A wee slip drawing water,
The ould man at the plough,
No grown-up son nor daughter,
That’s the way we’re farming now.

“No work and little pleasure”
Was the cry before they wint,
Now they’re getting both full measure,
So I ought to be contint.

Great wages men is giving
In the land beyant the say,
But ’tis lonely — lonely living
Whin the childher is away.

Och the baby in the cradle,
Blue eyes and curling hair,
God knows I’d give a gra’dle
To have little Pether there;

No doubt he’d find it funny
Lying here upon me arm,
Him — that’s earning the good money,
On a Californy farm.

Six pounds it was or sivin
He sint last quarter day,
But ’tis lonely — lonely living
Whin the childher is away

God is good — no better,
And the Divil might be worse,
Each month there comes a letther
Bringing something for the purse.

And the ould man’s heart rejoices
When I read they’re doing fine,
But it’s oh! to hear their voices,
And to feel their hands in mine.

To see the cattle driven’
And the young ones making hay,
’Tis a lonely land to live in
When the childher is away.

Whin the shadows do be falling
On the ould man there an’ me,
’Tis hard to keep from calling
”Come in, childher, to yer tea!’

I can almost hear them coming
Mary, Kate and little Con —
Och! but I’m the foolish woman,
Sure they’re all grown up an’ gone.

That our sins may be forgiven,
An’ not wan go asthray,
I doubt I’d stay in Heaven
If them childher was away.

Oh, the sons of the Prophet are hardy and grim
And quite unaccustomed to fear;
But none were so reckless of life or of limb
As Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.

When they wanted a man to encourage- the van
Or to harrass the foe in the rear,
Or take a redoubt they would always send out
For Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.

There are heroes in plenty, and well known to fame
In the ranks that were led by the Czar;
But the bravest of all was a man by the name
Or Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.

He could imitate Toole, play Euchre and Pool
And perform on the Spanish guitar,
In fact quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.

One morning the Russian had shouldered his gun
And assumed his most truculent sneer;
And was walking down town when he happened to run
Into Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.

“Young man,” says Bulbul, Can your life be so dull
“That you’re anxious to end your career?
“For infidel, know — you have trod on the toe
“Of Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.”

“Take your ultimate look upon sunshine and brook,
“Make your latest remarks on the war;
“Which I mean to imply that you’re going to die
“Mr. Count-Cask-O-Whisky Cigar”.

Said the Russian, “My friend, my remarks in the end
”Would avail you but little, I fear,
”For you’ll never survive to repeat them alive
”Mr. Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.”

Then the bold Mameluke drew his trusty chiboque
And shouted “Il Allah Akbar”
And being intent upon slaughter, he went
For Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.

But just as his knife had abstracted his life
(In fact he was shouting “’Huzza !”)
He felt himself struck by that subtle Calmuck
Count Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.

The Consul drove up in a red-crested fly
To give the survivor a cheer,
He arrived just in time to exchange a goodbye
With Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.

And Skobelef, Gourko and Gorschekoff too.
Drove up in the Emperor’s car
But all they could do was cry “och-whilliloo”
With Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.

There’s a grave where the waves of the Blue Danube roll,
And on it in characters clear
Is: “Stranger, remember to pray for the soul
Of Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.”

A Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keep
By the light of the true lover’s star
And the name that she murmurs so sadly in sleep
Is Ivan Spotschjinski Skidar.

When Donegan came from the States,
Himself and his daughter were seen
Parading the principal streets
Of beautiful Ballyporeen.
Her cheeks were as red as a rose,
Her hair was a beautiful brown;
And the lads I suppose,
Were as thick now as crows,
All tied to the heel of her gown.

CHORUS:
There were short men and long men,
And weak men and strong men,
And right men and wrong men
Were all to be seen.
But Donegan’s daughter
From over the water
She gave them no quarter
In Ballyporeen.

She sang the most beautiful songs,
Of the words we had never a hint,
For her fingers went hammer and tongs
In a running accompaniment.
Like a dog running after a rat,
Such scrimmaging never was heard
Then down went her claws,
like a murdering cat
When it leps on the back of a bird.

CHORUS:
At every party
She sang them all forte,
From “Ah Che la morte”
To “Wearing the Green”.
Oh! Donegan’s daughter
From over the water,
’Twas little they taught her
In Ballyporeen.

The Geraghtys gave a grand ball,
The girls were all ribbons and tape.
But Miss Donegan bested them all
With her perfectly wonderful shape;
And when she was taking the floor
With a high-stepping bachelor boy,
The rest of us scowled
In the doorway and growled
That ’twas him we would surely destroy.

CHORUS:
There was kissing and squeezing,
And coaxing and teasing;
And sure there’s no reason
Such things should be seen.
But Donegan’s daughter
From over the water,
’Twas she made the slaughter
In Ballyporeen.

