To a fair by the side of Glenealy,
And the crathur was sold for four guineas in gold
To the clerk of the parish, Tim Daly.
They went into a tent, and the luck-penny spent,
(For the clerk was a woeful old swiper),
Who the divil was there, playing the Rakes of Kildare,
But their friend, Dinny Byrne, the piper.
Then Tim gave a bolt like a half-broken colt,
At the piper he gazed like a gommach;
Says he, ‘By the powers, I thought these eight hours,
You were playing in Dhrimindhu’s stomach.’
But Dinny observed how the Hessian was served,
So they all wished Nick’s cure to the viper,
And for grá that they met, their whistles they wet,
And like devils they danced round the piper.
A Lament for Kilcash
Oh, sorrow the saddest and sorest!
Kilcash’s attractions are fled –
Felled lie the high trees of its forest,
And its bells hang silent and dead.
There dwelt the fair Lady, the Vaunted,
Who spread through the island her fame,
There the Mass and the Vespers were chaunted,
And thither proud Princes came!
I am worn by an anguish unspoken
As I gaze on its glories defaced,
Its beautiful gates lying broken,
Its gardens all desert and waste.
Its courts, that in lightning and thunder
Stood firm, are, alas! all decayed;
And the Lady Iveagh sleepeth under
The sod, in the greenwood shade.
No more on a Summer-day sunny
Shall I hear the thrush sing from his lair,
No more see the bee bearing honey
At noon through the odorous air.
Hushed now in the thicket so shady,
The dove hath forgotten her call,
And mute in the grave lies the Lady
Whose voice was the sweetest of all!
As the deer from the brow of the mountain,
When chased by the hunter and hound,
Looks down upon forest and fountain,
And all the green scenery round;
So I on thy drear desolation
Gaze, O, my Kilcash, upon thee!
On thy ruin and black devastation,
So doleful and woeful to see!
There is mist on thy woods and thy meadows;
The sun appears shorn of his beams;
Thy gardens are shrouded in shadows,
And the beauty is gone from thy streams.
The hare has forsaken his cover;
The wild fowl is lost to the lake;
Desolation hath shadowed thee over,
And left thee – all briar and brake!
And I weep while I pen the sad story –
Our Prince has gone over the main,
With a damsel, the pride and the glory
Not more of Green Eire than Spain.
The Poor and the Helpless bewail her;
The Cripple, the Blind, and the Old;
She never stood forth as their jailer,
But gave them her silver and gold.
O, God! I beseech thee to send her
Home here to the land of her birth!
We shall then have rejoicing and splendour,
And revel in plenty and mirth,
And our land shall be highly exalted,
And till the dread dawn of that day
When the race of Old Time shall have halted,
It shall flourish in glory alway!
James Clarence Mangan
Johnny, I Hardly Knew You
While going the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo! hurroo!
While going the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo! hurroo!
While going the road to sweet Athy,
A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,
A doleful damsel I heard cry:
‘Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
Hurroo! hurroo!
With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
Hurroo! hurroo!
With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
The enemy nearly slew you;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are your eyes that looked so mild,
When my poor heart you first beguiled?
Why did you run from me and the child?
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘With drums, etc.’
‘Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run
When first you went to carry a gun?
Indeed, your dancing days are done!
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘With drums, etc.’
‘It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! hurroo!
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! hurroo!
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
As from my heart you took leg-bail;
Like a cod you’re doubled up head and tail,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘With drums, etc.’
‘You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
Hurroo! hurroo!
You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
Hurroo! hurroo!
You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
You’re an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;
You’ll have to be put with a bowl to beg:
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘With drums, etc.’
‘I’m happy for to see you home,
Hurroo! hurroo!
I’m happy for to see you home,
Hurroo! hurroo!
I’m happy for to see you home,
All from the Island of Sulloon;
So low in flesh, so high in bone;
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘With drums, etc.’
‘But sad it is to see you so,
Hurroo! hurroo!
But sad it is to see you so,
Hurroo! hurroo!
But sad it is to see you so,
And to think of you now as an object of woe,
Your Peggy’ll still keep you on as her beau;
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
‘With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
The enemy nearly slew you;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew you!’
