The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry

by Patrick Crotty (ed)

  May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him,

  The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s Drake.

  The only good news that I have to diffuse,

  Is that Peter Hughes, and blind piper McPeake,

  And big nosed Bob Manson, and buck-tooth Bob Hanson,

  Each one has a grandson of my beautiful drake.

  My bird he had dozens of nephews and cousins,

  And one I must have or my heart it will break,

  To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll turn crazy,

  And this ends the song of Nell Flaherty’s Drake.

  The Galway Races

  As I roved out through Galway town to seek for recreation,

  On the seventeenth of August, my mind was elevated.

  There were multitudes assembled with their tickets at the station,

  My eyes began to dazzle and they goin’ to see the races.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  There were passengers from Limerick and passengers from Nenagh,

  Passengers from Dublin and sportsmen from Tipperary.

  There were passengers from Kerry and all quarters of the nation

  And our member Mr Hasset for to join the Galway Blazers.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  There were multitudes from Aran and members up from New Quay,

  The boys from Connamara and the Clare unmarried maidens;

  There were people from Cork city who were loyal, true and faithful

  That brought home Fenian prisoners from dying in foreign nations.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  It’s there you’ll see confectioners with sugarsticks and dainties

  And lozenges and oranges and lemonade and raisins,

  And gingerbread and spices to accommodate the ladies

  And a big crubeen for threepence to be picking while you’re able.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  It’s there you’ll see the gamblers, the thimbles and the garters

  And the sporting Wheel of Fortune with the four and twenty quarters;

  There was others without scruple pelting wattles at poor Maggie

  And her father well contented and he looking at his daughter.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  It’s there you’ll see the pipers and the fiddlers competing

  And the nimble-footed dancers and they tripping on the daisies;

  There was others crying cigars and lights, and bills of all the races

  With the colours of the jockeys and the prize and horses’ ages.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  It’s there you’ll see the jockeys and they mounted on most stately

  The pink, the blue, the red and the green, the emblem of our nation.

  When the bell was rung for starting, all the horses seemed impatient,

  I thought they never stood on ground, their speed was so amazing.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  There was half a million people there of all denominations

  The Catholic, the Protestant, the Jew, the Presbyterian.

  There was yet no animosity, no matter what persuasion

  But fáilte and hospitality inducing fresh acquaintance.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  With me whack fol-de-doo fal-de-diddlee-i-do-day.

  Brian O’Linn

  Brian O’Linn was a gentleman born,

  His hair it was long and his beard was unshorn;

  His teeth they went out and his eyes they went in –

  ‘I have beautiful features,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn had no breeches to wear

  So he found an old sheepskin to make him a pair,

  With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in –

  ‘They’ll be pleasant and cool,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn had no shirt for his back

  So he went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack;

  He tucked up the meal bag right under his chin –

  ‘Sure they’ll take them for ruffles,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn was hard up for a coat

  So he borrowed the skin of a generous goat;

  When the horns stuck out from his oxters, right then

  ‘They will think they are pistols,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn had no hat to put on

  So he used an old beaver to make him a one;

  There was none of the crown left, and less of the brim –

  ‘I have fine ventilation,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn, with no brogues for his toes,

  Hopped into two crab shells to serve him as those;

  He split up two oysters the crab shells to twin –

  ‘They will shine out like buckles,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn had no watch for to wear

  So he took a big turnip and scooped it out fair;

  He placed a live cricket in under the skin –

  ‘They will take it for ticking,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn went a-courting one night

  And he set both a mother and daughter to fight;

  To settle the matter they stripped to the skin –

  ‘Sure I’ll marry you both,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn and his wife and wife’s mother

  All lay down in the one bed together;

  The sheets they were worn and the blankets were thin –

  ‘Lie close to the wall,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Brian O’Linn and his wife and wife’s mother

  Were all crossing over an old bridge together;

  The bridge it broke down and the trio fell in –

  ‘There is land at the bottom,’ said Brian O’Linn.

  Molly Malone

  In Dublin’s fair city,

  Where the girls are so pretty,

  I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone

  As she wheeled her wheel barrow

  Through streets broad and narrow

  Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels alive, alive O!’

  Alive, alive O! Alive, alive O!

  Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels alive, alive O!’

  She was a fishmonger

  And sure ’twas no wonder

  For so were her father and mother before;

  And they both wheeled their barrow

  Through streets broad and narrow

  Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels alive, alive O!’

  Alive, alive O! Alive, alive O!

  Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels alive, alive O!’

  She died of a fever

  And no one could save her

  And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone;

  Now her ghost wheels her barrow

  Through streets broad and narrow

  Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels alive, alive O!’