Coming home we were crossing a stream,
I thought to beleaguer the belle, ..
A struggle, a kiss, and a scream
And into the water we fell.
To me that can swim like a trout.
It was only a trifling reverse,
But when she came out,
’Faith there wasn’t, much doubt
She was changed very much for the worse.

CHORUS:
She’d hair like a nigger,
She’d no sort of figure;
Her waist and her wig were
No more to be seen.
Oh! Donegan’s daughter
From under the water,
Two pins would have bought her
In Ballyporeen.

I’ve been to a great many places,
And wonderful sights I’ve seen
From Agernavoe to Ballinasloe
And back to Ballyporeen.
But when they talk of the town that
Over the ocean lie
When they say to me Pat,
What do you think of that.
I up and says, says I -

CHORUS:
“I suppose you’ve not been to Drumcolliher?
Ye haven’t? Well now I declare,
You must wait till you’ve been to Drumcolliher
And see the fine place we have there.
There’s only one street in Drumcolliher,
But then ’tis a glory to see:
Ye may talk till you’re dumb, but give me old Drum,
For Drum is the place for me.”

They tell me there’s Isles of the Ocean
By India’s golden shore,

Where life all day long is a beautiful song,
With flowers and fruits galore;
They tell me the sun does be shining,
With never a cloud in the sky —
But when they have done with their clouds and their sun
I up and I says, says I -

CHORUS

”I was over in London quite lately,
I gave King Edward a call;
Says the butler, “He’s out, he isn’t about,
An’ I don’t see his hat in the hall;
But if you would like to look round, sir,
I think you will have to say,
Apartments like these are not what one sees
In your country every day.”

CHORUS

McBreen had two daughters, and each one in turn
Was offered in marriage to Jamesy O’Burn.
Now Kitty was pretty but Jane she was plain,
So to make up the differ, McBreen would explain.
He’d give the best heifer he had on the land,
As a sort of a bonus with Jane, understand.
But then Kitty would charrum a bird off a bush,
And that left the lad in a horrid non-plush.

CHORUS:
Now there’s no denying Kitty was remarkably pretty,
Tho’ I can’t say the same for Jane,
But still there’s not the differ of the price of a heifer,
Between the pretty and the plain.

Entirely bothered was Jamsey O’Burn,
He thought that he’d give the schoolmaster a turn.
Sez he “to wed Kitty is very good fun,
Still a heifer’s a heifer when all’s said an’ done.

A girl she might lose her good looks anyhow,
And a heifer might grow to an elegant cow.
But still there’s no price for the stock, d’ye mind,
And Jane has a face that the Divil designed.”

CHORUS

The schoolmaster said, with a good deal of sinse,
”We’ll reduce the two girls to shillings an’ pence;
Add the price of the heifer, then Jane, I’ll be bound,
Will come out on top by a couple o’ pound.
But still I’m forgetting that down in Glengall,
The stock is just going for nothing at all.”
So Jim thought he’d wait till the end of the year,
Till girls might be cheaper or stock might be dear.

“Father O’Callaghan”

Father Cornelius O’Callaghan,
To most of us Father Con —
To all of us quite the kindliest man,
That ever the sun shone on.
I mind me when I was a bit of a lad,
He stood with me out in the cold
While I told him a curious dream I had,
Of finding acrock of gold.

O Father O’Callaghan!
When will the dream come true?
O Father O’Callaghan
If anyone knows ’tis you!
And Father O’Callaghan sthrok’d me pate,
Sez he, “The story is old-
Everyone that can work and wait
Will find his crock of gold

Rosie Mulvany was bright as a bird,
I lov’d her, she didn’t object,
But somehow I never could bring out the word,
That Rose had a right to expect.
I’d dream of her nightly, I’d dream she said “Yes,”
Be daylight me courage was gone,
I was wore to a shadow, so in my distress,
I went and I saw Father Con.

O Father O’Callaghan,
Will the dream come true?
O Father O’Callaghan,
What is a boy to do?
And Father O’Callaghan said, “See here,
You must call in your Sunday clothes.
Say to her this, `Will you marry me dear?’
You can leave the rest to Rose.”

We talk’d one night of the glorious days,
When Ireland led the van,
With scholars as thick as the stars in the sky
And work for every man.
“Twill come again,” said Father Con,
And his fertile fancy paints
The glorious day when the sun shines on
A new Isle of Saints.

O Father O’Callaghan
When will the dream come true?
O Father O’Callaghan
If anyone knows, ’tis you.
And Father O’Callaghan raised his head,
And smil’d his humorsome smile,
”When ev’ry man learns to rule himself
’Twill then be a saintly isle.”

