Song IV. THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS.
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Tune—Groves of the Pool.
1
Jerry Mahony, arrah, my jewel, come, let us be off to the fair,
For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be there;
Says they, “The whole Mahony faction we'll banish 'em out clear and clean.”
But it never was yet in their breeches, their bullaboo words to maintain.
2
There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,
'Twould make your mouth water to see him, just giving a bit of a stroke;
There's Corney, the bandy-legg'd tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff,
Who'd fight though the black blood was flowing like buttermilk out of his buff.
3
There's broken-nos'd Bat from the mountain—last week he burst out of the jail,
And Murty the beautiful Tory, who'd scorn in a row to turn tail;
Bloody Bill will be there like a darling, and Jerry, och! let him alone,
For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone.
4
And Tim, who serv'd in the militia, his bayonet has stuck on a pole;
Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order, a neat sort of tool on the whole;
A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;
But I think that a man is more handy, who fights, as I do, with a flail.
5
We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by elegant men,
Who batter'd the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;
To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of their talk,
We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk.
6
After cutting out work for the sexton, by smashing a dozen or so,
We'll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery's go;
In gallons we'll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day;
When must'ring again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.
