flaherty pressed,
Who of all pratee-diggers was counted the best;
And after inspectin' the mowers at work
In his glebe on the hill, Parson Fetherston Bourke,
“Why, Patrick O'Neale, boy,” said he, wid a laugh,
“Why, Patrick, you're worth any man and a half,”—
For your clane cliver coorse wid your scythe through the grass
Was a picture, more power to you, Patrick, it was.
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In the Master's new school-house, so smart and polite,
Explainin' the earth's longitudinal plan
To a wild-headed stump of a mountainy man,
Or settin' a sum in Algebbra, begor,
To the priest's crabbed nephew and one or two more.
But when it struck ten by the clock overhead
“Good-night” to the boys our young schoolmaster said;
Gathered up “The Six Books” and the slates for the night,
Locked the door and made off, wid a screech of delight,
Through the deep mountain gloom to the darlin' red star
Of his mother's turf fire winkin' welcome from far.
Five minutes—no more—you allowed to that mile,
Then into the cabin you'd swing through the stile,
Catch and kiss the good widdy wid a wonderful smack
Before she well knew that her boyo was back.
Then down to the milk and the murphies you'd sit,
While the dog wagged his tail and looked up for a bit,
And the thief of a cat on the table sprang up,
Knowin' well you could never refuse her a sup;
For the proverb runs true,—to my thinkin', at laste,—
That man's a good man that's the friend of the baste.
“Good-night” to the boys our young schoolmaster said;
Gathered up “The Six Books” and the slates for the night,
Locked the door and made off, wid a screech of delight,
Through the deep mountain gloom to the darlin' red star
Of his mother's turf fire winkin' welcome from far.
Five minutes—no more—you allowed to that mile,
Then into the cabin you'd swing through the stile,
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Before she well knew that her boyo was back.
Then down to the milk and the murphies you'd sit,
While the dog wagged his tail and looked up for a bit,
And the thief of a cat on the table sprang up,
Knowin' well you could never refuse her a sup;
For the proverb runs true,—to my thinkin', at laste,—
That man's a good man that's the friend of the baste.
Well, I've hinted that even as home through the grass
Mistress Nora went trippin' direct out of mass,
Across the girl's mind there'd be sure for to steal
Some notion or other of Patrick O'Neale.
Mistress Nora went trippin' direct out of mass,
Across the girl's mind there'd be sure for to steal
Some notion or other of Patrick O'Neale.
Now wasn't that strange, for though sweethearts for ever,
Yerra yes, though the best of the boys on the river,
From the Captain commandin' the Bay wid his cutter
To the proudest on shore, they were all in a flutter—
Though a huckster might furnish three iligant stalls
Wid the brooches and bonnets, the dresses and shawls
That the cleverest courters from far and from near
Had given her, galore, at each fair in the year;
Though none who'd not seen it could have any iday
Of the spring trout and salmon they sent her on Friday;
Though they put her the question in every way out—
In poems so romantic or merely by mout',
In English and Irish—and as I've heard tell,
One bould hedge-schoolmaster in Latin as well—
And though, which you'll count the most curous of all,
Not a look nor a word had he ever let fall
That could lave her the laste right in raison to feel
She'd put the comether on Patrick O'Neale—
P'r'aps now 'twas the jealousy vexed her to-day,
To see Patrick funnin' wid Fanny O'Shea,
Or to meet him to-morrow, the full of his cap
Of purple whorts pourin' in Mary Moore's lap;
While his manners to her were so courtly and grand,
Holdin' out on the crops wid his hat in his hand,
Or discussin' her cows wid a dignity such as
A Prince of the Blood would employ to a duchess;
Or perhaps 'twas the pride, that wid Nora was high—
That of all who were soft on her, sorra a boy,
For looks or for manners, could match wid O'Neale—
And yet his the one heart that the girl couldn't steal.
Yerra yes, though the best of the boys on the river,
From the Captain commandin' the Bay wid his cutter
To the proudest on shore, they were all in a flutter—
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Wid the brooches and bonnets, the dresses and shawls
That the cleverest courters from far and from near
Had given her, galore, at each fair in the year;
Though none who'd not seen it could have any iday
Of the spring trout and salmon they sent her on Friday;
Though they put her the question in every way out—
In poems so romantic or merely by mout',
In English and Irish—and as I've heard tell,
One bould hedge-schoolmaster in Latin as well—
And though, which you'll count the most curous of all,
Not a look nor a word had he ever let fall
That could lave her the laste right in raison to feel
She'd put the comether on Patrick O'Neale—
P'r'aps now 'twas the jealousy vexed her to-day,
To see Patrick funnin' wid Fanny O'Shea,
Or to meet him to-morrow, the full of his cap
Of purple whorts pourin' in Mary Moore's lap;
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Holdin' out on the crops wid his hat in his hand,
Or discussin' her cows wid a dignity such as
A Prince of the Blood would employ to a duchess;
Or perhaps 'twas the pride, that wid Nora was high—
That of all who were soft on her, sorra a boy,
For looks or for manners, could match wid O'Neale—
And yet his the one heart that the girl couldn't steal.
But whativer the raison—begannies—'twas so,
When the county came courtin' the Colleen na Mo,
Her thoughts they kept runnin', surprisin' to say,
Most of all on the man that was laste in her way.