Father O’Callaghan’s dead and gone,
This many and many a day -
But we haven’t forgot you Father Con,
And it keeps us from going astray.
And so at the last great earthquake shock,
When the trumpet’s sounding clear,
He’ll guide to their God the faithful flock,
That knew him and loved him here.

O Father O’Callaghan
When will the dream come true?
O Father O’Callaghan
If anyone knows ’tis you!
And Father O’Callaghan says no word,
For he’s sleeping softly yet,
And when the Archangel’s voice is heard,
We know that we wont forget.

“Is this the road to Ballybay?”
Sez I to Miss Magee;
“You’re leaving it behind you,’
Sez Maryanne to me.
So I turned and walked beside her,
And ’tis only fair to say
It was very pleasant walking
On the road to Ballybay.

Ballybay, Ballybay,
’Twas a dark and winthry day,
But the sun was surely shining
On the road to Ballybay.

“Is this the road to fame and wealth?”
Sez I to Miss Magee;
“Ye’ve got the brains, ye’ve got the health,” .
Sez Maryanne to me.
“But still I want a comrade
To praise me an’ to, blame,
An’ keep me from the traps that’s laid
Upon the road to fame.”

Ballybay, Ballybay,
No man could go asthray
With a guide like her beside him
On the road to Ballybay.
Is this the road to paradise
Says I to Miss Magee
I’m thinking that it might be
Says Maryanne to me,
O’h I saw the love light leppin
In a pair of roguish eyes
And I knew we two were steppin
On the road to paradise

Ballybay, Ballybay the birds are far away
But our hearts they sang together
On the road to Ballybay.

“They have sent for fresh artillery,
The guns are on the way,
God help our hapless Limerick
When dawns another day.”
Thus speaks the gallant Sarsfield,
As sadly he recalls
The famine and despair that lurk
Behind these crumbling walls.

“And yet one blow for freedom —
One daring midnight ride!
And William may be humbled yet,
For all his power and pride!
“Go! Bring to me `The Galloper,’
To Highway Hogan say
’Tis Ireland has need of him,
And him alone to-day!”

The Soldier and the Highwayman
Are standing face to face,
The fearless front, the eagle eye,
In both of them we trace.
“Hogan! the night is dark and drear,
Say, canst thou lead the way
To Keeper Mountaings black ravines
Ere dawn another day?”

“Can the eagle find his eyrie?
Can the fox forget his den?
I can lead ye as none other
Of the Slievecamatha men.
The black mare knows it blindfold,
It’s not by stars she’ll steer,
Ye’ll be to-night on the Keeper’s height —
And the dawn will find ye here.

“Lead on!” and well, he led them,
Though the Shannon ford;ran deep,
And though the white-lipped flood ran deep,
Around O’Brien’s Keep.
The sentinel on Killaloe;
Looked out, but failed to see
Five huncred silent horsemen ride
Behind the rapparee.

That night by Balleneety’s towers
The English gunners lay.
“King William’s Camp and safety lies
But twelve “short miles away.
What need of further caution?
What Irish wolf would dare
To prowl around our camp to-night,
So near the lion’s lair?”

An Irish wolf is near them now,
And Irish ears have heard
The chosen watchword for the night,
And “Sarsfield” was the word.
A tramp’ of horse — “Who’s’ there?’”
The word! “Sarsfield!” the answer ran
And then the sword smote downwards,
”Ay, and Sarsfield is the man!”

“To arms! the foe!” Too late, too late,
Though Villiers’ vengeful — blade
Is wet with Hogan’s life blood;
As he leads the ambuscade.
Then. foot to foot, and hand to hand.,
They battle round the guns,
Till victory declares itself
For Erings daring sons.

“Oh for those guns in Limerick now
Placed on the city walls!
We’d bid King William breakfast
On his own black cannon balls!
It may not be — but trebly charged,
And filled with shot. and shell,
They’ll toll the robber’s requiem,
And sound the soldier’s knell.”

Oh, sudden flash of blinding light!
Oh, hollow-sounding roar!
Down history’s pages in Irish ears
It echoes evermore.
And Balleneety’s blackened tower
Still marks the famous place .
Where Sarsfield staked his all to win,
And won that midnight race!

I’ve a little racing mare called Sweet Marie;
And the temper of a bear has Sweet Marie.
But I’ve backed the mare to win, and on her I’ve all my tin,
So we’ll take a trial spin, Sweet Marie.
Hould your hoult, Sweet Marie,
If you bolt, Sweet Marie,
Sure, you’ll never win the Farmer’s Cup for me;
And if YOU don’t pull it through, faith, I’m done, and so are you
For I’ll trade you off for glue Sweet Marie.

Now, the colours that I chose for Sweet Marie
Were lavender and rose for Sweet Marie,
Och, but now, no thanks to you, sure I’m quite another hue,
For I’m only black and blue, Sweet Marie.

