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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,
Were courting the girls and dancing away.
From “The Harp that once through Tara's ould Hall,'
All singing together at Lanigan's ball.
They were starting all sorts of nonsensical dances,
Turning around in a nate whirligig;
And tipped them the twist of a rale Irish jig.
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,
He dhruv his right foot through Miss Halloran's hoops.
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;
And that put an end to Lanigan's ball.
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!
“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,
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,
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
Yet struggles onward, faint and blind, and numb to hope or
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.
One night of late I chanced to stray,
The moon sunk in the deep;
Lulled me fast asleep.
I dreamt I saw brave Brian Boru,
His saber bright with wrath he drew;
These words he said to me:
The blooming laurel tree."
I thought brave Sarsfield drew up nigh,
As thousands did before;
And thousands in their gore.”
I thought St. Ruth stood on the ground,
All ready for the field."
We'll die before we yield.”
The Brave O'Byrne he was there,
To march at his command;
With Dublin to a man.
O'Reilly, on the hill of Screene,
He would avenge the fall
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
Who'll die ere be a slave."
I thought each band played 'Patrick's Day,'
They march in warlike glow,
To strike the fatal blow.
When, all at once, appeared in sight
Marched Paddies evermore.
As rapid as the Nore.
A Frenchman brave rose up and said,
To honor and renown;
Before the sun goes down.”
Along the line they raised a shout,
To face the deadly foe:
And blood in streams did flow.
The enemy made such a square
But yet not forced to yield.