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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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'In the County Tipperary, at a place they call Clonmore, Willy Brennan and his comrade that day did suffer sore; He lay amongst the fern, which was thick upon the field, And nine wounds he did receive before that he did yield.
Chorus.—Brennan on the Moor, etc. Then Brennan and his companion, when they were betrayed, They with the mounted cavalry a noble battle made; He lost his foremost finger, which was shot off by a ball. So Brennan and his comrade were taken, after all.
Chorus.—Brennan on the Moor, etc. So they were taken prisoners, in irons they were hound, And conveyed to Clonmel Jail, strong walls did them surround. They were tried and found guilty—the Judge made this reply: "For robbing on the king's highway, you're both condemned to die.1
Chorus.—Brenn'an on the Moor, etc. When Brennan heard his sentence, he made this reply: "I own that I did rob the rich, and did the poor supply; In ail the deeds that I have done I took no life away; The Lord have mercy on my soul against the judgment day."
Chorus.—Brennan on the Moor, etc. "Farewell unto my wife, and to my children three, Likewise my aged father—he may shed tears for me; And to my loving mother"—who tore her gray locks and cried, Saying, "I wish, Willy Brennan. in your cradle you had died."
Chorus.—Brennan on the Moor, etc. |
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BARNEY O'TOOLE.
Oh! be still, Barney, dear, with your jealous complaints, For you know that your darling's as true as the saints; Oh! you'll break the young heart that you won long ago, And that would be murder, dear Barney, you know. Chorus.—Oh! Barney, Barney, Barney, Barney O'Toole,
And taught her to love you so, Barney OToole. It's yourself that would tell me a different tale, With your arms round my waist, in the Dargle's sweet vale. When your own winning tongue made your Norah a fool, And told her to love you so, Barney O'Toole. Chorus.—Oh! Barney, Barney, Barney, Barney O'Toole, I'll be jealous of you, Mr, Barney O'Toole. Oh! you swore that the wild rose which grew o'er my head, And the violets hid in its soft mossy bed, , Where the emblems of innocence, beauty, and truth. And you said, Barney dear, I was fairer than both.
Oh, Barney, etc. Am I different now? that you're always in doubt, With your cruel suspicions of what I'm about; You had better be careful, or by the same rule, I'll be Jealous of you, Mr. Barney O'Toole.
Oh, Barney, etc. Say once more, Barney, darling, the word In my ear, That the girl of your heart is still cherish'd and dear; And believe that your Norah is faithful and true, For she lives for you, Barney, and only for you.
Oh, Barney, etc.
BITRIAI OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. "We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning. |
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