Hould your hoult, Sweet Marie,
If you bolt, Sweet Marie
Sure you’ll never win the Farmers’ Cup for me,
Every daisy in the dell ought to know me mighty well,
For on every one I fell, Sweet Marie.

Now we’re started for the Cup, Sweet Marie,
Weight for age and owners up, my Sweet Marie.
Owners up just now I own, but the way you’re waltzing roun’
Sure, ’twill soon be owners down, Sweet Marie.
Hould your hoult, Sweet Marie:
Pass the colt, Sweet Marie.
Och, you’re gone and lost the farmers cup for me
You’re a slayer too, I find but you’r not the proper kindthe
For you stay loo far behind, Sweet Miuriee

Have the faries all departed
And left me broken-hearted,
To mourn the little creatures
We loved so long ago?

Ah! most of them have vanished
But there’s one that isn’t banished
For I met her as I wandered
In the Valley of Dunloe.

I had stopped a while to render
In its glory all the splendour
Of the great sun slowly rising, a
And the morning mists aglow,

And the rocks that rose before me,
And the tree tops bending o’er me,
Standing black against the sunshine
That was sweeping down Dunloe.

I put in trees and grasses,
And the summer cloud that passes,
O’er the mountain and its shadow
In the valley far below.

But what chalk could tell the story,
The glamour and the glory
When those golden gleams had flooded
All the Valley of Dunloe,

THE FOUR FARRELLYS
In a small hotel in London I was sitting down to dine.
When the waiter brought the register and asked me if I’d sign.
And as I signed I saw a name that set my heart astir —
A certain “Francis Farrelly” had signed the register
I knew a lot of Farrellys and out of all the crew
I kept on “sort of wondering “ which Farrelly were you.
And when I’d finished dinner I sat back in my chair,
Going round my native land to find, what Farelly you were.

SOUTH
Were you the keen-eyed Kerryman I met below Kenmare,
Who told me that when Ireland fought “the odds were never fair?”
If Cromwell had met Sarsfield, or Owen Roe O’Neill,
It’s not to Misther Gladstone we’d be looking for repeal.
Would have Ireland for the Irish, not a Saxon to be seen,
And only Gaelic spoken in that House in College Green.
Told me landlords wor the Divil! their agints ten times worst,
And iv’ry sort of government for Ireland was a curse!
Oh! if you’re that Francis Farrelly, your dreams have not come true,
Still, Slainthe! Slainthe! Fransheen! for I like a man like you!

NORTH
Or were you the Francis Farrelly that often used to say
He’d like to blow them Papishes from Derry walls away?
The boy who used to bother me that Orange Lodge to join,
And thought that history started with the Battle o’ the Boyne —
I was not all with ye, Francis, the Pope is not ma friend,
But still I hope, poor man, he’ll die without that bloody end. —
And when yer quit for care yerself, and get to Kingdom Come,
It’s not use teaching you the harp — you’ll play the Orange drum!
Och! man, ye wor a fighter, of that I had no doubt.
For I see ye in Belfast one night when the Antrim Road was out!
And many a time that evening I thought that ye wor dead,
The way them Papish paving stones was hopping off yer head.

Oh! if you’re the Francis Farrelly who came from North Tyrone —
Here’s looking to ye, Francis, but do leave the Pope alone!

EAST
Or were you the Francis Farrelly that in my college days
For strollin on the Kingstown Pier had such a curious craze?
D’y mind them lovely sisters — the blonde and the brunette?
I know I’ve not forgotten, and I don’t think you forget!
That picnic at the Dargle —’ and the others at the Scalp —
How my heart was palpitating — hers wasn’t — not a palp!
Someone said ye married money — any maybe ye were wise,
But the gold you loved was in her hair, and the d’monds in her eyes!
So I like to think ye married her and that you’re with her yet,
’Twas some “meleesha” officer that married the brunette;
But the blonde one always loved ye, and I knew you loved her too,
So me blessings on ye, Francis, and the blue sky over you!


WEST
Or were you the Francis Farrelly I met so long ago,
In the bog below Belmullet, in the County of Mayo?
That long-legged, freckled Francis with the deep-set, wistful eyes,
That seemed to take their colour from those ever-changing skies,
That put his flute together as I sketched the distant scene,
And played me “Planxy Kelly” and the “Wakes of Inniskeen.”
That told me in the Autumn he’d be Bailing to the West
To try and make his fortune and send money to the rest.
And would I draw a picture of the place where he was born,
And he’d hang it up, and look at it, and not feel so forlorn.
And when I had it finished, you got up from where you sat,
And you said, “Well, you’re the Divil, and I can’t say more than that.”
Oh’ if you’re that Francis Farrelly, your fortune may be small,
But I’m thinking — thinking —Francis, that I love you best of all;
And I never can forget you — though it’s years and years ago —
In the bog below Belmullet, in the County of Mayo.