When the county came courtin' the Colleen na Mo,
Her thoughts they kept runnin', surprisin' to say,
Most of all on the man that was laste in her way.
But all you sweet girls who attend to my tale,
Lest by this you think coldly of Patrick O'Neale,
Faith, I'm forced to confess—that when Nora believed
Patrick's heart was his own, sure herself was deceived—
For of all of her suitors so rich and so high,
None loved her as deep as that poor pisant boy.
Lest by this you think coldly of Patrick O'Neale,
Faith, I'm forced to confess—that when Nora believed
Patrick's heart was his own, sure herself was deceived—
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None loved her as deep as that poor pisant boy.
But why hadn't he courage his heart to declare,
And to up wid his story and axe her to share
His fortune for ever? I answer you, sure,
'Twas the pride that prevented him, being so poor—
And to up wid his story and axe her to share
His fortune for ever? I answer you, sure,
'Twas the pride that prevented him, being so poor—
Yes! that was the cause why, at bonfire or patron,
When the rest all came round complimentin', and flatter'n',
To her friendly “Good day!” “Good day kindly, to you,”
Was your only remark to her all the dance through.
And that was the raison, one night at Adair's,
When after a jig—through the scarceness of chairs—
The girls should sit down on the knees of the men
Till such time as the music should start up again,
Each girl wid her partner and Nora wid you,
You must preten' your seat wasn't aqual to two,
And sit down on the floor—wid her planked up behind,
Though I know well which seat had been most to her mind.
When the rest all came round complimentin', and flatter'n',
To her friendly “Good day!” “Good day kindly, to you,”
Was your only remark to her all the dance through.
And that was the raison, one night at Adair's,
When after a jig—through the scarceness of chairs—
The girls should sit down on the knees of the men
Till such time as the music should start up again,
Each girl wid her partner and Nora wid you,
You must preten' your seat wasn't aqual to two,
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Though I know well which seat had been most to her mind.
But when quite out of hearing, unseen and alone,
To himself he'd go over each look and each tone
Of Nora's he'd treasured away in his mind,
At some moment she'd fretted to think him unkind;
And as he went clippin' the briar wid his bill,
Or rowed up the river, or reaped on the hill,
Some fancy of Nora would come to him still.
The arbutus fruit now, or a stretch of the sky
Would recall her red lip or her laughin' blue eye,
The heath flower to-day of her blushes would hint,
And to-morrow the furze took her tresses' own tint—
The spring leaped with her laugh over pebbles of pearl,
And the sailing swan signed him his white-bosomed girl,
While “Nora” for ever his oar on the bay,
And “Nora” his spade in the garden used say,
And “Nora,” still “Nora,” to the tunes she loved best,
His heart it kept beating the time in his breast.
To himself he'd go over each look and each tone
Of Nora's he'd treasured away in his mind,
At some moment she'd fretted to think him unkind;
And as he went clippin' the briar wid his bill,
Or rowed up the river, or reaped on the hill,
Some fancy of Nora would come to him still.
The arbutus fruit now, or a stretch of the sky
Would recall her red lip or her laughin' blue eye,
The heath flower to-day of her blushes would hint,
And to-morrow the furze took her tresses' own tint—
The spring leaped with her laugh over pebbles of pearl,
And the sailing swan signed him his white-bosomed girl,
While “Nora” for ever his oar on the bay,
And “Nora” his spade in the garden used say,
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His heart it kept beating the time in his breast.
So that pair of young people their feelings used smother,
Widout each thinkin' either could care for the other.
Widout each thinkin' either could care for the other.
But the rude blow at last will afford you a hint
Of the fire that's concealed in the core of the flint;
And the beautiful brim that's unnoticed by day,
On the gloomiest night glitters most on the say,
And so even its secretest feeling'll start
In the hour of distress from the haughtiest heart.
Of the fire that's concealed in the core of the flint;
And the beautiful brim that's unnoticed by day,
On the gloomiest night glitters most on the say,
And so even its secretest feeling'll start
In the hour of distress from the haughtiest heart.
And 'twas so with these two.
Now the mornin' was fair,
Wid the mountains distinct from Dunloe to Kenmare,
But at noon the white cloud Carn Tual had kissed,
And soon after the Saw melted off in the mist,
And lower still lower the mist it crept down,
Till its curtain had covered up Atthin and Beown,
And lower still lower it swept for the plain,
While you heard Bullig breaker start roarin' for rain.
Wid the mountains distinct from Dunloe to Kenmare,
But at noon the white cloud Carn Tual had kissed,
And soon after the Saw melted off in the mist,
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Till its curtain had covered up Atthin and Beown,
And lower still lower it swept for the plain,
While you heard Bullig breaker start roarin' for rain.
'Twas a Saturday, surely, wid only the Sunday,
Betune it and the fair on the followin' Monday.
And, signs by, down each dark boreen then, for ever,
And from out every fog-steamin' ford on the river,
Cows and sheep they came startin', till the roads were alive,
For the world like a swarm of bees smoked from a hive.
Betune it and the fair on the followin' Monday.
And, signs by, down each dark boreen then, for ever,
And from out every fog-steamin' ford on the river,
Cows and sheep they came startin', till the roads were alive,
For the world like a swarm of bees smoked from a hive.
