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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.

Ochone, ochone! it's a sorrowful tale, but listen afore you

go, For Tim he never came back to me, but I'll see him soon, I

know. Tim Ryan he held a decent farm in the glen o Cahirmore, And he tilled the lands the Ryans owned two hundred years

before; An' it's many a time, by the blazing fire, I heard from the

priest, Father John (He was my husband's cousin, agra, and he lived to be ninety

one), That the Ryans were chiefs of the country round till Crom.

well, the villain, came, And battered the walls of the castle and set all the houses

aflame; He came an' he stabled his horses in the abbey of St. Colum

kille, An’ the mark of his murderin' cannon you may see on the old

wall still. An' he planted a common trooper where the Ryans were chief

tains of yore, An' that was the first o' the breed of him that's now Lord

Cahirmore.

Old Father John-he was ninety-one—it was he that could

tell you the story, An' every name of his kith and kin,-may their souls now

rest in glory! His father was shot in '98 as he stood in the chapel door; His grandfather was the strongest man in the parish of Cahir

more; An' thin there was Donough, Donal More, and Turlough on

the roll, An' Kian, boy, that lost the lands because he'd save his soul.

Ochone, machree, but the night is cold, and the hunger in

your face.

Hard times are comin', aric! God help us with his grace!
Three years before the famine came the agent raised the rent,
But then there was many a helpin' hand, and we struggled on

content. Ochone, ochone! we're lonely now,—now that our need is sore, For there's none but good Father Mahony that ever comes

inside our door. God bless him for the food he brings an' the blankets that

keep us warm! God bless him for his holy words that shelter us from harm!

This is the month an' the day, Paddy, that my own colleen

went, She died on the roadside, Paddy, when we were drove out for

the rent; An' it's well that I remember how she turned to me an'

cried, “ There's never a pain that mayn't be a gain,” and crossed

herself and died. For the Soupers were there with shelter and food if we'd only

tell the lie, But they fled like the wicked things they were when they saw

poor Kathleen die. She's prayin' for all of us now, Paddy,—her blessing I know

she's giving! An' they that have little here below have much, asthore, in

heaven!

THE IRISHMAN'S FAREWELL TO HIS

COUNTRY.1

Oh! farewell, Ireland, I am going across the stormy main, Where cruel strife will end my life, to see you never again. 'T will break my heart from you to part, acushla store ma

chree! But I must go full of grief and woe to the shores of America.

On Irish soil my fathers dwelt, since the days of Brian Boru, They paid their rent and lived content, convenient to Carrie

more, But the landlord sent on the move my poor father and me: We must leave our home far away to roam in the fields of

America.

No more at the churchyard, store machree, at my mother's

grave I'll kneel. The tyrants know but little of the woe the poor man has to

feel. When I look on the spot of ground that is so dear to me, I could curse the laws that have given me cause to depart to

America. 1 This ballad made its appearance during the time of the Fenian excite ment in 1865, when the peasants expected an expedition from the Irish in the United States.

0, where are the neighbors, kind and true, that were once the

country's pride? No more will they be seen on the face of the green, nor dance

on the green hillside. It is the stranger's cow that is grazing now, where the people

we used to see. With notice they were served, to be turned out or starved, or

banished to America.

O, Erin, machree, must our children be exiled all over the

earth? Will they evermore think of you, astore, as the land that gave

them birth? Must the Irish yield to the beasts of the field ? O, no,

acushla store machree! They are coming back in ships with vengeance on their lips

from the shores of America.

IRISH MOLLY 0.1

Oh! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town,
And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down?
A poor, unhappy Scottish youth;—if more you wish to know,
His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O!
She's modest, mild, and beautiful, the fairest I have

known
The primrose of Ireland—all blooming here alone-
The primrose of Ireland, for wheresoe'er I go,
The only one entices me is Irish Molly O!

When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore,
That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more.
He sent for young MacDonald and he plainly told him so
“I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!

She's modest, etc.

MacDonald heard the heavy news-and grievously did say-
“ Farewell, my lovely Molly, since I'm banished far away,
A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro,
And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!"

She's modest, etc. 1 This ballad has been largely kept alive by virtue of the beautiful and pathetic air to which it is sung.

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