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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS |
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Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise; Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
Thy voice of former days ; Yet, even in sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim In bardic praise, on every hill,
Columbia's glorious name ! |
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THE WHISTLIN' THIEF
WHEN Pat came over the hill, His colleen fair to see, His whistle low, but shrill, The signal was to be.
{Pat whistles.}
" Mary," the mother said,
" Some one is whistling sure." Says Mary, " 'Tis only the wind
Is whistling through the door."
(Pat whistles " Garryowen.")
"I've lived a long time, Mary,
In this wide world, my dear, But a door to whistle like that
I never yet did hear."
"But, mother, you know the fiddle
Hangs close beside the chink, And the wind upon the strings
Is playing the tune, I think." ( The pig grunts.) |
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