Well! that very same Saturday, long before even
The lark mounted up wid his matins to heaven,
O'Neale had been facin' as if it was day,
Surely, but sad, up the mountainy way
Back out of Glen Caragh, where he'd had a call
To his mother's own brother's son's funeral—
Surely, but sad, you may think, at the start,
Till the light of the sun began warmin' his heart;
And yerra, ye'll not think the worse of the boy,
If I tell you, before every dew-drop was dry,
His tears for the cousin no longer used fall;
And ye won't blame him much, if ye blame him at all,
When I'm forced to confess that at noon upon Gloragh
His thoughts they had turned round completely to Nora;
Till sure an' he shocked himself singin' a song
Of the Colleen na Mo, as he travelled along.
The lark mounted up wid his matins to heaven,
O'Neale had been facin' as if it was day,
Surely, but sad, up the mountainy way
Back out of Glen Caragh, where he'd had a call
To his mother's own brother's son's funeral—
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Till the light of the sun began warmin' his heart;
And yerra, ye'll not think the worse of the boy,
If I tell you, before every dew-drop was dry,
His tears for the cousin no longer used fall;
And ye won't blame him much, if ye blame him at all,
When I'm forced to confess that at noon upon Gloragh
His thoughts they had turned round completely to Nora;
Till sure an' he shocked himself singin' a song
Of the Colleen na Mo, as he travelled along.
So he trassed away dreamin' of Nora na Mo,
While the mist it crept down to the valleys below
Unknownst to O'Neale, for each inch of the way
He'd have travelled as surely by night as by day.
Still an' all at long last on the edge of a bog
There puffed in his face such a powderin' fog,
That he gave a great start and looked doubtin'ly down,
To be sure he'd made off the right track to the town;
And he just then could see to the left of his path,
Roundin' out of the vapour the ould Irish Rath,
And says he wid a smile, “Why I might be a hound
For facin' so fair for the Barony's bound,
But I'd best hurry on then, or Mother machree,
It's in dread for me out in the mist but you'll be.”
So he started to run, when he heard from above
The voice of the girl that had stolen his love:
“Magrina, magrina, magrinashin oge,
Come hither, my Laidir, come Kitty, you rogue,
Come up, Blackbird, come, Snow, to the beautiful house.”
“'Tis the Colleen na Mo,” he said, “callin' her cows.”
While the mist it crept down to the valleys below
Unknownst to O'Neale, for each inch of the way
He'd have travelled as surely by night as by day.
Still an' all at long last on the edge of a bog
There puffed in his face such a powderin' fog,
That he gave a great start and looked doubtin'ly down,
To be sure he'd made off the right track to the town;
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Roundin' out of the vapour the ould Irish Rath,
And says he wid a smile, “Why I might be a hound
For facin' so fair for the Barony's bound,
But I'd best hurry on then, or Mother machree,
It's in dread for me out in the mist but you'll be.”
So he started to run, when he heard from above
The voice of the girl that had stolen his love:
“Magrina, magrina, magrinashin oge,
Come hither, my Laidir, come Kitty, you rogue,
Come up, Blackbird, come, Snow, to the beautiful house.”
“'Tis the Colleen na Mo,” he said, “callin' her cows.”
But her voice sounded sadly and strange in his ear,
And the heart of O'Neale began knockin' for fear,
And he looked and he saw risin' up from below,
The Shadow of the Shape of the Colleen na Mo
Growin' greater for ever, till a monster of black,
Like the Spirit of Death, it stood out of the track;
And O'Neale knew the warnin'—and shouted, “Stand back,
Stand back for your life!” but the shadow went still,
Wid its arms wavin' wild on the brow of the hill,
Then it trembled, and balanced, and staggered, and fell,
Down, down wid the moan of a muffled death-bell.
And the heart of O'Neale began knockin' for fear,
And he looked and he saw risin' up from below,
The Shadow of the Shape of the Colleen na Mo
Growin' greater for ever, till a monster of black,
Like the Spirit of Death, it stood out of the track;
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Stand back for your life!” but the shadow went still,
Wid its arms wavin' wild on the brow of the hill,
Then it trembled, and balanced, and staggered, and fell,
Down, down wid the moan of a muffled death-bell.
And as a man held by a horrible dream
Wrastles hard, till at last he starts up wid a scream—
So he stood there, how long himself never could tell—
For the mist of a sudden seemed changed by a spell
To a fierce fiend that caught him unknownst from behind,
And held him hard breathin', and his eyes starin' blind,
Wid cruel white hands knotted into his neck,
And a hiss in his ears like a poisonous snake—
Till he wakes up at last wid a terrible groan
And finds himself there on the mountain alone
Wid the white mist around driftin' dreamily on.
“And was it a dream, after all, then?” he cried,
When a sheep-dog it ran barkin' up to his side;
And the dread it returned at the voice of the dog,
And he stooped down and looked at it into the fog,
And he knew it was Nora's, and his heart it stood still.
“Now, what are you doin', Jack, here on the hill?
Where's your Nora, mavrone?” and the dog in reply
Starts whinin' and draggin' away at the boy.
And he knew it had answered as plain as if spoke,
And says he, “Jack, I'm wid you, though my heart it is broke.”
So, layin' a sorrowful hand on its head,
The poor boy went after—the dumb creature led
From Drumtine to Coomassig, as still as the dead.
