 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
82
THE IRISH FARMER.
Dear Judy, when first we got married,
Our fortune indeed was but small,
For save the light hearts that we carried,
Our riches were nothing at all.
I sung while I reared up the cabin,
Ye powers, give me vigour and health!
And a truce to all sighing and sobbing,
For love is Pat Mulligan's wealth.
Our fortune indeed was but small,
For save the light hearts that we carried,
Our riches were nothing at all.
I sung while I reared up the cabin,
Ye powers, give me vigour and health!
And a truce to all sighing and sobbing,
For love is Pat Mulligan's wealth.
Through summer and winter so dreary,
I cheerily toiled on the farm,
Nor ever once dreamed growing weary,
For love gave my labour its charm.
And now, though 'tis weak to be vaunty,
Yet here let us gratefully own,
We live amidst pleasure and plenty,
As happy 's the king on the throne.
I cheerily toiled on the farm,
Nor ever once dreamed growing weary,
For love gave my labour its charm.
And now, though 'tis weak to be vaunty,
Yet here let us gratefully own,
We live amidst pleasure and plenty,
As happy 's the king on the throne.
We 've Murdoch, and Patrick, and Connor,
As fine little lads as you 'll see;
And Kitty, sweet girl, 'pon my honour,
She 's just the dear picture of thee.
Though some folks may still underrate us,
Ah! why should we mind them a fig?
We 've a large swinging field of potatoes,
A good drimindu and a pig.
As fine little lads as you 'll see;
And Kitty, sweet girl, 'pon my honour,
She 's just the dear picture of thee.
Though some folks may still underrate us,
Ah! why should we mind them a fig?
We 've a large swinging field of potatoes,
A good drimindu and a pig.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |