0181m
9182Original
His hair was black, his eye was blue,
His arm was stout, his word was true;
I wish in my heart I was with you.
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! *
Shule, shule, shule agra! **
Only death can ease my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
'Tis oft I sat on my true love's knee,
Many a fond story he told to me,
He told me things that ne'er shall be,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun.
Shule, shule, shule agra!
Only death can ease my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
* Farewell, my darling. ** Come, come, my love!
I sold my rock, * I sold my reel; **
When my flax was spun, I sold my wheel,
To buy my love a sword of steel,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
Shule, shule, shule agra!
Only death can ease my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun.
But when King James was forced to flee,
The Wild Geesef spread their wings to sea,
And bore mabouchal *** far from me,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
Shule, shule, shule agra!
Only death can ease my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
I saw them sail from Brandon Hill,
Then down I sat and cried my fill,
That every tear would turn a mill,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
Shule, shule, shule agra!
Only death can ease my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
*Two parts of Irish spinning wheel.
** Irish Jacobites who joined the French army when the
cause of James II. was lost.
*** My boy.
I wish the King would return to reign,
And bring my true love back again;
I wish, and wish, but I wish in vain,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
Shule, shule, shule agra!
Only death can ease my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
Ill dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red, *
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Till I find my love alive or dead,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!,
Shule, shule, shule agra!
Only death can ease my woe,
Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!
—-Anon. Adapted by A. P. Graves.
The night before Larry was stretched,
The boys they all paid him a visit;
A bit in their sacks too they fetched,
They sweated their duds till they riz it;
* Beggars of those days were required by the law to wear red petticoats.
For Larry was always the lad,
When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,
But he'd fence all the togs that he had
Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,
And moisten his gob 'fore he died.
"'Pon my conscience, dear Larry," says I,
"I'm sorry to see you in trouble,
Your life's cheerful noggin run dry,
And yourself going off like its bubble."
"Hould your tongue in that matter," says he;
"For the neckcloth I don't care a button,
And by this time to-morrow you'll see
Your Larry will be dead as mutton:
All for what?'Kase his courage was good."
The boys they came crowding in fast;
They drew their stools close round about him.
Six glims round his coffin they placed;
He couldn't be well waked without 'em.
I axed if he was fit for to die,
Without having duly repented?
Says Larry, "That's all in my eye,
And all by the clergy invented
To make a fat bit for themselves."
Then the cards being called for, they played,
Till Larry found one of them cheated.
Quick! he made a hard rap at his head,—
The lad being easily heated.
"So ye chates me because I'm in grief;
O, is that, by the Holy, the rason?
Soon I'll give you to know, you d-d thief,
That you're cracking your jokes out of sason,
And scuttle your nob with my fist."
Then in came the priest with his book,
He spoke him so smooth and so civil,
Larry tipped him a Kilmainham look,
And pitched his big wig to the divil.
Then raising a little his head
To get a sweet drop of the bottle,
And pitiful sighing, he said,
"O, the hemp will be soon round my throttle,
And choke my poor windpipe to death!"
So mournful these last words he spoke,
We all vented our tears in a shower;
For my part I thought my heart broke
To see him cut down like a flower.
On his travels we watched him next day -9
O, the hangman, I thought I could kill him!
Not one word did our poor Larry say,
Nor changed till he came to "King William."
Och, my dear, thin his colour turned
white.
When he came to the nubbling chit,
He was tucked up so neat and so pretty;
The rumbler jogged off with his feet,
And he died with his face to the city.
He kicked, too, but that was all pride,
For soon you might see 'twas all over;
And as soon as the noose was untied,
Then at darky we waked him in clover,
And sent him to take a ground sweat.
Come, tell us the name of the rebelly crew,
Who lifted the pike on the Curragh with you
Come, tell us the treason, and then you'll be free,
Or right quickly you'll swing from the high
gallows tree."
''Alarma! Alanna!the shadow of shame
Has never yet fallen upon one of your name,
And oh! may the food from my bosom you
drew,
In your veins turn to poison, ifyouturn untrue.
"The foul words—oh! let them not blacken
your tongue,
That would prove to your friends and your
country a wrong,
Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread,
With the wrath of the Lord—may they fall on
your head!
"I have no one but you in the whole world
wide,
Yet false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand at
my side:
If a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away
From my heart than, if true, you were wrapp'd
in the clay.
"Oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be,
For your falsehood so base, than your death
proud and free,
Dearer, far dearer than ever to me,
My darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree.
"'Tis holy, agra, from the bravest and best—
Go! go! from my heart, and be join'd with
the rest,
Alanna, machree! O Alanita, machree!
Sure a 'stag' * and a traitor you never will be."
There's no look of a traitor upon the young brow
That's raised to the tempters so haughtily now;
No traitor e'er held up the firm head so high—
No traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye.
On the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows
tree!
Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom
met he!
But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair,
As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it
there.
* "Stag," an informer.
To the Lake of Coolfin the companions soon came,
And the first man they met was the keeper of
game:—
"Turn back Willy Leonard, return back again;
There is deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!"
Young Willy plunged in, and he swam the lake
round;
He swam to an island—'twas soft marshy ground:
"O, comrade, dear comrade, do not venture in;
There is deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!"
'Twas early that morning his sister arose;
And up to her mother's bed-chamber she goes:—
"O, I dreamed a sad dream about Willy last
night;
He was dressed in a shroud—in a shroud of
snow-white!"
