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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee; While alone with your cup, • Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone! Widow Machree. And how do you know, with the comforts1 I've towld,
* Och hone! Widow Machree. But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld,
Och hone! Widow Machree. With such sins on your head, Sure your peace would be fled— Could you sleep on your bed,
Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night,
Crying, och hone! Widow Machree. Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,
Och hcne! Widow Machree, And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me, •
Och hone! Widow Machree. You'd have me to desire, And to stir up the Are, And, sure, hope is no liar,
In whispering to me. That the ghosts would depart When you'd be near my heart,
Och hone! Widow Machree. |
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TIPPERARY RECRUITING SONG.
'Tis now we'd want to be wary, boys,
The recruiters are out in Tipperary, boys;
If they offer a glass, we'll wink as we pass—
We're ould birds for chaff in Tipperary, boys.
Then hurrah for the gallant Tipperary, boys,
Although we're "cross and contralry," boys,
The never a one will handle a gun,
Except for the Green and Tipperary boys. .
Now mind what John Bull did here, my boys.
In the days of our famine and fear, my boys:
He burned and sacked, he plundered and racked,
Ould Ireland of Irish to clear, my boys.
Now Bull wants to pillage and rob, my boys,
And put the proceeds in his fob, my boys;
But let each Irish blade Just stick to his trade.
And let Bull do his own dirty job, my boys.
So never to 'list be in haste, my boys,
Or a glass of drugged whiskey to taste, my boys;
If to India you'll go, 'tis to grief and to woe,
And to rot and die like a beast, my boys.
But now he is beat for men, my boys,
His army is getting so thin, my boys,
With the fever and ague, the sword and the plague.
Oh! the devil a fear that he'll win, my boys.
Then mind not the robbing ould schemer, boys,
Though he says that he's richer than Darner, boys,
Though he buily and roar, his power is o'er.
And his black heart will shortly be tamer, boys.
Now isn't Bull peaceful and civil, boys,
In his mortal distress and his evil, boys?
But we'll cock each caubeen when his Serjeants ar« ■»■,
And we'll tell them to go to the devil, boys.
Then hurrah for the gallant Tipperary, boys!
Altho' we're cross and contrairy, boys.
The never a one will handle a gun,
Except for the Green and Tipperary, boys. |
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