Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth, Where grows the shillelah, and shamrock so green. May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shan
Drub the foes who would plant on their confines a
United and happy at loyalty's shrine,
May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
THE WANDERING HARPER.
TUNE-"The Unfortunate Rake.”
OH! many a mountain I wearily measure,
And far have I wander'd on Erin's green shore;
This harp is my only companion and treasure,
When welcom❜d at sweet hospitality's door.
Then list, gentle youths, whilst I sing you a ditty
I learnt in dear Connaught, the soil of my birth;
Ye maidens attend, whilst the tear-drop of pity
Shall fall like a crystalline gem to the earth.
The sun in the wave dipt his lingering ray,
And dew-dropping skies wept the absence of day,
When sunk on the ear were the sounds of the fray.
'Twas then o'er the heath flew the white-bosom'd fair,
All loose on the swelling breeze floated her hair,
And her dark-rolling gaze spoke the soul of despair.
No tear left her eye, nor no sigh 'scap'd her breast,
While round her lay many a hero at rest,
And the blood-glutted raven retir'd from his feast.
How weak was his groan, as it pass'd by her ear!
How low droop'd his head! The sad moment was near,
As 'neath an old oak lay the warrior so dear.
She shriek'd his lov'd name, as she sprung o'er the heath
All cold on her lip she receiv'd his last breath,
And clasp'd her soul's idol, but clasp'd him in death.
MOLLY MALONE.
By the big hill of Howth!
That's a bit of an oath,
That to swear by I'm loath,
To the heart of a stone;
But be poison my drink,
If I sleep, snore, or wink,
Once forgetting to think,
Of your lying alone.
Och! it's how I'm in love
Like a beautiful dove,
That sits cooing above,
In the boughs of a tree;
For myself I'll soon smother
In something or other,
Unless I can bother
Your heart to love me,
Sweet Molly, Sweet Molly Malone,
Sweet Molly, Sweet Molly Malone.
I can see if you smile,
Though I'm off half a mile,
For my eyes all the while,
Keep along with my head:
And my head you must know,
When from Molly I go,
Takes its leave with a bow,
And remains in my stead.
Och! it's how, &c.
Like a bird I could sing,
In the month of the spring,
But it's now no such thing,
I'm quite bother'd and dead;
Och! I'll roar and I'll groan,
My sweet Molly Malone,
Till I'm bone of your bone,
And asleep in your bed.
Och! it's how, &c.
MURPHY DELANEY.
TUNE-"The Priest in his boots."
Ir was Murphy Delaney, so funny and frisky,
Reel'd into a shebeen to get his skin full,
And popp'd out again, pretty well lin❜d with whisky,
As fresh as a shamrock, and blind as a bull:
When a trifling accident happen'd our rover,
Who took the quay-side for the floor of his shed, And the keel of a coal-barge he just tumbled over, And thought all the while he was going to bed.
And sing phililu, hubbubboo, whack, boderation,
Every man in his humour, as Teague kiss'd the pig.
Some folks passing by, pull'd him out of the river,
And got a horse-doctor his sickness to mend,
Who swore that poor Murph' was no longer a liver,
But dead as a devil, and there was an end.
Then they sent for the coroner's jury to try him;
But Murph' not much liking this comical strife,
Fell to twisting and turning the while they sat by him,
And came, when he found it convenient, to life.
And sing phililu, &c.
Says he to the jury,-Your worships, a'nt please ye,
I don't think I'm dead yet, so what is't you do?
Not dead! says the foreman, you spalpeen be easy,
Don't
you think but the doctor knows better than
So then they went on with the business some further,
And examin'd the doctor about his belief;
When they brought poor Delaney in guilty of murder,
And swore they would hang him in spite of his teeth.
And sing phililu, &c.
Then Murphy laid hold of a clumsy shillelah,
And laid on the doctor as sly as a post,
Who swore that it couldn't be Murphy Delaney,
But something alive, so it must be his ghost.
Then the jury began, joy, with fear to survey him,
(Whilst he like a devil about him did lay)
And sent straight out of hand for the clargy to lay him;
But Murph' laid the clargy, and then ran away.
And sing phililu, &c.
I WAS THE BOY FOR BEWITCHING 'EM.
I was the boy for bewitching 'em,
Whether good-humour'd or coy;
All cried, when I was beseeching 'em,
Do what you will with me, joy.
Daughters, be cautious and steady,
Mothers would cry out for fear,
Won't you take care now of Teddy?
Oh, he is the devil, my dear!
For I was the boy for bewitching 'em,
Whether good-humour'd or coy;
All cried, when I was beseeching 'em,
Do what you will with me, joy.
From ev'ry quarter I gather'd 'em,
Very few rivals had I;
If I found any, I feather'd 'em;
That made 'em plaguily shy.
Pat Moony my Sheelah once meeting,
I twigg'd him beginning his clack;
Says he, At my heart I've a beating,
Says I, Then take one at your back.
For I was the boy, &c.
Many a lass that would fly away,
When other wooers but spoke,
Once if I look'd her the die-away,
There was an end of the joke.
Beauties, no matter how cruel,
Hundreds of lads though they'd cross'd,
When I came nigh to them, jewel,
Melted like mud in a frost.
For I was the boy, &c.
WHERE'S THE ROSY SMILE.
TUNE-" Myra of the Vale."
WHERE's the rosy smile you gave me,
When I thought we ne'er should sever?
Oh! it beam'd but to enslave me;
Now 'tis gone, and gone for ever!
Where's the glance that sweetly glisten'd
Thro' the dewy tear of pleasure?
Where's the song to which I listen'd,
When you were my treasure?
Where's the blushing crown you wreath'd me,
Lost in passion's gentle dreaming?
Where's the melting vow you breath'd me
From that lip with rapture teeming ?
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