.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 53075
   :PG.Title: Songs of the Glens of Antrim
   :PG.Released: 2016-09-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Moira O'Neill
   :DC.Title: Songs of the Glens of Antrim
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1914
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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SONGS OF THE GLENS OF ANTRIM
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      Songs of
      The Glens of Antrim

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      BY

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      MOIRA O'NEILL

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      AUTHOR OF 'THE ELF ERRANT,' ETC., ETC.

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      ELEVENTH IMPRESSION

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      NEW YORK
      THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
      MCMIV

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      *All Rights reserved*

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      *TO*
      *\W. \C. \S.*

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   PREFACE.

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These Songs of the Glens of Antrim were
written by a Glenswoman in the dialect of the
Glens, and chiefly for the pleasure of other
Glens-people.

By the courtesy of the Editors of 'Blackwood'
and the 'Spectator' they are republished here.

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   MOIRA O'NEILL.

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   CONTENTS.

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`THE SONG OF GLEN DUN`_
`CORRYMEELA`_
`MARRIAGE`_
`SEA WRACK`_
`A BROKEN SONG`_
`THE FAIRY LOUGH`_
`A SONG OF GLENANN`_
`"FORGETTIN'"`_
`DENNY'S DAUGHTER`_
`LOST`_
`"CUTTIN' RUSHES"`_
`"THE OULD LAD"`_
`THE RACHRAY MAN`_
`BIRDS`_
`JOHNEEN`_
`"BEAUTY'S A FLOWER"`_
`THE BOY FROM BALLYTEARIM`_
`I MIND THE DAY`_
`GRACE FOR LIGHT`_
`THE GRAND MATCH`_
`THE SAILOR MAN`_
`AT SEA`_
`"LOOKIN' BACK"`_
`THE NORTH-WEST—CANADA`_
`BACK TO IRELAND`_

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.. _`THE SONG OF GLEN DUN`:

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   THE SONG OF GLEN DUN.

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..

   |  Sure this is blessed Erin an' this the same glen,
   |  The gold is on the whin-bush, the wather sings again,
   |  The Fairy Thorn's in flower,—an' what ails my heart then?
   |      Flower o' the May,
   |      Flower o' the May,
   |  What about the May time, an' he far away!

   |  Summer loves the green glen, the white bird loves the sea,
   |  An' the wind must kiss the heather top, an' the red bell hides a bee;
   |  As the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is dear to me.
   |      Flower o' the rose,
   |      Flower o' the rose,
   |  A thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows.

   |  The bracken up the braeside has rusted in the air,
   |  Three birches lean together, so silver limbed an' fair,
   |  Och! golden leaves are flyin' fast, but the scarlet roan is rare.
   |      Berry o' the roan,
   |      Berry o' the roan,
   |  The wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh alone.

   |  I knit beside the turf fire, I spin upon the wheel,
   |  Winter nights for thinkin' long, round runs the reel....
   |  But he never knew, he never knew that here for him I'd kneel.
   |      Sparkle o' the fire,
   |      Sparkle o' the fire,
   |  Mother Mary, keep my love, an' send me my desire!


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.. _`CORRYMEELA`:

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   CORRYMEELA.

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   |  Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay,
   |  An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day;
   |  Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat!
   |  *Och!  Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it.*

   |  There' a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees,
   |  This livin' air is moithered wi' the bummin' o' the bees;
   |  I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the heat
   |  *Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it.*

   |  The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews,
   |  There' not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes!
   |  I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child,
   |  *Och!  Corrymeela an' the low south wind.*

   |  Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care,
   |  By the luck o' love!  I'd still go light for all I did go bare.
   |  "God save ye, *colleen dhas*," I said: the girl she thought me wild.
   |  *Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind.*

   |  D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise,
   |  The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase;
   |  When one'st I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again—
   |  *Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain.*

   |  The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English town!
   |  For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown,
   |  For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain,
   |  *Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain.*


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.. _`MARRIAGE`:

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.. MARRIAGE.