Here the dog was at fault, but soon wid a bound
Followed on a fresh foot-print, his nose to the ground.
And Patrick looked closer and strained through the dark,
And knew it was Nora's by the straight slender mark.
And he stooped down and kissed it, and Jack he stood still
On the top of Coomassig and barked wid a will.
And “Nora,” Pat shouted, “O, Nora na Mo,
Is it clifted you are on the mountain below?
O answer, acushla;” but sorra a word,
But only the voice of an eagle he heard,
Wheelin' in through the terrible darkness beneath,
And he shuddered and sobbed, “It comes scentin' her death,
And not as much light as to stone it away.
O, God, that the darkness would turn into day!”
Wrastles hard, till at last he starts up wid a scream—
So he stood there, how long himself never could tell—
For the mist of a sudden seemed changed by a spell
To a fierce fiend that caught him unknownst from behind,
And held him hard breathin', and his eyes starin' blind,
Wid cruel white hands knotted into his neck,
And a hiss in his ears like a poisonous snake—
Till he wakes up at last wid a terrible groan
And finds himself there on the mountain alone
Wid the white mist around driftin' dreamily on.
26
When a sheep-dog it ran barkin' up to his side;
And the dread it returned at the voice of the dog,
And he stooped down and looked at it into the fog,
And he knew it was Nora's, and his heart it stood still.
“Now, what are you doin', Jack, here on the hill?
Where's your Nora, mavrone?” and the dog in reply
Starts whinin' and draggin' away at the boy.
And he knew it had answered as plain as if spoke,
And says he, “Jack, I'm wid you, though my heart it is broke.”
So, layin' a sorrowful hand on its head,
The poor boy went after—the dumb creature led
From Drumtine to Coomassig, as still as the dead.
Here the dog was at fault, but soon wid a bound
Followed on a fresh foot-print, his nose to the ground.
And Patrick looked closer and strained through the dark,
And knew it was Nora's by the straight slender mark.
27
On the top of Coomassig and barked wid a will.
And “Nora,” Pat shouted, “O, Nora na Mo,
Is it clifted you are on the mountain below?
O answer, acushla;” but sorra a word,
But only the voice of an eagle he heard,
Wheelin' in through the terrible darkness beneath,
And he shuddered and sobbed, “It comes scentin' her death,
And not as much light as to stone it away.
O, God, that the darkness would turn into day!”
“Come, Jack, we'll go down to the foot of the rock
And protect the poor corpse from the ravenous flock;”
And he coaxed him to come, but the dog wouldn't stir,
So alone down the clift Pat went searchin' for her;
And protect the poor corpse from the ravenous flock;”
And he coaxed him to come, but the dog wouldn't stir,
So alone down the clift Pat went searchin' for her;
But as he was going, a far hullahoo
Rose out of the distance, and into his view
Red torches came wavin' their way up the hill,
And he laughed a wild laugh, through his wanderin' will,
And he cried, “Is it wake-lights yez are drawin' near?
Hurry up, then, and show me the corpse of my dear.”
And the red lights approached, and a voice wid the light,
“Who are ye in distress on the mountain to-night?”
And he answered, “Come up, for our name it is Death,
Wid the eagle above and the white-worm beneath;
But the death-lights that hover by night o'er the grave
Will restore us our dead, when your torches can save.”
Rose out of the distance, and into his view
28
And he laughed a wild laugh, through his wanderin' will,
And he cried, “Is it wake-lights yez are drawin' near?
Hurry up, then, and show me the corpse of my dear.”
And the red lights approached, and a voice wid the light,
“Who are ye in distress on the mountain to-night?”
And he answered, “Come up, for our name it is Death,
Wid the eagle above and the white-worm beneath;
But the death-lights that hover by night o'er the grave
Will restore us our dead, when your torches can save.”
“What is it, O'Neale, man? How wildly you rave,”
And the hand of Murt Shea, the best friend that he had,
Was lovingly laid on the arm of the lad.
“O, Murt, give me hould of that splinter,” he said,
“And let me look down on the face of the dead,
For Nora Maguire, Murt, my own secret love,
Has fallen from the clift of Coomassig above.”
“Is it she, wirra, wirra, the pride of us all?
Do you say that the darlin's been killed by a fall?
Ologone, my poor Pat, and you loved her at heart.”
And the hand of Murt Shea, the best friend that he had,
Was lovingly laid on the arm of the lad.
“O, Murt, give me hould of that splinter,” he said,
“And let me look down on the face of the dead,
29
Has fallen from the clift of Coomassig above.”
“Is it she, wirra, wirra, the pride of us all?
Do you say that the darlin's been killed by a fall?
Ologone, my poor Pat, and you loved her at heart.”
Then O'Neill groaned again, “Sure I've searched every part,
And no sign of her here at the foot of the clift.”
And the rest they came up, and the bushes they sift,
But sorra a trace to the right or the left.
And no sign of her here at the foot of the clift.”
And the rest they came up, and the bushes they sift,
But sorra a trace to the right or the left.
Then O'Neale shouted, “Come, every man of ye lift
His fire altogether.” And one said, “I see
Somethin' hangin' high up from the juniper tree.”
“'Tis herself,” shouted Pat, wid his hand to his brow,
“How far from the top is that juniper bough?”
“Ten foot of a fall,” said a mountain gossoon,
“Wid no tussocks betune them?”
