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158 ' HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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DARBY KELLY.
My grandsire beat a drum so neat,
His name was Darby Kelly, O, No lad so true at rat tat too.
At roll-call or reveille, O. When Marlboro's name first raised his fame.
My granny beat the point of war, At Blenheim be, and Ramillie,
Made ears to tingle far and near, For with his wrist he'd such a twist,
The girls would leer, you don't know how, They laughed and sighed, and Joked and cried,
To hear him beat his row dow dow; With a row dow dow,
They iaughed and sighed, and joked and cried
To hear him, etc. A son he had who, iike his dad,
Was as tight a lad as any, O, You ne'er would know, though you should., go
From Chester to Kilkenny, O. When great Wolf died, his country's pride,
To arms my dapper father beat; Each dale and hill remembered still
How loud, how long, how stout, how neat, With each drumstick he had the trick,
The girls would leer, you don't know how Their eyes would glisten, their ears would listen.
To hear him beat the row dow dow.
Their eyes, etc. Yet, ere I wed, ne'er bo it said
But what I the foe dare meet, With Wellington, old Erin's son,
To help to make them beat retreat; King Arthur once, or I'm a dunce,
Was called the hero of his age, But what was he to him we see,
The Arthur of the modern page? Who, by the powers, from Lisbon's Towers
Their trophies bore to grace his brow, And made them prance, from Spain to France,
With his English, Irish, row dow dow. With his row dow dow,
And made them prance, from Spain to France,
With his English, etc. |
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EILY MAVOURNEEN, THE ROSE OF KILLARNY.
Through Erin's green and bonny Isle,
From Coleraine to Kiilarny's waters, Each lovely haunt hath had its song,
Of gallant sons and charming daughters. But Oh! there is one sunny spot,
To me more dear, more prized than any, Where first in loveliness sprung up
The rose that blossoms in Killarny.
Chorus.—The rose that blossoms in Killarny, blossoms in Killarny, The rose that blossoms in Kiliarny, blossoms in Kliiarny.
I thought when first her eyes met mine,
My peace, my heart, were gone forever; I did not dare to speak of love,
For fear a breath the charm might sever. Her cheeks are like the rose of May.
Her voice hath banished care from many: No thought can wrong my bonny flower,
The rose that blossoms in Killarny.
The rose that blossoms, etc. |
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