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   |  I med an' ould *caillach* I knowed right well on the brow
   |          o' Carnashee:
   |  "The top o' the mornin'!" I says to her.  "God save ye!"
   |          she says to me:
   |      "An' och! if it's you,
   |      Tell me true,
   |      When are ye goin' to marry?"
   |  "I'm here," says I, "to be married to-morrow,
   |  Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."

   |  "As sure as ye're young an' fair," says she, "one day ye'll
   |          be ugly an' ould.
   |  If ye haven't a husband, who'll care," says she, "to call ye
   |          in out o' the could?
   |      Left to yerself,
   |      Laid on the shelf,—
   |      Now is yer time to marry.
   |  Musha! don't tell *me* ye'll be married to-morrow,
   |  Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."

   |  "I may be dead ere I'm ould," says I, "for nobody knows their day.
   |  I never was fear'd o' the could," says I, "but I'm fear'd
   |          to give up me way.
   |      Good or bad,
   |      Sorry or glad,
   |      'Tis mine no more when I marry.
   |  So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,
   |  Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."

   |  The poor ould *caillach* went down the hill shakin' her finger at me.
   |  "'Tis on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' that's
   |          what it is," says she.
   |      But *thon* was the day
   |      Dan MacIlray
   |      Had me promise to marry.
   |  So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,—
   |  The man he is found, but the money's to borrow.

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.. _`SEA WRACK`:

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   SEA WRACK.

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   |  The wrack was dark an' shiny where it floated in the sea,
   |  There was no one in the brown boat but only him an' me;
   |  Him to cut the sea wrack, me to mind the boat,
   |  An' not a word between us the hours we were afloat.
   |      The wet wrack,
   |      The sea wrack,
   |      The wrack was strong to cut.

   |  We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the sun,
   |  An' what should call my lad then, to sail from Cushendun?
   |  With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the deep,
   |  Him to sail the old boat, me to fall asleep.
   |      The dry wrack,
   |      The sea wrack,
   |      The wrack was dead so soon.

   |  There' a fire low upon the rocks to burn the wrack to kelp,
   |  There' a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an' sorra one to help!
   |  Him beneath the salt sea, me upon the shore,
   |  By sunlight or moonlight we'll lift the wrack no more.
   |      The dark wrack,
   |      The sea wrack,
   |      The wrack may drift ashore.



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.. _`A BROKEN SONG`:

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   A BROKEN SONG.

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..

   |  '*Where am I from?*'  From the green hills of Erin.
   |  '*Have I no song then?*'  My songs are all sung.
   |  '*What o' my love?*'  'Tis alone I am farin'.
   |  Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.

   |  '*If she was tall?*'  Like a king's own daughter.
   |  '*If she was fair?*'  Like a mornin' o' May.
   |  When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,
   |  When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.

   |  '*Where did she dwell?*'  Where one'st I had my dwellin'.
   |  '*Who loved her best?*'  There' no one now will know.
   |  '*Where is she gone?*'  Och, why would I be tellin'!
   |  Where she is gone there I can never go.


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.. _`THE FAIRY LOUGH`:

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   THE FAIRY LOUGH.

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   |  Loughareema!  Loughareema
   |    Lies so high among the heather;
   |  A little lough, a dark lough,
   |    The wather's black an' deep.
   |  Ould herons go a-fishin' there
   |    An' sea-gulls all together
   |  Float roun' the one green island
   |    On the fairy lough asleep.

   |  Loughareema, Loughareema;
   |    When the sun goes down at seven,
   |  When the hills are dark an' *airy*,
   |    'Tis a curlew whistles sweet!
   |  Then somethin' rustles all the reeds
   |    That stand so thick an' even;
   |  A little wave runs up the shore
   |    An' flees, as if on feet.

   |  Loughareema, Loughareema!
   |    Stars come out, an' stars are hidin';
   |  The wather whispers on the stones,
   |    The flittherin' moths are free
   |  One'st before the mornin' light
   |    The Horsemen will come ridin'
   |  Roun' an' roun' the fairy lough,
   |    An' no one there to see.



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.. _`A SONG OF GLENANN`:

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   A SONG OF GLENANN.

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..

   |  Och, when we lived in ould Glenann
   |    Meself could lift a song!
   |  An' ne'er an hour by day or dark
   |    Would I be thinkin' long.

   |  The weary wind might take the roof,
   |    The rain might lay the corn;
   |  We'd up an' look for betther luck
   |    About the morrow's morn.

   |  But since we come away from there
   |    An' far across the say,
   |  I still have wrought, an' still have thought
   |    The way I'm doin' the day.

   |  An' now we're quarely betther fixed,
   |    In troth! there' nothin' wrong:
   |  But me an' mine, by rain an' shine
   |    We do be thinkin' long.