  Alive, alive O! Alive, alive O!

  Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels alive, alive O!’

  The Bag of Nails

  You very merry people all, please listen just a minute,

  For though my song is not too long, there’s something comic in it.

  To sing of nails, if you permit, my sportive muse intends, Sirs,

  A subject that right now I’ve got just at my finger-ends, Sirs.

  This world is a big bag of nails, and there are very queer ones,

  Some are flats and some are sharps, and some are very dear ones;

  We’ve sprigs and spikes and sparables, and all nails great and small, Sirs,

  Some love nails with monstrous heads, and some love none at all, Sirs.

  A bachelor’s a hobnail, and he rusts for want of use, Sirs,

  And misers are no nails at all, they’re just a pack of screws, Sirs;

  My enemies
will get some clouts, wherever they may roam, Sirs,

  For Irishmen, like hammers, will be sure to drive them home, Sirs.

  The doctor nails you with his bill, that often proves a sore nail,

  The coffin maker wishes you as dead as any doornail.

  You’ll often find an agent who is nailing his employer;

  The lawyer nails his client, but the Devil nails the lawyer.

  Dame Fortune is a bradawl, and she often does contrive it,

  To make the nail go easy just where she likes to drive it;

  And if I gain your kind applause for what I’ve sung or said, Sirs,

  You will admit that I have hit the nail right on the head, Sirs.

  William Bloat

  In a mean abode on the Skankill Road

  Lived a man named William Bloat;

  He had a wife, the curse of his life,

  Who continually got on his goat.

  So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on,

  He cut her bloody throat.

  With a razor gash he settled her hash

  – Oh never was crime so quick –

  But the drip, drip, drip on the pillowslip

  Of her life blood made him sick,

  And the pool of her gore on the bedroom floor

  Grew clotted and cold and thick.

  And yet he was glad he had done what he had

  When he saw her stiff and still

  But a sudden awe of the angry law

  Struck his heart with an icy chill,

  So to finish the fun so well begun

  He resolved himself to kill.

  He took the sheet from his wife’s cold feet

  And twisted it into a rope

  And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf

  – ’Twas an easy end, I hope.

  And in the face of death with his last breath

  He solemnly cursed the Pope.

  But the strangest turn to the whole concern

  Was only just beginning:

  He went to Hell but his wife got well

  And she’s still alive and sinning;

  For the razor blade was Dublin made

  But the sheet was Belfast linen.

  Paddy on the Railway

  In eighteen hundred and forty-one

  My corduroy breeches I put on,

  My corduroy breeches I put on

  To work upon the railway, the railway.

  I’m weary of the railway,

  Poor Paddy works on the railway.

  In eighteen hundred and forty-two

  From Hartlepool I moved to Crewe

  And found myself a job to do,

  Working on the railway.

  I was wearing corduroy breeches

  Digging ditches, pulling switches

  Dodging hitches, I

  Was working on the railway.

  In eighteen hundred and forty-three

  I broke the shovel across me knee

  And went to work for the company

  On the Leeds to Selby railway.

  I was wearing corduroy breeches, etc.

  In eighteen hundred and forty-four

  I landed on the Liverpool shore;

  My belly was empty, my hands were raw

  From working on the railway, the railway.

  I’m weary of the railway,

  Poor Paddy works on the railway.

  In eighteen hundred and forty-five

  When Daniel O’Connell he was alive,

  When Daniel O’Connell he was alive

  I was working on the railway.

  I was wearing corduroy breeches, etc.

  In eighteen hundred and forty-six

  I tried my hand at carrying bricks

  But I changed my trade from carrying bricks

  To working on the railway.

  I was wearing corduroy breeches, etc.

  In eighteen hundred and forty-seven

  Poor Paddy was thinking of going to Heaven,

  Poor Paddy was thinking of going to Heaven

  To work upon the railway, the railway.

  I’m weary of the railway

  Poor Paddy works on the railway.

  I was wearing corduroy breeches, etc.

  I’m weary of the railway

  Poor Paddy works on the railway.

  Finnegan’s Wake

  Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,

  A gentleman Irish mighty odd;

  He had a tongue both rich and sweet

  And to rise in the world he carried a hod.

  Now Tim had a sort of tippling way,

  With the love of the liquor he was born,

  And to help him on to work each day

  He’d a drop of the craythur every morn.

  Whack fol de dah, dance with your partner,

  Welt the floor, your trotters shake,

  Isn’t it the truth I tell you?

  Lots of fun at Finnegan’s Wake.

  One morning Tim was rather full,

  His head felt heavy, and made him shake;

  He fell off the ladder and he broke his skull

  And they carried him home his corpse to wake.