“Slattery’s Mounted Foot”

You’ve heard o’ Julius Caesar, and the great Napoleon too,
An’ how the Cork Militia beat the Turks at Waterloo;
But there’s a page of glory that, as yet, remains uncut,
An’ that’s the martial story o’ the Slattery’s Mounted Fut.

This gallant corps was organised by Slattery’s eldest son,
A single-minded poacher, with a double-breasted gun;
An’ many a head was opened, aye, and many an eye was shut,
Whin practising manoeuvres in the Slattery’s Mounted Fut.

CHORUS:
And down from the mountains came the squadrons and platoons,
Four-and-twenty fighting men, and a couple of stout gossoons,
And when we marched behind the band to patriotic tunes,
We felt that fame would gild the name of Slattery’s Light Dragoons.

Well, first we reconnoitered round O’Sullivan’s Shebeen -
It used to be the shop house, but we call it the canteen:
And there we saw a notice which the bravest heart unnerved —
“All liquor must be settled for before the drink is served.”

So on we marched, but soon again each warrior’s heart grew pale,
For rising high in front o’ us we saw the County Jail;
And when the army faced about, ’twas just in time to find
A couple o’ policemen had surrounded us behind.

CHORUS:
Still, from the mountains came the squadrons and platoons,
Four-and-twenty fighting men, and a couple o’ stout gossoons,
Says Slattery, “We must circumvent those bludgeoning bostoons,
Or else it sames they’ll take the names of Slattery’s Light Dragoons.”

So on we marched, but soon again each warrior’s heart grew pale,
For rising high in front of us we saw the county jail;
And when the army faced about, ’twas just in time to find,
A couple of stout policemen had surrounded us behind.

“We’ll cross the ditch,” our leader cried, ׆and take the foe in flank”;
But yells of consternation then arose from every rank;
For posted high upon a tree we very plainly saw:
“Trespassers prosecuted, in accordance with the law”.

“We’re foiled again!” said Slattery, “here ends our bold campaign,
’Tis merely throwing life away to face that raging drain;
I’m not as bold as lions but I’m braver nor the hen,
And he that fights and runs away will live to fight again.”

CHORUS
So back to the mountains went the squadrons and platoons,
Four-and-twenty fighting men and a couple of stout gossoons.
When going into action held each musket by the butt,
We sang this song and marched along with Slattery’s mounted Fut.

We reached the mountains safely, though all stiff and sore with cramp.
Each took a whet of whiskey nate to dissipate the damp;
And when they loaded all their pipes, bold Slattery ups and said:
“Today’s immortal fight will be remembered by the dead.”

“I never shall forget,’ says he, “while this brave heart shall beat,
The eager way you followed when I headed the retreat.
Ye preferred the soldier’s maxim, when desisting from the strife:
‘Best be a coward for five minutes than a dead man all your life.’”

CHORUS:
So there in the mountains lay the squadrons and platoons
Four and twenty fighting men and a couple of stout gossoons
’They’ll never again go marching out to patriotic tunes,
Though all the same they sing the fame of Slattery’s Light Dragoon.

Let newer nations fill the stage,
And vaunt them to the sky:
The Gael has still a heritage
That gold can never buy;
The mountains may be bleak and bare,
Forlorn the country side,
But great Cuchulainn battled there
And “Red Branch” heroes died.
And as of old, our headlands bold
Still front the raging sea,
So may our band united stand,
As fearless and as free.

I hear the lays of other days
In martial numbers flow,
King Death’s the only sword that stays
The march of Owen Roe.
At Fontenoy the breezes bore
The war cry of the Gael,

Oh Larry Mick McGarry,
was a torment in the town,
A lad, a woman glad o’
Rut a man would like to drown;
With a smile he would beguile away
A girl from her boy,
An’ before he got a mile away
He tired of his toy.

CHORUS:-
Titheryah the doodle ah
No marrying for me!
Titheryah the doodle ah
As far as I can see.
Bright by the candle light
An’ pouring out the tea;
But yer glad ye lidn’t ax her
in the morning.

Oh, Larry played , old Harry;
With the girls about the place.
At the dancing they’d be glancing
At the features: of his face.
But he never would endeavour
To be lover-like until —
Mary Carey, she’s a fairy,
Had him going like a mill.

CHORUS:
Titheryah the ’doodle ah .
He met her in the street,
Titheryah the doodle ah
Sez he, “Yer looking sweet, .:.
A walk and a talk wid ye’
I think would be a treat.
But all he got from Mary was
“Good Morning”.

The dancing down at Clancy’s
Brought in all the neighbourhood,
Though the roof wasn’t waterproof,
The floor was fairly good,
An’ Larry Mick McGarry
He could handle well the leg,
But mary light and airy,
Oh, she took him down a peg.

