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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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THE BARD OF ARMAGH.
Oh, listan to the lay of a poor Irish harper,
And scorn not the strains or his old withered hands. But remember those fingers they once could move shaTB»r
In raising the merry strains of his dear native land; It was long before the shamrock, dear Isle, lovely emblem.
Was crushed In its beauty by the Saxon's Hon paw, And all the pretty colleens around me would gather,
Call me their bold Phellm Brady, the bard of Armagh.
How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,
Though four score and three years have flew by them. It's King's sweet reflection that every young Joy,
For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men. At a fair or a wake I could twist my shlllelah
And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw. There ail the pretty maidens around me would gather,
Call me their bold Phellm Brady, the bard of Armagh.
In truth I have wandered this wide world over.
Yet Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me, And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover
Be cut from the land that is trod by the free; And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace.
And lulls me to sleep with old Erin-go-bragh! By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh, place me.
Then forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh. |
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GARDEN WHERE THE PRATIES GROW.
Have you ever been in love, boys, did you ever feel the pain?
I'd rather be in Jail, I would, than be In love again;
Though the girl I love Is beautiful, I'd have you all to know
That I met her in the garden where the praties grow.
Chorus.—
She was Just the sort of creature that nature did intend To walk about this wide world without a Grecian bend; Nor did she wear a chignon I'd have you all to know That I met her in the garden where the praties grow.
She was singing an old Irish song called Gra gal, Machree. Oh, says I, what a wife she'd make for an Irish boy like me; I was on important business, but I did not like to go To leave the girl or the garden where the praties grow.
Say I: My lovely fair maid, I hope you'll pardon me;
But she wasn't like the city girls that'd say you're making free!
She answered right modestly, and curtsied very low,
Saying: You're welcomed to the garden where the praties grow.
Says I; My lovely darling, I'm tired of singlejife, And, if you have no objection, I'll make you my dear wife. Says she: I'll ask my parents, and to-morrow I'll let you know. If you meet me in the garden where the praties grow.
Now her parents they consented, we're blessed with children Two girls like their mammy, and a boy the image of me; I'll train up the children in the way they should go. But I'll ne'er forget the garden where the praties grow. |
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BONNY IRISH BOY.
His name I love to mention. In Ireland he was born, I loved him very dearly, but alas! from me he's gone; He's gone to America, he promised to send for me, But the face of my bonny Irish boy I can no longer see.
It was in Londonderry, that city of note and fame, Where first my bonny Irish lad a-courtlng to me came, He told me pleasant stories, and said his bride I'd be. But the face of my bonny Irish boy I can no longer *e». |
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