  Well they rolled him up in a nice clean sheet

  And laid him out upon the bed,

  With a bottle of whiskey at his feet

  And a barrel of porter at his head.

  Whack fol de dah, etc.

  Well his friends assembled at the wake

  And Mrs Finnegan called for lunch,

  First they brought in tea and cake,

  Then pipes, tobacco and brandy punch.

  Then Widow Malone began to cry,

  ‘Such a lovely corpse, did you ever see?

  Arrah, Tim, Mavourneen, why did you die?’

  ‘Will you hould your gob?’ said Biddy McGee.

  Whack fol de dah, etc.

  Well Mary O’Connor took up the job,

  ‘Biddy,’ says she, ‘you’re wrong, I’m sure!’

  But Biddy gave her a belt in the gob

  That left her sprawling on the floor.

  A civil war did then engage,

  ’Twas woman to woman and man to man,

  Shillelagh law was all the rage

  As a row and a ruction soon began.

  Whack fol de dah, etc.

  Poor Micky Maloney raised his head,

  As a noggin of whiskey flew at him,

  It missed and, landing on the bed,

  The whiskey scattered over Tim.

  Bedad he revives, see how he rises,

  Tim Finnegan rising in the bed,

  Saying, ‘Whirl your whiskey around like blazes,

  Tare-and-ages, girls, do ye think I’m dead?’

  Whack fol de dah, etc.

  CHARLES O’FLAHERTY

  (c.1794–c.1828)

  The Humours of Donnybrook Fair

  To Donnybrook steer, all you sons of Parnassus –

  Poor painters, poor poets, poor newsmen, and knaves,

  To see what the fun is, that all fun surpasses –

  The sorrow and sadness of green Erin’s slaves.

  Oh, Donnybrook, jewel! full of mirth is your quiver,

  Where all flock from Dublin to gape and to stare

  At two elegant bridges, without e’er a river:

  So, success to the humours of Donnybrook Fair!

  O you lads that are witty, from famed Dublin city,

  And you that in pastime take any delight,

  To Donnybrook fly, for the time’s drawing nigh

  When fat pigs are hunted, and lean cobblers fight;

  When maidens, so swift, run for a new shift;

  Men, muffled in sacks, for a shirt they race there;

  There jockeys well booted, and horses sure-footed,

  All keep up the humours of Donnybrook Fair.

  The mason does come, with his line and his plumb;

  The sawyer and carpenter, brothers in chips;

  There are carvers and gilders, and all sort of builders,
r />   With soldiers from barracks and sailors from ships.

  There confectioners, cooks, and printers of books,

  There stampers of linen, and weavers, repair;

  There widows and maids, and all sort of trades,

  Go join in the humours of Donnybrook Fair.

  There tinkers and nailers, and beggars and tailors,

  And singers of ballads, and girls of the sieve;

  With Barrack Street rangers, the known ones and strangers,

  And many that no one can tell how they live:

  There horsemen and walkers, and likewise fruit-hawkers,

  And swindlers, the devil himself that would dare;

  With pipers and fiddlers, and dandies and diddlers, –

  All meet in the humours of Donnybrook Fair.

  ’Tis there are dogs dancing, and wild beasts a-prancing,

  With neat bits of painting in red, yellow, and gold;

  Toss-players and scramblers, and showmen and gamblers,

  Pickpockets in plenty, both of young and of old.

  There are brewers, and bakers, and jolly shoemakers,

  With butchers, and porters, and men that cut hair;

  There are mountebanks grinning, while others are sinning,

  To keep up the humours of Donnybrook Fair.

  Brisk lads and young lasses can there fill their glasses

  With whisky, and send a full bumper around;

  Jig it off in a tent till their money’s all spent,

  And spin like a top till they rest on the ground.

  Oh, Donnybrook capers, to sweet catgut-scrapers,

  They bother the vapours, and drive away care;

  And what is more glorious – there’s naught more uproarious –

  Huzza for the humours of Donnybrook Fair!

  ‘FATHER PROUT’

  (John Sylvester O’Mahony, 1804–66)

  The Town of Passage

  The town of Passage

  Is both large and spacious,

  And situated

  Upon the say;

  ’Tis nate and dacent,

  And quite adjacent,

  To come from Cork

  On a summer’s day.

  There you may slip in,

  To take a dipping,

  Forenent the shipping,

  That at anchor ride;

  Or in a wherry,

  Cross o’er the ferry,

  To ‘Carrigaloe,

  On the other side.’

  Mud cabins swarm in

  This place so charming,

  With sailors’ garments

  Hung out to dry;