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.. _`"FORGETTIN'"`:

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   "FORGETTIN'."

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   |  The night when last I saw my lad
   |    His eyes were bright an' wet.
   |  He took my two hands in his own,
   |    "'Tis well," says he, "we're met.
   |  *Asthore machree!* the likes o' me
   |    I bid ye now forget."

   |  Ah, sure the same's a thriflin' thing,
   |    'Tis more I'd do for him!
   |  I mind the night I promised well,
   |    Away on Ballindim.—
   |  An' every little while or so
   |    I thry forgettin' Jim.

   |  It shouldn't take that long to do,
   |    An' him not very tall:
   |  'Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice,
   |    A boy that's out o' call,—
   |  An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain
   |    As e'er a six-fut wall.

   |  Och, never fear, my jewel!
   |    I'd forget ye now this minute,
   |  If I only had a notion
   |    O' the way I should begin it;
   |  But first an' last it isn't known
   |    The heap o' throuble's in it.

   |  Meself began the night ye went
   |    An' hasn't done it yet;
   |  I'm nearly fit to give it up,
   |    For where's the use to fret?—
   |  An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me
   |    Wid mindin' to forget.



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.. _`DENNY'S DAUGHTER`:

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   DENNY'S DAUGHTER.

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   |  Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I be to pass,
   |    All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass;
   |  In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root,
   |    Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled undher one bare foot.
   |        For the look of her,
   |        The look of her
   |        Comes back on me to-day,—
   |        Wi' the eyes of her,
   |        The eyes of her
   |        That took me on the way.

   |  Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' stiff upon her bed,
   |    Yet I be to think there's sunlight fallin' somewhere on her head:
   |  She'll be singin' *Ave Mary* where the flowers never wilt,
   |    She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt....
   |        For the love of her,
   |        The love of her
   |        That would not be my wife:
   |        An' the loss of her,
   |        The loss of her
   |        Has left me lone for life.



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.. _`LOST`:

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   LOST.

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   |  Listen, oh my jewel, I would say,—
   |    Only wait to' I can get the word:
   |  Sure I thought I had it sweet an' gay
   |    Like the bravest song o' summer bird.
   |  Faith!  I knew it well an' very well
   |    When this hour the rain begun to fall,
   |  Now the sorra one o' me can tell
   |    What about it was at all, at all.

   |  Listen, oh my jewel, I was wrong,—
   |    Never, never lived a word so sad;
   |  Not the heavy sea that drives along
   |    Bears such weighty throuble as it had.
   |  *Och anee!* wi' ne'er a voice to cry,
   |    Like the weary cloud or drownin' moon
   |  So it sank, or so was carried by:
   |    Never told is all forgot so soon.



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.. _`"CUTTIN' RUSHES"`:

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   "CUTTIN' RUSHES."

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   |  Oh maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago!
   |    Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes.
   |  Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was low.
   |    Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the thrushes.

   |  *Young, still young!*—an' drenchin' wet the grass,
   |    Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down;
   |  *Here, lad, here!* will ye follow where I pass,
   |    An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain.

   |  Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so?
   |    *Rippin'* round the bog pools high among the heather,
   |  The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,
   |    'Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.
   |  *Come, dear, come!*—an' back along the burn
   |    See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown.
   |  *Quick, one kiss*,—sure, there' some one at the turn!
   |    "Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the mountain."

   |  Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago....
   |    I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.
   |  Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow,
   |    For all that's fair, I'd sooner see a bunch o' green rushes.
   |  *Run, burn, run!* can ye mind when we were young?
   |    The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' brown:
   |  *Sing, burn, sing!* can ye mind the song ye sung
   |    The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?





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.. _`"THE OULD LAD"`:

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   "THE OULD LAD."