'Twas early that morning his mother came there;
She was wringing her hands—she was tearing
her hair.
O, woful the hour your dear Willy plunged in:—
There is deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!
And I saw a fair maid, standing fast by the shore;
Her face it was pale—she was weeping full sore;
In deep anguish she gazed where young Willy
plunged in:—
Ah! there's deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!
Old Ballad. Recomposed byP. W. Joyce.
By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'er,
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.
'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,—
Eyes of most unholy blue!
She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heav'n rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.
——T. Moore.
In vain all the knights of the Underwald woo'd
her,
Though brightest of maidens, the proudest
was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels
they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born ladye.
"Whomsoever I wed," said this maid, so
excelling,
"That knight must the conqu'ror of con-
querors be;
He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to
dwell in;—
None else shall be Lord of the high-born
ladye!"
Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking
round her
On knights and on nobles of highest degree,
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipp'd at distance the high-born
ladye.
At length came a knight, from a far land to woo
her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the
sea;
His vizor was down—but, with voice that thrill'd
through her,
He whisper'd his vows to the high-born ladye.
"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to
grace thee;
In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see;
Enthron'd in a hall fit for monarch s I'll place
thee,
And mine thou'st for ever, thou high-born
ladye!"
The maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamed she;
And proud was the step, as her bridegroom
convey'd her
In pomp to his home, of that high-born ladye.
"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have
you led me?
Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress
tree;
Isthisthe bright palace in which thou would'st
wed me?"
With scorn in her glance said the high-born
ladye.
"'Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's
loftiest creatures"—
Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;
But she sunk on the ground—'twas a skeleton's
features,
And Death was the lord of the high-born
ladye!
——T. Moore.
Where Foyle his swelling waters
Rolls northward to the main,
There, queen of Erin's daughters,
Fair Derry fixed her reign;
A holy temple crowned her,?
And commerce graced her street,
A rampart wall was round her,
The river at her feet;
And here she sat alone, boys,
And, looking from the hill,
Vowed the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Should be a Maiden still.
From Antrim crossing over,
In famous eighty-eight,
A plumed and belted lover
Came to the Ferry Gate.
She summoned to defend her
Our sires,—a beardless race,—
They shouted, No surrender!
And slammed it in his face.
Then in a quiet tone, boys,
They told him 'twas their will
That the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Should be a Maiden still.
Next, crushing all before him,
A kingly wooer came;
(The royal banner o'er him
Blushed crimson deep for shame;)
He showed the Pope's commission,
Nor dreamed to be refused;
She pitied his condition,
But begged to stand excused.
In short, the fact is known, boys,
She chased him from the hill,
For the Maiden on the throne, boys,
Would be a Maiden still.
On our brave sires descending,
'Twas then the tempest broke,
Their peaceful dwellings rending,
'Mid blood and flame and smoke.
That hallowed grave-yard yonder,
Swells with the slaughtered dead,—
O brothers, pause and ponder!
It was for us they bled;
And while their gifts we own, boys,
The fane that tops the hill,
O, the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Shall be a Maiden still!
Nor wily tongue shall move us,
Nor tyrant arm affright;
We'll look to One above us,
Who ne'er forsook the right;
Who will may crouch and tender
The birthright of the free,
But, brothers, No surrender,
No compromise for me!
We want no barrier stone, boys,
No gates to guard the hill,
Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Shall be a Maiden still.
——Charlotte Elizabeth (Tonna).
0196m
The bride, she bound her golden hair—
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And her step was light as the breezy air
When it bends the morning flowers so fair,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And oh, but her eyes they danc'd so bright,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's
light,
Her bridal vows of love to plight,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The bridegroom is come with youthful brow,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
To receive from his Eva her virgin vow;
"Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
A cry! a cry!'twas her maidens spoke,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
"Your bride is asleep—she has not awoke,
And the sleep she sleeps will never be broke,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And his cheek became like the marble stone—
"Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The keen is loud, it comes again,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And rises sad from the funeral train,
As in sorrow it winds along the plain,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And oh, but the plumes of white were fair,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
When they flutter'd all mournful in the air
As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
There is a voice that but one can hear,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And it softly pours from behind the bier,
Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The keen is loud, but that voice is low,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And it sings its song of sorrow slow,
And names young Turlough's name with woe,,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,
The fairest corpse among the dead,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The wreaths of virgin-white are laid,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
By virgin hands o'er the spotless maid;
And the flowers are strewn, but they soon
will fade,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Oh! go not yet—not yet away,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Let us feel thatlifeis near our clay,"
The long-departed seem to say,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
But the tramp and voices oflifeare gone,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And beneath each cold forgotten stone,
The mouldering dead sleep all alone,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
But who is he who lingereth yet?
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet,
And his heart in that bridal grave is set,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and
brave,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Should bend him o'er that bridal grave,
And to his death-bound Eva rave,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Weep not—weep not," said a lady fair,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
"Should youth and valour thus despair,
And pour their vows to the empty air?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
There's charmed music upon her tongue,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Such beauty—bright and warm and young—
Was never seen the maids among,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
A laughing light, a tender grace,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Sparkled in beauty around her face,
That grief from mortal heart might chase,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Thy grief or love can ne'er recall;
She rests beneath that grassy pall,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"My heart it strangely cleaves to thee,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And now that thy plighted love is free,
Give its unbroken pledge to me,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy."
The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
His faithless tears are already dry,.
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"To thee," the charmed chief replied,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
"I pledge that love o'er my buried bride!