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My sister Mary heard the express,
She ran upstairs in her mourning-dress-
Five hundred guineas I will lay down,
To see my brother through Wexford Town.

As I was walking up Wexford Hill,
Who could blame me to cry my fill?
I looked behind and I looked before,

But my tender mother I shall ne'er see more.

As I was mounted on the platform high,

My aged father was standing by;

My aged father did me deny,

And the name he gave me was the Croppy Boy.

It was in Dungannon this young man died,
And in Dungannon his body lies;

All you good Christians that do pass by
Just drop a tear for the Croppy Boy.


Let the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds,

The shepherd his dew-scented lawn;
But I, more blest than they,
Spend each happy night and day

With my charming little crúiscín lán, lán, lán,2
My charming little crúiscín lán.

Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,—
Sláinte geal mo mhúirnín.

Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin bán.

1 The chorus is pronounced thus :

and means:

Grá-ma-chree ma crooskeen,
Shlántya gal ma-voorneen
S grá-ma-chree a cooleen bán, etc.

Love of my heart, my little jug!
Bright health to my darling!
The love of my heart is her fair hair, etc.
2 Lan, full.

Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,—
Sláinte geal mo mhúirín,

Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin, bán, bán,
Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin bán.

Immortal and divine,
Great Bacchus, god of wine,

Create me by adoption your son;
In hope that you'll comply,
My glass shall ne'er run dry,

Nor my smiling little crúiscín lán, lán,
My smiling little crúiscín lán.

And when grim Death appears,
In a few but pleasant years,

To tell me that my glass has run;
I'll say, Begone, you knave,
For bold Bacchus gave me lave

To take another crúiscín lán, lán, lán, lán,
Another little crúiscín lán.

Then fill your glasses high,
Let's not part with lips adry,

Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn;
And since we can't remain,

May we shortly meet again,

To fill another crúiscín lán, lán, lán,
To fill another crúiscín, lán.


When first unto this town I came,
With you I fell in love,

And if I could but gain you

I'd vow I'll never rove.
There's not a girl in all this town
I love as well as thee.
I'll rowl you in my arms,

My cushla gal ma chree.

My love she won't come nigh me,
Nor hear the moan I make;

1 This is from a bunch of modern ballads, evidently, from the use of the term "French Flanders," of considerable antiquity.

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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.

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

'Agus oro, Drimmin dubh, Oro, ah. Oro, drimmin dubh, Miel agra.i

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.


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.

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