Arthur MacBride
Now me and me cousin, one Arthur MacBride
One day went a-walking down by the seaside;
And mark you what followed and what did betide,
It being on a Christmas morning.
For recreation, we went on a tramp
And we met Sergeant Napper and Corporal Cramp
And a little wee drummer, intending to camp,
The day being pleasant and charming.
‘Good morning, Good morning,’ the sergeant did cry
‘And the same to you gentlemen,’ we did reply,
Intending no harm but just to pass by,
It being on a Christmas morning;
But says he, ‘My fine fellows, if you will enlist,
Ten guineas of gold I will slip in your fist
And a crown in the bargain for to kick up the dust
And drink the King’s health in the morning.
�
�For a soldier he leads a very fine life
And he always is blessed with a charming young wife,
And he pays all his debts without sorrow or strife
And always lives pleasant and charming;
And a soldier he always is decent and clean
In the finest of clothing he’s constantly seen
While other poor fellows go dirty and mean
And sup on thin gruel in the morning.’
‘But,’ says Arthur, ‘I wouldn’t be proud of your clothes
For you’ve only the lend of them, I suppose,
And you dare not change them for one night, you know,
If you do you’ll be flogged in the morning.
And although it is true we are single and free
We take great delight in our own company;
We have no desire strange faces to see,
Although that your offers are charming.
‘And we have no desire to take your advance,
All hazards and dangers we barter on chance;
And you’d have no scruples for to send us to France
Where we would get shot without warning.’
‘Oh now!’ says the sergeant ‘I’ll have no such chat
And I’ll take it neither from spalpeen or brat,
And if you insult me with one other word
I’ll cut off your heads in the morning.’
And then Arthur and I we soon drew our hods
And we scarce gave them time for to draw their own blades
When a trusty shillelagh came over their heads
And bade them take that as fair warning.
And their old rusty rapiers that hung by their side
We flung them as far as we could in the tide;
‘Now take them out, Divils!’ cried Arthur MacBride
‘And temper their edge in the morning.’
And the little wee drummer we flattened his pow
And we made a football of his rowdey-dow-dow,
Threw it in the tide for to rock and to row
And bade it a tedious returning.
And, having no money, we paid them in cracks
And we showed no respect to their two bloody backs
For we lathered them there like a pair of wet sacks
And left them for dead in the morning.
And so to conclude and to finish disputes
We obligingly asked if they wanted recruits
For we were the lads who would give them hard clouts
And bid them look sharp in the morning.
Oh me and my cousin, one Arthur MacBride
As we went a-walking down by the seaside,
Now mark what followed and what did betide,
It being on Christmas morning.
The Peeler and the Goat
Oh, the Bansha peeler went one night
On duty and patrolling, O;
He met a goat upon the road
He took for being a-strolling, O.
With bayonet fixed, he sallied forth
And caught him by the wizzen, O;
And then he swore a mighty oath
He’d send him off to prison, O.
‘Have mercy, sir!’ the goat replied
‘And let me tell my story, O:
I am no rogue, no Ribbonman
No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O!
I’m innocent of any crime,
Of petty or high treason, O,
For my tribe is active at this time
It is the mating season, O!’
‘Do not complain,’ the peeler said
‘But give your tongue a bridle, O,
You’re absent from your dwelling place,
Disorderly and idle, O.
Your hoary locks will not prevail
Nor your sublime oration, O;
The Peeler’s Act will you transport
On your own information, O.’
‘No penal law did I transgress
By deed or combination, O;
It’s true I have no place of rest,
No home or habitation, O;
But Bansha is my dwelling place
Where I was bred and born, O,
Descendant of an honest race
Whose trade is all I’ve learned, O.’
‘I will chastise your insolence
And violent behaviour, O,
In chains to Cashel you’ll be sent
Where you will get no favour, O;
The magistrates will all consent
To sign your condemnation, O;
From there to Cork you will be sent
For speedy transportation, O.’
‘This parish and this neighbourhood
Are peaceable and tranquil, O;
There’s no disturbance here, thank God,
And long may it continue so.
