I might buy a laced hat
For your handsome young head,
That would pass with O'Hara,
When all's done and said;
But to you 'tis no odds
Though I fast day and night,
Your mouth is wide open
Still asking its light.
When I go out to Mass
My best coat is in slashes,
And quite half my food
Has been burnt in the ashes;
My heels may go cold,
'Tis for you, I allege,
The tobacconist's shop
Has my breeches in pledge!
The time that poor Nora
Thought me down at the loom,
Throwing the shuttle
Or doing a turn;
I'd be lighting my pipe
About old Joseph's door;
Discoursing and drinking
An hour or more.
O, my little duideen,
My little duideen,
You're the cunningest rogue
That ever was seen!
But I'm done with you quite,
Off, out of my sight!
With O'Kelly the weaver
I'm away at daylight!
[LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY BOURKE]
From an Irish Keen.
"There's darkness in thy dwelling-place and silence reigns above,
And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.
Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! And Morian Shehone
Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.
Oh! snow-white were thy virtues!—the beautiful, the young,
The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue;
The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were bound,
For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.
My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;
The sorrowful are dumb for thee—the grieved their tears forget;
And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;
For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.
"Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,
But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;
Not so with my heart's faithful love—the dark grave cannot hide
From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.
Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow—
'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.
Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?
Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?
Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,
Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?
Oh! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?
Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!