CHORUS:
Titheryah the, doodle ah
She footed it with Flynn
Titheryah the doodle ah
An’ all the other min. ..;
But Larry Mick McGarry
Oh! he hadn’t a look in
Faith he had to go and find her.’
In the morning.

Oh, she taught him till she brought
Up to where she had designed.
Sez Larry, “Will ye marry me!”
Siz she, “I wouldn’t mind”.
He kissed her an’ carrissed her
Which is quite the proper .thing
Then together,: hell for leather,
They were off to buy a ring.

CHORUS:
Titheryah the doodle ah
“No marrin” sez you.
Titheryah the doodle ah
Ye may escape the ’flu.
Wait till you meet yer mate
An’ all there is to do
Is to go and buy the licence In the morning.

When we’re children at our lessons, it is beautiful to think
Of the good time that i’s coming later on;
When we’ve done with silly copybooks “and ’horrid pens and ink,
What a lovely time is coming later on!
The rivers of New Zealand, the mountains of Peru,
The watersheds of Europe, and the tribes of Timbuctoo,
All the facts without the fancies, all the tiresome and true,
Will be nowhere in that lovely later on.

We’ll forget the foolish fables that were written by Fontaine,
In the pleasant time that’s coming later on;
At those twelve times twenty ’tables we will never look again,
In the lazy time that’s coming later on;
The date of Magna Carta, the plot they called “the Rye,”
The counties that are bounded by the Humber and the Wye,
We may not quite forget them, but we mean to have a try
In the lazy time that’s coming later on.

Oh, my optimistic hero, there are lessons you must learn,
In the queer time that is coming later on;
And the masters and examiners you’ll find at every turn,
In the hard times that are coming later on.
Miss Fortune is a governess who’ll teach you many things,
A tutor called Experience will moderate your flings,
You’ll learn how men make money, and you’ll learn that it has wings
In the strange times that are coming later on.

Then you’ll meet the radiant vision who is all the world to you (You’ll attend her mother’s lectures later on);
You’ll learn that what’s enough for one is not enough for two,
Nor enough for half-a-dozen later on.
No, the work is never ended, though for holidays you crave,
There are pop-guns to be mended for the Robbers in the Cave.
You fancy you’re the master, but you find that you’re a slave
To a curly-headed tyrant later on.

And so through all your lifetime you are longing for the day,
The lovely day that’s coming later on;
When pens and ink and copybooks will all be laid away,
And that day is surely coming later on.
For when you’re really tired, having done your level best,
When the story’s nearly ended, and the sun sets in the West,
Then you’ll lie down very gently, and the weary will find rest,
And I fancy we’ll deserve it — later on.

Later on, later on,
Oh what many friends have gone,
Sweet lips that smiled and loving eyes that shone
Through the darkness into light,
One by one they’ve winged their flight
And perhaps we’ll play together —later on.

I’ve a nice slated house and, a cow or two at grass,
I’ve a plant garden running by ,the door;
I’ve a shelter for the hens and a stable for the ass,
And what: can a man want more.
I dunno; maybe so,
And a bachelor is easy and he’s free,
But I’ve plenty to look after,
And I’m living all alone,
And there’s no one looking after me.

Me father often tells me I should go and have a try,
To get a girl that owns a bit of land;
I know the way he says it that there’s someone in his eye
And me mother has the whole thing planned;
I dunno, maybe so,

And ’twould mellify them greatly to agree,
But there’s little Brigid Flynn,
“Sure its her I want to win,
Though she never throws an eye on me.

Oh! There’s a little girl who is worth her weight in gold,
An’ that’s a dacent dowry don’t you see;
And I mean to go and ax her as soon as I get bold,
If she’ll come and have an eye to me.
I dunno — will she go,
But I’d like to have her sitting on me knee,
And I’d sing like a thrush,
On a hawthorn bush
If she’ll come and have an eye to me.

We were sitting on the wall upon a Sunday
To watch the girls go by,
And thinking we’d be marrit to one one day,
When Kate Flynn caught our eye.
Oh, man! she was the makings of a fairy,
And it made each boyo swear,
“There’s not one girl in the wide, wide world
Like the girl from the County Clare!”

CHORUS:
And ev’ry man had got the finest plan
You ever see now — barring me now,
Ev’ry day there’s one of them would say
That she’ll agreed now — you’ll see now;
All night they’d fight,
As to which o’ them was right,
In the colour of her eyes and hair,
But not a word from me was ever heard,
About the darling girl from Clare!

Says Casey: “Tis the father I’ll be plazing,
I’ll tell him of the land I’ve tilled,
I’ll tell him of the cattle I have grazing
And the house I mean to build;
And whin he sees the arable’ and `pasture’
And the fat stock feeding there,
An’ the hens an’ the chickens,
Ye may go to the dickens
For the girl from the County Clare.”