I don’t regard your oath a pin,
Or sign for my committal, O!
My jury will be gentlemen
Who’ll grant me an acquittal, O.’
‘The consequence be what it will,
A peeler’s power I’ll let you know,
I’ll hand-cuff you, at all events,
And march you to the Bridewell, O;
And sure, you rogue, you can’t deny
Before a judge and jury, O,
Intimidation with your horns
And threatening me with fury, O!’
‘I’ll wager, sir, that you are drunk
On whiskey, rum, and brandy, O,
Or you wouldn’t have such gallant spunk
To be so bold and manly, O;
You readily would let me pass
If I had money handy, O,
To treat you to a poitín glass –
’Tis then I’d be the dandy, O!’
The Recruiting Sergeant
As I was walking down the road
All feeling fine and larky, O,
A recruiting sergeant came up to me,
Said, ‘You would look fine in khaki, O,
For the King he is in need of men,
Just read this proclamation, O;
A life in Flanders for you then
Would be a fine vacation, O!’
‘That may be so,’ says I to him,
‘But tell me, Sergeant dearie-O,
If I had a pack stuck up on my back
Would I still look fine and cheery, O?
For you’d have me train and drill until
I looked like one of the Frenchies, O:
It may be warm in Flanders but
It’s draughty in the trenches, O.’
The sergeant smiled and winked his eye,
And his smile was most provoking, O;
He twiddled and twirled his little moustache,
Says he, ‘You’re only joking, O,
For the sandbags are so warm and high
The wind you won’t feel it blowing, O.’
Well I winked at a cailín passing by
And says I, ‘What if it’s snowing, O?
‘Come rain or hail, come wind or snow,
I’m not going out to Flanders, O;
There’s fighting in Ireland to be done –
Let your sergeants and commanders go;
Let Englishmen fight English wars
It’s nearly time they started, O!’
I saluted the Sergeant a very good night
And there and then we parted, O.
By Memory Inspired
By memory inspired,
And love of country fired,
The deeds of men I love to dwell upon;
And the patriotic glow
Of my spirit must bestow
A tribute to O’Connell that is gone, boys – gone:
Here’s a memory to the friends that are gone!
In October Ninety-Seven –
May his soul find rest in Heaven! –
William Orr to execution was led on:
The jury, drunk, agreed
That Irish was his creed;
Here’s the memory of John Mitchell that is gone!
In Ninety-Eight – the month July –
The informer’s pay was high;
When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann;
But MacCann was Reynolds’ first –
One could not allay his thirst;
So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys – gone:
Here’s the memory of the friends that are gone!
We saw a nation’s tears
Shed for John and Henry Shears;
Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong;
We may forgive, but yet
We never can forget
The poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys – gone:
Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!
How did Lord Edward die?
Like a man, without a sigh;
But he left his handiwork on Major Swan!
But Sirr, with steel-clad breast,
And coward heart at best,
Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys – gone:
Here’s the memory of our friends that are gone!
September, Eighteen-Three,
Closed this cruel history,
When Emmett’s blood the scaffold flowed upon:
Oh, had their spirits been wise,
They might then realize
Their freedom! but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys – gone:
Here’s the memory of the friends that are gone!
JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN
Wellington’s Name
How blest were the moments when liberty found thee
The first in her cause on the fields of the brave,
When the young lines of ocean were charging around thee
With the strength of their hills and the roar of their wave!
Oh, chieftain, what then was the throb of thy pride,
When loud through the war-cloud exultingly came,
O’er the battle’s red tide, which they swelled as they died,
The shout of green Erin for Wellington’s name!
How sweet, when thy country thy garland was wreathing,
And the fires of thy triumph blazed brightly along,
Came the voice of its harp all its witchery breathing,
And hallowed thy name with the light of her song!
And oh, ’twas a strain in each patriot breast
That waked all the transport, that lit all the flame,
And raptured and blest was the Isle of the West
When her own sweetest bard sang her Wellington’s name!
But ’tis past – thou art false, and thy country’s sad story
Shall tell how she bled and she pleaded in vain;
How the arm that should lead her to freedom and glory,
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 78