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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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Lord Clare on the field of Ramilies is charging:, Betore him the Sassanach squadrons enlarging, Behind him the Cravats their sections display, Behind him rides Fergus and shouts for Finaa. In the cloisters of Ypres a. banner is swaying. And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying; That flag's the sole trophy of Ramilies; fray. This nun is poor Eily, the Flow'r of Finas. |
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AT THE YELLOW BOREEN.
At the yellow boreen is my heart's secret queen,
Alone on her soft bed a-sleeping; Each tress of her hair than the king's gold more fair,
The dew from the grass might be sweeping; I'm a man of Telge's race who has watched her fair face.
And away from her ever I'm sighing; And, oh, my heart's store, be not griev'd evermore
That for you a young man should be dying.
Should my love with me come I will build me a home,
The finest e'er told of in Erin; And 'tis then she would shine and her fame ne'er decline,
For bounty o'er all the palm bearing; For in your bosom bright shines the pure sunny light,
As in your smooth brow grateful ever; And, oh, could I say, "You're my own from this day,"
Death's contest would frighten me never. |
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THE RAKES OF MALLOW.
Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, swearing, sinking, Ever raking, never thinking,
Live the Rakes of Mallow: Spending faster than it comes, Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns Bacchus' true-begotten sons,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.
One time nought but claret drinking, Then like politicians, thinking, Raising funds when funds are sinking,
Live the Rakes of Maliow; Living short but merry lives, Going where the devil drives, Having sweethearts but no wives,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.
Racking tenants, stewards teasing, Swiftly spending, slowly raising, Wishing thus to spend their days in
Raking as at Mallow; Then to end this raking life They get sober, take a wife, Ever after live in strife,
And wish again for Mallow. |
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DOWN BY THE SALLY GARDENS.
Down by the sally gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the sally gardens with little snow-white feet; She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I was young and foolish, with her did not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand; And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take love easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. |
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