CHORUS:
So every man had got the finest plan
Ye ever see now— barring me now,
Ev’ry day there’s one of them would say
That she’ll agree now —you’ll see now.
Says I to meself
Though I haven’t got the pelf,
Of brass I’ve got my share,
And so I know the way they ought to go
About the darling girl from Clare.”

Says Sweeney,”she’ll be coming to the shop here
To buy some sort of thing,
I’ll ax her if she has a mind to stop there,
And should I buy the ring:

An’ whin she sees the curtains on the windas,
An’ the clock on the stair
Keeping time to the minit,
No one else will be in it
With the darling girl from Clare!”

CHORUS:
So every man had got the finest plan
Ye ever see now — barring me now,
Ev’ry day there’s one of them would say,
That she’ll agree now — you’ll see now;
Thinks I “ye may stop
Till yer dead in yer shop,
An’ not a hair she’ll care, Wid all yer gold
Yell never hold a hold
Upon the darling girl from Clare.”

I never said a single word about her,
But I met the girl that day,
I told her I could never live widout her,
An’ what had she to say?
She said that I might go and see her father:
I met him then and there,
An’ in less than an hour
We war fighting for the dower
Of the darling girl from Clare!

CHORUS:
So ev’ry man had got the finest plan
Ye ever see now — barring me now,
Ev’ry day there’s one of them would say
That she’ll agree now — you’ll see now;
But late last night
When the moon was bright
I axed her if she’d share
Me joy an’ me sorra’ -
An’ begorra! on to-morro’
I’ll be married to the girl from Clare!

Eileen Oge! an that the darlings name is,
Through the Barony her features they were famous;
If we loved her who was there to blame us,
For wasn’t she the Pride of Petravore?

But her beauty made us all so shy,
Not a man could look her in the eye,
Boys, O boys! sure that’s the reason why
We’re mourning for the Pride of Petravore.

Eileen Oge! me heart is growing grey
Ever since the day you wandered far away;
Eileen Oge! there’s good fish in the say,
But there’s no one like the Pride of Petravore.

Friday at the fair of Ballintubber,
Eileen met McGrath the cattle jobber,
I’d like to set me mark upon the robber,
For he stole away the Pride of Petravore.

He never seem’d to see the girl at all,
Even when she ogled him underneath her shawl,
Looking big and masterful when she was looking small,
Most provoking for the Pride of Petravore.

So it went as it was in the beginning,
Eileen Oge was bent upon the winning;
Big McGrath contentedly was grinning,
Being courted by the Pride of Petravore.

Sez he, “I know a girl that could knock you into fits.”
At that Eileen nearly lost her wits,
The upshot of the ruction was that now the robber sits
With his arm around the Pride of Petravore.

Boys, O Boys! with fate ’tis hard to grapple,
Of my eye ’tis Eileen was the apple,
And now to see her walking to the Chapel
Wid the hardest featured man in Petravore.

Now boys this is all I have to say;
When you do your courting make no display,
If you want them to run after you just walk the

You’ve not seen Rafferty round this way?
He’s a man with a broken hat,
His tie and his collar are all gone astray
And his coat for the matter o’ that!
We’re racing Rafferty round the place
Since Rafferty raced his mare,
He’s a man with an anxious look on his face
And a partially murdered air!

CHORUS:
Oh! Rafferty’s racing mare
We met him at the fair,
Says he: “She’ll win, so keep your tin,
For backing the racing mare.”
We thanked him then and there,
And every lad in Ballinafad
Went backing the racing mare.

I was the jockey they chose to ride -
And often the owner he sware
That there wasn’t a leap in the world too wide
To baffle the racing mare.
Over hurdle and ditch she went like a witch,
Till she came where the water shone
I gave her her head, but she stopped at it dead:
She stopped — and I went on!

CHORUS:
Oh! Rafferty’s racing mare
I whirtled through the air
Like a beautiful bird, but never a word
From Rafferty’s racing mare!
Oh! Rafferty’s racing mare -
The boys cried out “take care!”
I took all I could, but it wasn’t much good
To me or the racing mare.

“Get up, you lad,” says Ballinafad,
”You’ll win the race for us yet.”
But I didn’t care for the look of the mare,
Nor the way that her legs were set.
Says they: “The horse’ll stay the course,
She’ll stay it — ivery foot.”
”You’re right,” says I — “I don’t deny
She’ll stay just where she’s put.”

CHORUS:
Oh! Rafferty’s racing mare!
We danced around her there,
With stones and sticks, and bits o’ bricks
We hit her fare and square.
Oh! Rafferty’s racing mare!
The field they leapt it there,
But on the brink she’d stand and — drink,
Would Rafferty’s racing mare.