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   |  I mind meself a wee boy wi' no plain talk,
   |    An' standin' not the height o' two peats;
   |  There was things meself consated 'or the time that I could walk,
   |    An' who's to tell when wit an' childer meets?
   |        'Twas the daisies down in the low grass,
   |          The stars high up in the skies,
   |        The first I knowed of a mother's face
   |          Wi' the kind love in her eyes,
   |                            Och, och!
   |            The kind love in her eyes.

   |  I went the way of other lads that's neither good nor bad,
   |    An' still, d'ye see, a lad has far to go;
   |  But the things meself consated when I wasn't sick nor sad,
   |    They're aisy told, an' little use to know.
   |        'Twas whiles a boat on the say beyont,
   |          An' whiles a girl on the shore,
   |        An' whiles a scrape o' the fiddle-strings,
   |          Or maybe an odd thing more
   |                            In troth!
   |            Maybe an odd thing more.

   |  A man, they say, in spite of all, is betther for a wife,
   |    In-undher this ould roof I live me lone;
   |  I never seen the woman yet I wanted all me life,
   |    An' I never made me pillow on a stone.
   |        'Tis "fancy buys the ribbon" an' all,
   |          An' fancy sticks to the young;
   |        But a man of his years can do wi' a pipe
   |          Can smoke an' hould his tongue,
   |                            D'ye mind,
   |            Smoke an' hould his tongue.

   |  Ye see me now an ould man, his work near done,
   |    Sure the hair upon me head's gone white;
   |  But the things meself consated 'or the time that I could run,
   |    They're the nearest to me heart this night.
   |        Just the daisies down in the low grass,
   |          The stars high up in the skies,
   |        The first I knowed of a mother's face
   |          Wi' the kind love in her eyes,
   |                            Och, och!
   |            The kind love in her eyes.



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.. _`THE RACHRAY MAN`:

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   THE RACHRAY MAN.

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   |  Och, what was it got me at all that time
   |  To promise I'd marry a Rachray man?
   |  An' now he'll not listen to rason or rhyme,
   |  He's strivin' to hurry me all that he can.
   |    "Come on, an' ye *be* to come on!" says he,
   |    "Ye're bound for the Island, to live wi' me."

   |  See Rachray Island beyont in the bay,
   |  An' the dear knows what they be doin' out there
   |  But fishin' an' fightin' an' tearin' away,
   |  An' who's to hindher, an' what do they care?
   |    The goodness can tell what 'ud happen to me
   |    When Rachray 'ud have me, *anee, anee!*

   |  I might have took Pether from over the hill,
   |  A dacent poacher, the kind poor boy:
   |  Could I keep the ould places about me still
   |  I'd never set foot out o' sweet Ballyvoy.
   |    My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves,
   |    An' blackneck divers, an' weary ould waves!

   |  I'll never win back now, whatever may fall,
   |  So give me good luck, for ye'll see me no more;
   |  Sure an Island man is the mischief an' all—
   |  An' me that never was married before!
   |    Oh think o' my fate when ye dance at a fair,
   |    In Rachray there' no Christianity there.



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.. _`BIRDS`:

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   BIRDS.

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   |  Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush
   |    Whistlin' bould in March,
   |  Before there' a primrose peepin' out,
   |    Or a wee red cone on the larch;
   |  Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud,
   |    An' the wind to come over the sea,
   |  But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud,
   |    He's never the bird for me.

   |  Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush
   |    After an April rain
   |  Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves,
   |    Wishful to sing again;
   |  An' low wi' love when he's near the nest,
   |    An' loud from the top o' the tree,
   |  But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast,
   |    He's never the bird for me.

   |  Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo
   |    Callin' his mate in May,
   |  When one sweet thought is the whole of his life,
   |    An' he tells it the one sweet way.
   |  But my heart is sore at the cushadoo
   |    Filled wid his own soft glee,
   |  Over an' over his "me an' you!"
   |    He's never the bird for me.

   |  Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast
   |    Singin' his lone on a thorn,
   |  Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost,
   |    Brave wid his heart forlorn.
   |  The time is in dark November,
   |    An' no spring hopes has he:
   |  "Remember," he sings, "remember!"
   |    Ay, *thon's* the wee bird for me.



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.. _`JOHNEEN`:

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   JOHNEEN.