His fire altogether.” And one said, “I see
Somethin' hangin' high up from the juniper tree.”
“'Tis herself,” shouted Pat, wid his hand to his brow,
“How far from the top is that juniper bough?”
“Ten foot of a fall,” said a mountain gossoon,
“Wid no tussocks betune them?”
“Wid nothin' betune.”
“Have yez ere a rope handy, boys?”
30
“Divle a rope!
And not nearer nor Sneem for the likes you could hope.”
“Come hither, gossoon, and be off wid this splinter,
For 'tis you know the mountain; away widout hinder
To the nearest good haggard, and strip the sugane,
Not forgettin' a sop of the freshest finane.
Brustig, brustig, alanah!” and hardly the rest
Had followed O'Neale up the vapoury crest,
To the spot that the faithful, wise hound wouldn't pass,
When the boy he was back wid the hayropes and grass.
And not nearer nor Sneem for the likes you could hope.”
“Come hither, gossoon, and be off wid this splinter,
For 'tis you know the mountain; away widout hinder
To the nearest good haggard, and strip the sugane,
Not forgettin' a sop of the freshest finane.
Brustig, brustig, alanah!” and hardly the rest
Had followed O'Neale up the vapoury crest,
To the spot that the faithful, wise hound wouldn't pass,
When the boy he was back wid the hayropes and grass.
Then says Pat, leanin' down wid a splinter of light,
“God bless the good dog—after all he was right.
Ten foot underneath us—she's plainly in sight.
Now give hither the ropes, and hould on while I twist.”
So he caught the suganes up like threads in his fist,
And twined them and jined them a thirty foot length,
Fourplait to a thickness of terrible strength.
Then roped it around the two biggest boys there,
To see was it fit for supportin' a pair.
And he easily lifted the two through the air,
Up and down, till he'd proved it well able to bear.
“Now make the rope fast to me, boys, while I go
Down the side of the clift for the Colleen na Mo.
Livin' or dead—tho' I'm hopeful for all,
There's life in her still—tho' she's kilt from the fall.”
“God bless the good dog—after all he was right.
Ten foot underneath us—she's plainly in sight.
Now give hither the ropes, and hould on while I twist.”
So he caught the suganes up like threads in his fist,
And twined them and jined them a thirty foot length,
Fourplait to a thickness of terrible strength.
31
To see was it fit for supportin' a pair.
And he easily lifted the two through the air,
Up and down, till he'd proved it well able to bear.
“Now make the rope fast to me, boys, while I go
Down the side of the clift for the Colleen na Mo.
Livin' or dead—tho' I'm hopeful for all,
There's life in her still—tho' she's kilt from the fall.”
Then he turns to one side, and he whispers Murt Shea,
“If I'm killed from the clift of Coomassig to-day,
Come promise me faithful you'll stand to the mother
Like a son, till she's help from the sister and brother.
And give her this kiss, and I'll meet her again
In the place where's no poverty, sorrow or pain.”
And he promised—and all they shook hands wid O'Neale,
And he cheered them and said, “Have no dread that we'll fail,
For I'd not be afeard, why, to balance the Pope
Himself from the clift by so hearty a rope.”
“If I'm killed from the clift of Coomassig to-day,
Come promise me faithful you'll stand to the mother
Like a son, till she's help from the sister and brother.
And give her this kiss, and I'll meet her again
In the place where's no poverty, sorrow or pain.”
And he promised—and all they shook hands wid O'Neale,
And he cheered them and said, “Have no dread that we'll fail,
32
Himself from the clift by so hearty a rope.”
So a torch in his hand, and a stick in his teeth,
And his coat round his throat the boys lowered him beneath.
And all but Murt Shea, then, they couldn't make out
The coat round his throat, and the stick in his mout'.
And his coat round his throat the boys lowered him beneath.
And all but Murt Shea, then, they couldn't make out
The coat round his throat, and the stick in his mout'.
But it wasn't for long they'd the doubt in their mind,
For they saw his torch quenched wid a noise like the wind,
And “Steady above,” came his voice from below.
Then heavy wings flapped wid a scream and a blow.
“'Tis the eagles,” they cried, “at the Colleen na Mo.”
But an old man amongst them spoke up and he said,
“'Tis the eagles for sartin, but not at the dead,
For they'll not touch the corpse—murther, but for the mist,
'Tis I could have told you that this was their nest.”
“It's O'Neale that they're at—pull him back, or they'll tear
The poor boy to pieces below in the air.”
And they shouted together the eagles to scare.
And they called to O'Neale from the edge of the height,
“She's dead, Pat, she's dead, never mind her to-night.
But come back, or the eagles 'll pick out your sight.”
And they made for to pull; but he cries, “If you do,
I give you my oath that I'll cut the rope through.”
And they b'lieved him, and waited wid hearts beatin' loud,
Screechin' down at the birds through the vapoury cloud,
Showerin' splinters for ever to give the boy light,
And warnin' him watch to the left or the right,
As each eagle in turn it would fly at his head,
Till he dropped one below in the darkness for dead,
And the other flew off wid' a yell through the night.
Then they felt the rope slacken as he crossed to the bough,
Then tighten again—and he called to them “Now!”
And they knew that the dangerous moment was come.