But where was Rafferty all the time?
Oh! Rafferty! he’s the lad.
There in the ring — he stood like a king,
Cheering the mare like mad.
His brother was there, disguised, of course,
As a Roosian millionaire;
Giving the odds against every horse
And the longest against the mare.

CHORUS:
Oh! Rafferty’s racing mare!
’Twas more than we could bear,
When a bookie revealed
he was backing the field,
Instead of the racing mare.
We’ve got the day to spare,
We’ve got the millionaire;
And we’re having a race around the place,
And Rafferty — he’s the hare!

Oh! Whistlin Phil McHugh,
Has come over from Bunlaghy,
An we don’t know what’s come to
Little Mary Ann Mulcahy,
For ever since the day
That Phil he came a whistling,
She stands in the doorway
An’ she’s waiting an’ she’s lishning.

Oh ! Mary you’re contrary
Come in and shut., the door;
Phil’s a rover, sure ’tis over,
And he’ll not come back, asthore.
But she’s lishnitf for the whistling
And she’s waiting by the shore,
For that arrun warrum
Round her waist once more.

There’s Thady of the Cows,
Sure you know “Ten-acre Thady,”
Wid his fine new slated house
He’d make her quite a lady.
But Thady needn’t stay,
And there’s no use his inthraging.
For her heart is far away
’Tis wid Phil McHugh stravaging.

There’s Danny Michael Dan,
Who is six fut in his stockings,
A very proper man,
But she never heeds his knockings.

She’ll keep him standing there
For three quarthers of a minit,
But she’s racing like a hare
When she thinks that Phil is in it.

’Tis wisdom’s golden rule
I do teach her till I tire,
That every girl’s a fool,
Ay, and every man’s a liar.
What’s that you say you hear,
What’s set you all a thrimbly? ’
Tis but the wind, I fear,
That is whistling down the chimbly.

Oh! Mary you’re contrary,
Come in and bar the door;
What’s that scuffling?
Phil, you ruffian!
Sure I knew he’d come, asthore.
She’s been setting there and frettin
But now her grievings o’er;
And the singing will be ringing
In her heart once more!

Now Gibbon has told the story of old,
Of the Fall of the Roman Empire,
But I would recall the rise an’ the fall
Of a man of the name of McGuire.
he came to our town as a man of renown,
And peace was, he said, his desire,
Still he’d frequently state what would be the sad fate
Of the man who molested McGuire.

Well, we all were afraid of this quarrelsome blade,
An’ we told him to draw near the fire,
An’ laughed at his jest, tho’ it wasn’t the best,
An’ swore there’s no man like McGuire.
An’ when he came up with the neighbours to sup,
His friendliness all would admire
And he’d have the best bed, for we’d sleep in the shed,
for fear of insulting McGuire.

But Macgilligan’s Dan — who’s a rale fighting man,
Said: “Of all this tall talkin I tire,
I’ll step in an see whyever should he
Be called always Fighting McGuire,
I’ll step in and say, in a casual way,
That I think he’s a thief an’ a liar.
Then I’ll hit him a clout, and unless I misdoubt,
That’s a way of insulting McGuire.”

All round de moon clouds are hanging high an’ hazy;
On de lagoon moonbeams are lying lazy.
Dat’s when dis coon’s g’wine to meet ma Maisie,
An’ I’m singing de same old song.
It’s not about ma Dinah ’way down in Carolina,
Ma latest love is finer, dan any flow’r dat blows.
In fact, she dont remind me of gals I’ve left behind me,
For true love’s chains dey bind me to Oklahoma’s Rose.

CHORUS:
She can trip like moonbeams on de water;
Ev’ry step dis colour’d coon he taught her.
Just one clip around her waist I caught her
When de band play’d “Mumbling Most”.
She’s ma rose, ma lily an’ ma daisy;
Where she goes the coloured coons go crazy.
All I knows is ma Aminta Maisie

All through de day she keeps looking down demurely, ’
Much as to say, “I can’t be a woman surely!
I still can play with ma doll securely,
For dis ain’t de time to spoon.”
But when de sun am sinkin her eyes begin a winking
An den I know she’s thinking of dis yer coloured coon.
Oh! ain’t I glad I found her. In love chains I have bound her.
Her face is rather ’rounder — it’s rounder dan de moon.
[CHORUS]
She hears me call an she comes a-creeping, creeping.,
Over de wall she see me leaping, leaping, leapn’,
Big folks an’ small quietly are sleeping,
When I meet ma lily belle.
Up an’ down de ladder I’m slipping like a shadder,
No one could be gladder dan me, I don’’.t suppose.
I’m coaxing her an’ teasing, I’m kissing her,and squeezing,
It seems to me it’s pleasing to Oklahoma’s Rose.