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..

   |  Sure he's five months old, an' he's two foot long,
   |                                  Baby Johneen;
   |  Watch yerself now, for he's terrible sthrong,
   |                                  Baby Johneen.
   |  An' his fists 'ill be up if ye make any slips,
   |  He has finger-ends like the daisy-tips,
   |  But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips,
   |                                  Will Johneen.

   |  There' nobody can rightly tell the colour of his eyes,
   |                                  This Johneen;
   |  For they're partly o' the earth an' still they're partly o' the skies,
   |                                  Like Johneen.
   |  So far as he's thravelled he's been laughin' all the way,
   |  For the little soul is quare an' wise, the little heart is gay;
   |  An' he likes the merry daffodils, he thinks they'd do to play
   |                                  With Johneen.

   |  He'll sail a boat yet, if he only has his luck,
   |                                  Young Johneen,
   |  For he takes to the wather like any little duck,
   |                                  Boy Johneen;
   |  Sure them are the hands now to pull on a rope,
   |  An' nate feet for walkin' the deck on a slope,
   |  But the ship she must wait a wee while yet, I hope,
   |                                  For Johneen.

   |  For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet,
   |                                  Och, Johneen;
   |  'Tis you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet,
   |                                  Wee Johneen.
   |  Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night
   |  *Slainte gal, avic machree!* live an' do right,
   |  *Slainte gal avourneen!* may your days be bright,
   |                                  Johneen!




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.. _`"BEAUTY'S A FLOWER"`:

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   "BEAUTY'S A FLOWER."

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..

   |      *Youth's for an hour,*
   |      *Beauty's a flower,*
   |      *But love is the jewel that wins the world.*

   |  Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet,
   |  Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;
   |  In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,
   |  I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.

   |  Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long,
   |  There' little knowin' who may live to sing another song;
   |  For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,
   |  An' Mary—God be good to her!—is all I love in life.

   |      *Youth's for an hour,*
   |      *Beauty's a flower,*
   |      *But love is the jewel that wins the world.*


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.. _`THE BOY FROM BALLYTEARIM`:

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   THE BOY FROM BALLYTEARIM.

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..

   |  He was born in Ballytearim, where there' little work to do,
   |  An' the longer he was livin' there the poorer still he grew;
   |  Says he till all belongin' him, "Now happy may ye be!
   |  But I'm off to find me fortune," sure he says, says he.

   |  "All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin;
   |  All the crows in Ballytearim has a way o' gettin' thin."
   |  So the people did be praisin' him the year he wint away,—
   |  "Troth, I'll hould ye can do it," sure they says, says they.

   |  Och, the boy 'ud still be thinkin' long, an' he across the foam,
   |  An' the two ould hearts be thinkin' long that waited for him home:
   |  But a girl that sat her lone an' whiles, her head upon her knee,
   |  Would be sighin' low for sorra, not a word says she.

   |  He won home to Ballytearim, an' the two were livin' yet,
   |  When he heard where she was lyin' now the eyes of him were wet;
   |  "Faith, here's me two fists full o' gold, an' little good to me
   |  When I'll never meet an' kiss her," sure he says, says he.

   |  Then the boy from Ballytearim set his face another road,
   |  An' whatever luck has followed him was never rightly knowed:
   |  But still it's truth I'm tellin' ye—or may I never sin!—
   |  All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin.



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.. _`I MIND THE DAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   I MIND THE DAY.

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..

   |  I mind the day I'd wish I was a say-gull flyin' far,
   |    For then I'd fly an' find you in the West;
   |  An' I'd wish I was a little rose as sweet as roses are,
   |    For then you'd maybe wear it on your breast,
   |                                        *Achray!*
   |    You'd maybe take an' wear it on your breast.

   |  I'd wish I could be living near, to love you day an' night,
   |    To let no throuble touch you or annoy;
   |  I'd wish I could be dyin' here to rise a spirit light,
   |    If Them above 'ud let me bring you joy,
   |                                        *Achray!*
   |    If Them above 'ud let me win you joy.

   |  An' now I wish no wishes, nor ever fall a tear,
   |    Nor take a thought beyont the way I'm led:
   |  I mind the day that's over-by, an' bless the day that's here,
   |    There be to come a day when we'll be dead,
   |                                        *Achray!*
   |    A longer, lighter day when we'll be dead.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GRACE FOR LIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   GRACE FOR LIGHT.

