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Miss Kitty O'Hara, the nice little milliner,

Tipped me the wink for to give her a call, And soon I arrived with Timothy Glenniher

Just in time for Lanigan's ball.

There was lashins of punch and wine for the ladies,

Potatoes and cakes and bacon and tay,
The Nolans, the Dolans, and all the O'Gradys

Were courting the girls and dancing away.
Songs they sung as plenty as water,

From “The Harp that once through Tara's ould Hall,'
To • Sweet Nelly Gray' and 'The Ratcatcher's Daughter,'

All singing together at Lanigan's ball.

They were starting all sorts of nonsensical dances,

Turning around in a nate whirligig;
But Julia and I soon scatthered their fancies,

And tipped them the twist of a rale Irish jig.
Och mayrone!’t was then she got glad o' me:

We danced till we thought the old ceilin' would fall, (For I spent a whole fortnight in Doolan's Academy

Learning a step for Lanigan's ball).

The boys were all merry, the girls were all hearty,

Dancin' around in couples and groups,
When an accident happened-young Terence McCarthy

He dhruv his right foot through Miss Halloran's hoops.
The creature she fainted, and cried “ Millia murther!

She called for her friends and gathered them all; Ned Carmody swore he'd not stir a step further,

But have satisfaction at Lanigan's ball.

In the midst of the row Miss Kerrigan fainted

Her cheeks all the while were as red as the rose And some of the ladies declared she was painted,

She took a small drop too much, I suppose. Her lover, Ned Morgan, so powerful and able,

When he saw his dear colleen stretched out by the wall, He tore the left leg from under the table,

And smashed all the china at Lanigan's ball.


Oh, boys, but then was the ructions

Myself got a lick from big Phelim McHugh, But I soon replied to his kind introductions,

And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo.


Old Casey the piper was near being strangled,

They squeezed up his pipes, his bellows, and all;
The girls in their ribbons they all got entangled,

And that put an end to Lanigan's ball.

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Hush! hear you how the night wind keens around the craggy

reek? Its voice peals high above the waves that thunder in the


“Aroon! aroon! arouse thee, and hie thee o'er the moor!
Ten miles away there's bread, they say, to feed the starving


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“God save thee, Eileen bawn astor, and guide thy naked

feet, And keep the fainting life in us till thou come back with meat.

“God send the moon to show thee light upon the way so drear, And mind thou well the rocky dell, and heed the rushy mere."

She kissed her father's palsied hand, her mother's pallid cheek,
And whirled out on the driving storm beyond the craggy reek.

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All night she tracks, with bleeding feet, the rugged mountain

way, And townsfolks meet her in the street at fushing of the day.

But God is kinder on the moor than man is in the town,
And Eileen quails before the stranger's harsh rebuke and


Night's gloom enwraps the hills once more and hides a slender

form That shudders o'er the moor again before the driving storm.

No bread is in her wallet stored, but on the lonesome heath
She lifts her empty hands to God, and prays for speedy death.

Yet struggles onward, faint and blind, and numb to hope or

Unmindful of the rocky dell or of the rushy mere.

But, ululu! what sight is this?—what forms come by the reek? As white and thin as evening mist upon the mountain's peak.

Mist-like they glide across the heath-a weird and ghostly

band; The foremost crosses Eileen's path, and grasps her by the hand.

' Dear daughter, thou has suffered sore, but we are well

and free; For God has ta'en our life from us, nor wills it long to thee.

So hie thee to our cabin lone, and dig a grave so deep, And underneath the golden gorse our corpses lay to sleep

“Else they will come and smash the walls upon our molder

ing bones, And screaming mountain birds will tear our flesh from out the


And, daughter, haste to do thy work, so thou mayest quickly

come, And take with us our grateful rest, and share our peaceful

home.” The sun behind the distant hills far-sinking down to sleep; A maiden on the lonesome moor, digging a grave so deep;

The moon above the craggy reek, silvering moor and wave, And the pale corpse of a maiden young stretched on a new.

made grave.


One night of late I chanced to stray,
All in the pleasant month of May,
When all the Green in slumber lay,

The moon sunk in the deep;
'T was on a bank I sat me down,
And while the wild wind whistled round,
The ocean with a solemn sound

Lulled me fast asleep.

I dreamt I saw brave Brian Boru,
Who did the Danish force subdue;

His saber bright with wrath he drew;

These words he said to me:
The Harp melodiously shall sound,
When Erin's sons shall be unbound,
St. Patrick's Day they 'll dance around

The blooming laurel tree."

I thought brave Sarsfield drew up nigh,
And presently made this reply,
“For Erin's cause I 'll live and die,

As thousands did before;
My sword again on Aughrim's plain
Old Erin's right shall well maintain,
Through millions in the battle slain,

And thousands in their gore.”

I thought St. Ruth stood on the ground,
And said, “I will your monarch crown,
Encompassed by the French around,

All ready for the field."
He raised a Cross, and thus did say,
“ Brave boys, we'll show them gallant play;
Let no man dare to run away;

We'll die before we yield.”

The Brave O'Byrne he was there,
From Ballymanus, I declare,
Brought Wicklow, Carlow, and Kildare

To march at his command;
Westmeath and Cavan too did join,
The county Louth men crossed the Boyne,
Slane, Trim, and Navan too did join

With Dublin to a man.

O'Reilly, on the hill of Screene,
He drew his sword both bright and keen,
And swore by all his eyes had seen,

He would avenge the fall
Of Erin's sons and daughters brave,
Who nobly filled a martyr's grave,
And died before they'd live enslaved,

And still for vengeance call.

Then Father Murphy he did say,

Behold, my lord, I'm here to-day, With eighteen thousand pikemen gay,

From Wexford hills so brave:

Our country's fate, it does depend
On you, and on your gallant friend;
And Heaven will his cause defend,

Who'll die ere be a slave."

I thought each band played 'Patrick's Day,'
To marshal all in grand array;
With cap and feather white and gay,

They march in warlike glow,
With drums and trumpets loud and shrill,
And cannon upon every hill;
The pikemen did the valley fill,

To strike the fatal blow.

When, all at once, appeared in sight
An army clad in armor bright;
Both front, and rear, and left, and right,

Marched Paddies evermore.
The chieftains pitched their camps with skill,
Determined tyrants' blood to spill;
Beneath us ran a mountain rill,

As rapid as the Nore.

A Frenchman brave rose up and said,
“ Let Erin's sons be not afraid;
To glory I'll the vanguard lead,

To honor and renown;
Come, draw your swords along with me,
And let each tyrant bigot see
Dear Erin's daughters must be free

Before the sun goes down.”

Along the line they raised a shout,
Crying, “Quick march, right about!”
With bayonets fixed they all marched out

To face the deadly foe:
The enemy were no-ways shy,
With thundering cannon planted nigh;
Now thousands on the bank did lie,

And blood in streams did flow.

The enemy made such a square
As drove our cavalry to despair,
Who were nigh routed, rank and rear,

But yet not forced to yield.

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