So wid wrist draggin' shoulder, tight finger to thumb,
And tooth crushing tooth in the silence of death,
They drew up the two from the blackness beneath.
For they saw his torch quenched wid a noise like the wind,
And “Steady above,” came his voice from below.
Then heavy wings flapped wid a scream and a blow.
“'Tis the eagles,” they cried, “at the Colleen na Mo.”
But an old man amongst them spoke up and he said,
“'Tis the eagles for sartin, but not at the dead,
For they'll not touch the corpse—murther, but for the mist,
'Tis I could have told you that this was their nest.”
33
The poor boy to pieces below in the air.”
And they shouted together the eagles to scare.
And they called to O'Neale from the edge of the height,
“She's dead, Pat, she's dead, never mind her to-night.
But come back, or the eagles 'll pick out your sight.”
And they made for to pull; but he cries, “If you do,
I give you my oath that I'll cut the rope through.”
And they b'lieved him, and waited wid hearts beatin' loud,
Screechin' down at the birds through the vapoury cloud,
Showerin' splinters for ever to give the boy light,
And warnin' him watch to the left or the right,
As each eagle in turn it would fly at his head,
Till he dropped one below in the darkness for dead,
And the other flew off wid' a yell through the night.
34
Then tighten again—and he called to them “Now!”
And they knew that the dangerous moment was come.
So wid wrist draggin' shoulder, tight finger to thumb,
And tooth crushing tooth in the silence of death,
They drew up the two from the blackness beneath.
There'd been a long stretch of delightful spring weather,
But this was the day beat the rest altogether,
Over mountain and valley and river—Oyeh!
There was never for ever so darlin' a day—
Wid its purty pale primroses shrinkin so shy
From the bachelor butterfly's kiss-and-go-by,
And wid hawthorns like bridesmaids come out in the air,
Arrangin' white wreaths in their iligant hair.
And so thought a fiddler, fiddle on back,
Steppin' for town by the mountainy track.
“But,” says he, “what's the raison the people are dressed,
All wid shoes on their feet, in their holiday best?
'Tisn't Sunday, then—barrin' the priests were astray,
Ere yesterday mornin' off out at Rossbeigh;
And a Saint's Day it's not, for I know them by heart,
The whole box an' dice they observe in this part.
Must be then, begorra, I make no mistake,
In concludin' it's either a weddin' or wake;
Though I shouldn't have thought the worst omadhaun round
'D have chosen such weather for goin' underground.”
But this was the day beat the rest altogether,
Over mountain and valley and river—Oyeh!
There was never for ever so darlin' a day—
Wid its purty pale primroses shrinkin so shy
From the bachelor butterfly's kiss-and-go-by,
And wid hawthorns like bridesmaids come out in the air,
Arrangin' white wreaths in their iligant hair.
35
Steppin' for town by the mountainy track.
“But,” says he, “what's the raison the people are dressed,
All wid shoes on their feet, in their holiday best?
'Tisn't Sunday, then—barrin' the priests were astray,
Ere yesterday mornin' off out at Rossbeigh;
And a Saint's Day it's not, for I know them by heart,
The whole box an' dice they observe in this part.
Must be then, begorra, I make no mistake,
In concludin' it's either a weddin' or wake;
Though I shouldn't have thought the worst omadhaun round
'D have chosen such weather for goin' underground.”
When who should come hurryin' down the boreen
But Honor O'Connor dressed out like a queen,
Wid her hair in one wonderful plait, and upon it—
Like a bird on its nest—a sweet bit of a bonnet—
And a green sash that showed her fine figure for'nint,
And flouncin' behind her, the beautif'llest print,
Folded into her hand, just enough for a hint
Of as tidy an ankle as ever set step—
But Honor O'Connor dressed out like a queen,
Wid her hair in one wonderful plait, and upon it—
Like a bird on its nest—a sweet bit of a bonnet—
36
And flouncin' behind her, the beautif'llest print,
Folded into her hand, just enough for a hint
Of as tidy an ankle as ever set step—
So the girl she came on, wid the laugh on her lip,
Till she sighted the fiddler, and “Shiel, dear,” said she,
(For I should have remarked that the fiddler was me)—
“What a stranger you are—tho' returnin' aright,
For we've terrible want of your fiddle to-night;”—
“But what wonderful doin's are goin' on below,
Honor, acora?”
Till she sighted the fiddler, and “Shiel, dear,” said she,
(For I should have remarked that the fiddler was me)—
“What a stranger you are—tho' returnin' aright,
For we've terrible want of your fiddle to-night;”—
“But what wonderful doin's are goin' on below,
Honor, acora?”
“Ah! nonsense! You know—
Why, Nora Maguire's to be married to-day.”
“Glory be to God!—Is it true what you say?
Well, Nora na Mo, but I'm wishin' you joy:
And who, in the name of good fortune's, the boy?”
“Arrah who should it be, then, but Mr. O`Neale?
But you're bothered, I see.” So she up wid the tale
Of the Colleen na Mo that I've told to yez all,
Explainin' how Nora wasn't kilt by the fall,
Though she took the brain fever immadiate on that,—
And how she wint ravin' for ever on Pat
And her love, and the pity the boy was so poor,—
And how hopeful from this of performin' her cure,
Good Doctor O'Kydd, ere the crisis came on,
Goes off to consider wid ould Father John—
And how the two wint wid one mind to the Squire
To tell him the danger of Nora Maguire—
And the Master, said he, “I've my eye on the lad,
And I want a sub-agent. He'll suit me bedad—
I'll send for him up to the Castle to-day.”