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..

   |  When we were little childer we had a quare wee house,
   |    Away up in the heather by the head o' Brabla' burn;
   |  The hares we'd see them scootin', an' we'd hear the crowin' grouse,
   |    An' when we'd all be in at night ye'd not get room to turn.

   |  The youngest two She'd put to bed, their faces to the wall,
   |    An' the lave of us could sit aroun', just anywhere we might;
   |  Herself 'ud take the rush-dip an' light it for us all,
   |    An' "*God be thankèd!*" she would say,—"*now we have a light*."

   |  Then we be to quet the laughin' an' pushin' on the floor,
   |    An' think on One who called us to come and be forgiven;
   |  Himself 'ud put his pipe down, an' say the good word more,
   |    "*May the Lamb o' God lead us all to the Light o' Heaven!*"

   |  There' a wheen things that used to be an' now has had their day,
   |    The nine Glens of Antrim can show ye many a sight;
   |  But not the quare wee house where we lived up Brabla' way,
   |    Nor a child in all the nine Glens that knows the grace for light.



.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GRAND MATCH`:

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   THE GRAND MATCH.

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..

   |  Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young,
   |  High was his step in the jig that he sprung,
   |  *He* had the looks an' the sootherin' tongue,—
   |    An' he wanted a girl wid a fortune.

   |  Nannie was grey-eyed an' Nannie was tall,
   |  Fair was the face hid in-undher her shawl,
   |  Troth! an' he liked her the best o' them all,—
   |    But she'd not a *traneen* to her fortune.

   |  He be to look out for a likelier match,
   |  So he married a girl that was counted a catch,
   |  An' as ugly as need be, the dark little patch,—
   |    But that was a thrifle, he tould her.

   |  She brought him her good-lookin' gold to admire,
   |  She brought him her good-lookin' cows to his byre,
   |  But far from good-lookin' she sat by his fire,—
   |    An' paid him that "thrifle" he tould her.

   |  He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by,
   |  An' he thought like a fool to get round her he'd try;
   |  Wid a smile on her lip an' a spark in her eye,
   |    She said, "How is the woman that owns ye?"

   |  Och, never be tellin' the life that he's led!
   |  Sure many's the night that he'll wish himself dead,
   |  For the sake o' two eyes in a pretty girl's head,—
   |    An' the tongue o' the woman that owns him.



.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SAILOR MAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE SAILOR MAN.

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..

   |  Sure a terrible time I was out o' the way,
   |    Over the sea, over the sea,
   |  Till I come back to Ireland one sunny day,—
   |    Betther for me, betther for me
   |  The first time me foot got the feel o' the ground
   |    I was sthrollin' along in an Irish city,
   |  That hasn't its aquil the world around
   |    For the air that is sweet an' the girls that are pretty.

   |  Light on their feet now they passed me an' sped,
   |    Give you me word, give you me word,
   |  Every girl wid a turn o' the head
   |    Just like a bird, just like a bird;
   |  An' the lashes so thick round their beautiful eyes
   |    Shinin' to tell you it's fair time o' day wid them,
   |  Back in me heart wid a kind o' surprise
   |    I think how the Irish girls has the way wid them!

   |  Och man alive! but it's little ye know
   |    That never was there, never was there.
   |  Look where ye like for them, long may ye go,—
   |    What do I care? what do I care?
   |  Plenty as blackberries where will ye find
   |    Rare pretty girls not by two nor by three o' them?
   |  Only just there where they grow, d'ye mind
   |    Still like the blackberries, more than ye see o' them.

   |  Long, long away, an' no matther how far,
   |    'Tis the girls that I miss, the girls that I miss:
   |  Women are round ye wherever ye are
   |    Not worth a kiss, not worth a kiss.
   |  Over in Ireland many's the one,—
   |    Well do I know, that has nothing to say wid them,—
   |  Sweeter than anythin' undher the sun,
   |    Och, 'tis the Irish girls has the way wid them!



.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AT SEA`:

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   AT SEA.

