My sister Mary heard the express, As I was walking up Wexford Hill, As I was mounted on the platform high, 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 THE CRUISKEEN LAWN." Let the farmer praise his grounds, But I, more blest than they, Spend each happy night and day With my charming little crúiscín lán, lán, lán,2 Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,- Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin bán. 1 The chorus is pronounced thus: and means: Grá-ma-chree ma crooskeen, S grá-ma-chree a cooleen bán, etc. Love of my heart, my little jug! The love of my heart is her fair hair, etc. Grádh mo chroidhe mo crúiscín,— Is grádh mo chroidhe a cúilin, bán, bán, Immortal and divine, Great Bacchus, god of wine, Create me by adoption your son; My glass shall ne'er run dry, Nor my smiling little crúiscín lán, 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, 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. THE DEAR AND DARLING BOY.1 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, 1 This is from a bunch of modern ballads, evidently, from the use of the term "French Flanders," of considerable antiquity. Neither would she pity me Tho' my poor heart should break. She would hear my lamentation, The ship is on the ocean, Now ready for to sail. If the wind blew from the east, With a sweet and pleasant sound, Nine months we are on the ocean, We sailed from the French Flanders We sailed from the French Flanders O, fare you well, my darling girl, To say that I must go, Bright angels be your safeguard DRIMMIN DUBH DHEELISH.1 Oh, there was a poor man, And he had but one cow, And when he had lost her 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. Returning from mass, On a morning in May, I roared and I bawled, And my neighbors did call Ah, neighbors! was this not 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 Poor drimmin dubh sank, 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, 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, Since drimmin dubh's gone. GARRYOWEN. Let Bacchus's sons be not dismayed, Instead of Spa we 'll drink brown ale, 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, Instead, etc. We'll beat the bailiffs, out of fun, 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, |