And he got no refusal from Pat, you may say.
And how the good Doctor told Nora, the night
When the crisis was on her—by accident quite—
About Patrick. Then how a great longin' for life,
And maybe the notion she'd yet be his wife,
Came over the girl—and the terrible flood
Of the fever subsided away from her blood;
And though yerrah so wasted—to see her you'd cry—
In a month she was up, and av coorse Patrick by;
And, concludin', how hardly the winter was out,
When through all of Dunkerron 'twas rumoured about,
Nora'd taken O'Neale, and there wasn't a doubt
When the good priest he published them three weeks ago,
And to-day they'll be married in the chapel below.
Why, Nora Maguire's to be married to-day.”
“Glory be to God!—Is it true what you say?
Well, Nora na Mo, but I'm wishin' you joy:
And who, in the name of good fortune's, the boy?”
“Arrah who should it be, then, but Mr. O`Neale?
But you're bothered, I see.” So she up wid the tale
37
Explainin' how Nora wasn't kilt by the fall,
Though she took the brain fever immadiate on that,—
And how she wint ravin' for ever on Pat
And her love, and the pity the boy was so poor,—
And how hopeful from this of performin' her cure,
Good Doctor O'Kydd, ere the crisis came on,
Goes off to consider wid ould Father John—
And how the two wint wid one mind to the Squire
To tell him the danger of Nora Maguire—
And the Master, said he, “I've my eye on the lad,
And I want a sub-agent. He'll suit me bedad—
I'll send for him up to the Castle to-day.”
And he got no refusal from Pat, you may say.
And how the good Doctor told Nora, the night
When the crisis was on her—by accident quite—
About Patrick. Then how a great longin' for life,
And maybe the notion she'd yet be his wife,
Came over the girl—and the terrible flood
Of the fever subsided away from her blood;
38
In a month she was up, and av coorse Patrick by;
And, concludin', how hardly the winter was out,
When through all of Dunkerron 'twas rumoured about,
Nora'd taken O'Neale, and there wasn't a doubt
When the good priest he published them three weeks ago,
And to-day they'll be married in the chapel below.
Then the marriage-bell started as Honor and I
Stepped into the town wid our hearts full of joy;
So off we two darted, and just at the porch
Met Nora, the darlin', drivin' up to the church,
And Pat, you may guess, wasn't long in the lurch.
And a power of company surely were there,
Of the highest and lowest all down from Kenmare,
For the Squire and the Quality seated around,
Side by side wid the lowliest pisant you found.
And the whole string of sweethearts who'd courted in vain—
(For not a man of them would give Nora pain
By seemin' heartbroken or wishful to slight
Her choice of O'Neale) had agreed to unite
To see the girl's weddin'—and surely for this, too,
Whin ould Father John had them married and blessed, too,
They each had her thanks—Yerra yes! and a kiss, too.
And somehow myself was mixed up wid that lot,
And stole the best kiss that I ever yet got.
“Arrah! Shiel, is it you? Why, none of us knew
Yourself was a sweetheart of Nora's here, too.”
“Was it Shiel, why, that kissed me?” “'Twas so; then, bedad:
Hould his hands for me, Murphy.” “Now would you, my lad?—”
Stepped into the town wid our hearts full of joy;
So off we two darted, and just at the porch
Met Nora, the darlin', drivin' up to the church,
And Pat, you may guess, wasn't long in the lurch.
And a power of company surely were there,
Of the highest and lowest all down from Kenmare,
For the Squire and the Quality seated around,
Side by side wid the lowliest pisant you found.
And the whole string of sweethearts who'd courted in vain—
39
By seemin' heartbroken or wishful to slight
Her choice of O'Neale) had agreed to unite
To see the girl's weddin'—and surely for this, too,
Whin ould Father John had them married and blessed, too,
They each had her thanks—Yerra yes! and a kiss, too.
And somehow myself was mixed up wid that lot,
And stole the best kiss that I ever yet got.
“Arrah! Shiel, is it you? Why, none of us knew
Yourself was a sweetheart of Nora's here, too.”
“Was it Shiel, why, that kissed me?” “'Twas so; then, bedad:
Hould his hands for me, Murphy.” “Now would you, my lad?—”
“Mercy, Nora, and whisper! 'Twas just in advance
That I took it—for playin' to-night at your dance.”
That I took it—for playin' to-night at your dance.”
40
THE FOSTER SISTERS.
When your mother lay dyin'
And passed to her rest,
The same gentle breast
Both our wants was supplyin',—
If for only that feelin'
I'd be yours, Lady Alice,
Though my home's but a shealin',
And the roof of a palace
Covers you, Lady Alice!
And passed to her rest,
The same gentle breast
Both our wants was supplyin',—
If for only that feelin'
I'd be yours, Lady Alice,
Though my home's but a shealin',
And the roof of a palace
Covers you, Lady Alice!
Yes! to feel but that of you,
Foster-sister, acora,
Would have left to your Nora
No choice but to love you.
Even if your fair breast
Hid a heart full of malice,
Instead of the best
In shealin' or palace,
My poor Lady Alice!