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..

   |  'Tis the long blue Head o' Garron
   |                      From the sea,
   |  Och, we're sailin' past the Garron
   |                      On the sea.
   |  Now Glen Ariff lies behind,
   |  Where the waters fall an' wind
   |  By the willows o' Glen Ariff to the sea.

   |  Ould Luirgedan rises green
   |                      By the sea,
   |  Ay, he stands between the Glens
   |                      An' the sea.
   |  Now we're past the darklin' caves,
   |  Where the breakin' summer waves
   |  Wandher in wi' their trouble from the sea.

   |  But Cushendun lies nearer
   |                      To the sea,
   |  An' *thon's* a shore is dearer
   |                      Still to me,
   |  For the land that I am leavin'
   |  Sure the heart I have is grievin',
   |  But the ship has set her sails for the sea.

   |  Och, what's this is deeper
   |                      Than the sea?
   |  An' what's this is stronger
   |                      Nor the sea?
   |  When the call is "all or none,"
   |  An' the answer "all for one,"
   |  Then we be to sail away across the sea.



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.. _`"LOOKIN' BACK"`:

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   "LOOKIN' BACK."

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..

   |  Wathers o' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin',
   |  Since I was near ye what have I seen?
   |  Deep great seas, an' a sthrong wind sighin'
   |  Night an' day where the waves are green.
   |  *Struth na Moile*, the wind goes sighin'
   |  Over a waste o' wathers green.

   |  Slemish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather,
   |  High are the Rockies, airy-blue;
   |  Sure ye have snows in the winter weather,
   |  Here they're lyin' the long year through.
   |  Snows are fair in the summer weather,
   |  Och, an' the shadows between are blue!

   |  Lone Glen Dun an' the wild glen flowers,
   |  Little ye know if the prairie is sweet.
   |  Roses for miles, an' redder than ours
   |  Spring here undher the horses' feet,
   |  Ay, an' the black-eyed gold sunflowers,
   |  Not as the glen flowers small an' sweet.

   |  Wathers o' Moyle, I hear ye callin'
   |  Clearer for half o' the world between,
   |  Antrim hills an' the wet rain fallin'
   |  Whiles ye are nearer than snow-tops keen:
   |  Dreams o' the night an' a night wind callin'—
   |  What is the half o' the world between?



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.. _`THE NORTH-WEST—CANADA`:

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   THE NORTH-WEST—CANADA.

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..

   |  Oh would ye hear, and would ye hear
   |        Of the windy, wide North-West?
   |  Faith! 'tis a land as green as the sea,
   |  That rolls as far and rolls as free,
   |  With drifts of flowers, so many there be,
   |        Where the cattle roam and rest.

   |  Oh could ye see, and could ye see
   |        The great gold skies so clear,
   |  The rivers that race through the pine-shade dark,
   |  The mountainous snows that take no mark,
   |  Sun-lit and high on the Rockies stark,
   |        So far they seem as near.

   |  Then could ye feel, and could ye feel
   |        How fresh is a Western night!
   |  When the long land-breezes rise and pass
   |  And sigh in the rustling prairie grass,
   |  When the dark-blue skies are clear as glass,
   |        And the same old stars are bright.

   |  But could ye know, and for ever know
   |        The word of the young North-West!
   |  A word she breathes to the true and bold,
   |  A word misknown to the false and cold,
   |  A word that never was spoken or sold,
   |        But the one that knows is blest.



.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BACK TO IRELAND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   BACK TO IRELAND.

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..

   |  Oh tell me, will I ever win to Ireland again,
   |    *Astore!* from the far North-West?
   |  Have we given all the rainbows, an' green woods an' rain,
   |    For the suns an' the snows o' the West?
   |  "Them that goes to Ireland must thravel night an' day,
   |  An' them that goes to Ireland must sail across the say,
   |  For the len'th of here to Ireland is half the world away—
   |  An' you'll lave your heart behind you in the West.
   |        Set your face for Ireland,
   |        Kiss your friends in Ireland,
   |        But lave your heart behind you in the West."

   |  On a dim an' shiny mornin' the ship she comes to land,
   |    Early, oh early in the mornin',
   |  The silver wathers o' the Foyle go slidin' to the strand,
   |    Whisperin', "Ye're welcome in the mornin'."
   |  There's darkness on the holy hills I know are close aroun',
   |  But the stars are shinin' up the sky, the stars are shinin' down,
   |  They make a golden cross above, they make a golden crown,
   |  An' meself could tell ye why,—in the mornin'.
   |        Sure an' this is Ireland,
   |        Thank God for Ireland!
   |        I'm comin' back to Ireland the mornin'.

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.. class:: center small

   PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.

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.. pgfooter::