Neither would she pity me

Tho' my poor heart should break.
If I was born of noble blood,

And she of low degree,

She would hear my lamentation,
And surely pity me.

The ship is on the ocean,
Now ready for to sail.

If the wind blew from the east,
With a sweet and pleasant gale;
If the wind blew from my love

With a sweet and pleasant sound,
It's for your sake, my darling girl,
I'd range the nations round.

Nine months we are on the ocean,
No harbor can we spy.

We sailed from the French Flanders
To harbors that were nigh.

We sailed from the French Flanders
To harbors that were nigh.

O, fare you well, my darling girl,
Since you and I must part!
It's the bright beams of your beauty
That stole away my heart.

But since it is my lot, my love,

To say that I must go,

Bright angels be your safeguard
Till my return home.

DRIMMIN DUBH DHEELÍSH1

Oh, there was a poor man,

And he had but one cow, And when he had lost her He could not tell how, But so white was her face,

And so sleek was her tail, That I thought my poor drimmin dubh Never would fail.

1 Drimmin . . . dheelish, loyal black white-back.

Agus oro, Drimmin dubh, Oro, ah.
Oro, drimmin dubh, Miel agra.1

Returning from mass,

On a morning in May,

I met my poor drimmin dubh
Drowning by the way.

I roared and I bawled,

And my neighbors did call
To save my poor drimmin dubh,
She being my all.

Ah, neighbors! was this not
A sorrowful day,

When I gazed on the water

Where my drimmin dubh lay?

With a drone and a drizzen,

She bade me adieu,

And the answer I made
Was a loud pillelu.

Poor drimmin dubh sank,
And I saw her no more,
Till I came to an island
Was close by the shore;
And down on that island
I saw her again,

Like a bunch of ripe blackberries

Rolled in the rain.

Arrah, plague take you, drimmin dubh!

What made you die,

Or why did you leave me,

For what and for why?

I would rather lose Paudeen,

My bouchelleen baun,2

Than part with my drimmin dubh,

Now that you 're gone.

When drimmin dubh lived,

And before she was dead,

She gave me fresh butter

To eat to my bread,

1 And choice black white-back. O choice Ah! O choice black white-back. Honey O love!

2 Bouchelleen baun, my little fair-haired boy.

And likewise new milk

That I soaked with my scone,
But now it's black water

Since drimmin dubh's gone.

GARRYOWEN.

Let Bacchus's sons be not dismayed,
But join with me each jovial blade;
Come booze and sing, and lend your aid
To help me with the chorus-

Instead of Spa we 'll drink brown ale,
And pay the reckoning on the nail,
No man for debt shall go to jail
From Garryowen in glory!

We are the boys that take delight in Smashing the Limerick lamps when lighting, Through the streets like sporters fighting, And tearing all before us.

Instead, etc.

We'll break windows, we'll break doors,
The watch knock down by threes and fours;
Then let the doctors work their cures,
And tinker up our bruises.

Instead, etc.

We'll beat the bailiffs, out of fun,
We'll make the mayor and sheriffs run;
We are the boys no man dares dun,

If he regards a whole skin.

Instead, etc.

Our hearts, so stout, have got us fame

For soon 't is known from whence we came; Where'er we go they dread the name

Of Garryowen in glory.

Instead, etc.

Johnny Connell's tall and straight,
And in his limbs he is complete;
He'll pitch a bar of any weight,
From Garryowen to Thomond Gate.
Instead, etc.

Garryowen is gone to wrack

Since Johnny Connell went to Cork,

Though Darby O'Brien leapt over the dock

In spite of all the soldiers.

Instead, etc.

HANNAH HEALY, THE PRIDE OF HOWTH.

You matchless nine, to my aid incline,
Assist my genius while I declare
My lovesick pain for a beauteous dame,
Whose killing charms did me ensnare;
Sly little Cupid has knocked me stupid;
In grief I mourn upon my oath;
My frame's declining, I'm so repining

For Hannah Healy, the pride of Howth.

She's tall and slender, both young and tender;
She's modest, mild, and she 's all sublime;
For education in Erin's nation

There's none to equal this nymph divine;
I wish to gain her, but can't obtain her,

I'd fondly court her, but yet I'm loath, Lest I should tease her or once displease her, Sweet Hannah Healy, the pride of Howth.

At seventeen this maid serene

My heart attracted, I must allow;
I thought her surely a goddess purely,
Or some bright angel, in truth I vow;
Since that I languish, my mind 's in anguish,
A deep decline it has curbed my growth;
None can relieve me, then you can believe me,
But Hannah Healy, the pride of Howth.

In all Olympus I'm sure no nymph is,
To equal her that I do admire;
Her lovely features surpasses nature;
Alas, they set my poor heart on fire;
She exceeds Flora, or bright Aurora,

Or beauteous Venus from the briny froth;—

I am captivated-I do repeat it

By Hannah Healy, the pride of Howth.

Each lovely morning young men keep swarming
To view this charmer taking the air;
She's so enchanting, they all are panting
To gain her favor, I do declare;

But still they 're fearful, and no way cheerful,
The greatest hero you 'll find him loath,
Nor dare entreat her or supplicate her,

So bright an angel is the pride of Howth.

I'll drop my writing and my inditing,
I see it's useless for me to fret;
A pound of trouble, or sorrow double,
Will ne'er atone for an ounce of debt;
I'll resign courting and all like sporting,
Cupid and Hymen, I'll shun them both,
And raise my mind from all female kind-
So adieu, sweet Hannah, the pride of Howth!

THE IRISH GRANDMOTHER.1

Paddy, agra, run down to the bog, for my limbs are beginning to tire,

And see if there 's ever a sod at all that 's dry enough for a fire: God be praised! It's terrible times, and granny is weak and

old,

And the praties black as the winter's face, and the night so dark and cold!

It's many a day since I seen the like, but I did one, Pat, asthore,

And I prayed to God on my bended knees I might never see

it more.

'T was the year before the Risin' of Smith O'Brien, you know, Thirty-two years ago, Paddy,-thirty-two years ago.

Your grandfather-God rest his soul!-went out with the boys to fight;

For the bailiffs came with the crowbars, and the sickness came with the blight,

An' he said it was better to die like a man, though he held but a rusty pike,

Than starve on the roadside, beggin' for food, an' be thrown like a dog in the dike.

1 This ballad made its appearance during the agitation and distress of the winter of 1879. It was first published in the Dublin Nation over the signature In Fide Fortis.