Foster-sister, acora,
Would have left to your Nora
No choice but to love you.
45
Hid a heart full of malice,
Instead of the best
In shealin' or palace,
My poor Lady Alice!
Yet just as the dew
On a lily-leaf slender
Lies tremblin' so tender
And trustful and true,
Till the sun's selfish power,
Most sudden and cruel,
Wastes away the white jewel
And withers the flower,—
So it was with poor Alice.
On a lily-leaf slender
Lies tremblin' so tender
And trustful and true,
Till the sun's selfish power,
Most sudden and cruel,
Wastes away the white jewel
And withers the flower,—
So it was with poor Alice.
For you trusted his love,
As simply confidin'
His honour and pride in,
As in heaven above;
And you married, mavrone,
Lord Arthur, Lord Arthur;
Though now, ologone,
In your grave you'd be rather
Than his wife, Lady Alice!
As simply confidin'
His honour and pride in,
As in heaven above;
46
Lord Arthur, Lord Arthur;
Though now, ologone,
In your grave you'd be rather
Than his wife, Lady Alice!
So that though I had once
A foolish ambition
For your noble condition,
Like a foolish young dunce,
Had I known, as I do,
What then was preparin'
For me and for you,
That wish I'd been sparin'
My poor Lady Alice.
A foolish ambition
For your noble condition,
Like a foolish young dunce,
Had I known, as I do,
What then was preparin'
For me and for you,
That wish I'd been sparin'
My poor Lady Alice.
And instead, then, for you
Half my hopes I'd forsaken,—
Half your troubles I'd taken,—
If only, aroo,
Through that you'd been born
Wid me in our shealin',
Safe away from his scorn
And black bitter feelin',
My poor Lady Alice!
Half my hopes I'd forsaken,—
Half your troubles I'd taken,—
If only, aroo,
47
Wid me in our shealin',
Safe away from his scorn
And black bitter feelin',
My poor Lady Alice!
85
THE IRISH SPINNING WHEEL.
“Sing me a song,
Shiel, Shiel—
As my foot on the reel
Goes guidin' the wheel
Along.
For I keep better time
To a musical rhyme,
Than without.”
Shiel, Shiel—
As my foot on the reel
Goes guidin' the wheel
Along.
For I keep better time
To a musical rhyme,
Than without.”
“No doubt—
But Roseen, yourself start a tune—
For I've heard
How a bird
That sings by the light of the moon,
Away over the ocean,
Once took up a notion,
The vain little elf, that he'd fly
To Ireland itself on the sly,
And prove all the songs of our sky
Wid the tone
Of his own,
Could never at all at all vie—
And he thought himself surely the best,
And 'twas true for him p'r'aps of the rest;
But we've all understood
Meetin' you in the wood,
As you warbled ‘The Land of the West.’
He should say,
He'd no chance
Wid you.
So away
Into France
He flew.”
But Roseen, yourself start a tune—
86
How a bird
That sings by the light of the moon,
Away over the ocean,
Once took up a notion,
The vain little elf, that he'd fly
To Ireland itself on the sly,
And prove all the songs of our sky
Wid the tone
Of his own,
Could never at all at all vie—
And he thought himself surely the best,
And 'twas true for him p'r'aps of the rest;
But we've all understood
Meetin' you in the wood,
As you warbled ‘The Land of the West.’
He should say,
He'd no chance
Wid you.
So away
87
He flew.”
“Behave, Shiel,
Yerra, don't you feel
How your blarneyin' talk is delayin' my reel;
If you won't sing a song,
As I'm spinnin' along,
Be off—for you're idlin' myself and the wheel.”
Yerra, don't you feel
How your blarneyin' talk is delayin' my reel;
If you won't sing a song,
As I'm spinnin' along,
Be off—for you're idlin' myself and the wheel.”
“Is it so?
O! Vo!
If off I should go
Widout that I make you the music, machree—
Down here,
My dear,
From this seat
At your feet,
I'll up wid the song that's the dearest to me.”
O! Vo!
If off I should go
Widout that I make you the music, machree—
Down here,
My dear,
From this seat
At your feet,
I'll up wid the song that's the dearest to me.”
88
SONG.
Show me a sight,
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
O! No!
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl at it.
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
O! No!
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl at it.
Look at her there,
Night in her hair—
The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us!
Faix, an' a foot,
Perfect of cut,
Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us
Night in her hair—
The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us!
Faix, an' a foot,
Perfect of cut,
Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us
That there's a sight,
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
O! No!
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
89
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
See! the lamb's wool
Turns coarse an' dull
By them soft, beautiful, weeshy, white hands of her.
Down goes her heel,
Roun' runs the wheel,
Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her.
Turns coarse an' dull
By them soft, beautiful, weeshy, white hands of her.
Down goes her heel,
Roun' runs the wheel,
Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her.
Then show me a sight,
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
O! No!
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
O! No!
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
Talk of Three Fates,
Seated on seats,
Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me.
You may want three
For your massacree,
But one fate for me, boys, and only the one for me.
Seated on seats,
90
You may want three
For your massacree,
But one fate for me, boys, and only the one for me.
And
Isn't that fate,
Pictured complate,
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it?
O! No!
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
Isn't that fate,
Pictured complate,
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it?
O! No!
Nothin' you'll show,
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
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