WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien ? 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground God bless you, my sweet Tipperary! for where could your match be found? They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye; But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie. O, no! macushla storin, bright, bright, and warm are you, With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourself and your country true. And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who brought it there Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair; You've a hand for the grasp of friendship - another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them to take. O, come for awhile among us and give us the friendly hand! And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land; From Upper to Lower Ormonde, bright welcomes and smiles will spring: On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king. Ellen Mary Patrick Downing WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE WERE I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him, 'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear; I'd chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him, So faint and so tender his heart would but hear; I'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland, And there at his feet I would lay them all down; I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken island, Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own. There's a rose by his dwelling, - I'd tend the lone treasure, That he might have flowers when the summer would come; There's a harp in his hall, I would wake its sweet measure, For he must have music to brighten his home. The chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high, An' zinkèn low, did swiftly vlee His coal-black nose an' russet ear: Vrom your gay feäce, his woone smile mwore. An' while your mother bustled sprack, In drough the slammèn geäte, along A-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong: Now you that wer the daughter there, Than what your heärty mother bore; The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi' you What's needvul free o' pinchèn need: An' vind that you ha' still in store My evenèn meal, an' woone smile mwore. BLACKMWORE MAIDENS THE primrwose in the sheäde do blow, The thyme upon the down do grow, If you could zee their comely gaït, You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pol lard! no! b'ye blind? (2) There, I do zee em over-right thik COW. (1) He's geäme a-runnèn too. Why, he do mwore Than eärn his life. (3) His life wer his avore. (1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right. (1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight. (1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well atried Agwaïn down Verny Hill, o' t' other zide. They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops Wull teäke en on to Knapton Lower Copse. (2) An' that's a meesh that he 've a-took We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul, An' mid her wedlock fay; Above the beäten mwold upsprung The driven doust, a-spreadèn light, There, down the roofless wall did glow An' smokeless now avore the zun My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings A-flappen vrom their ivy bow'rs; My wife did watch my maïd's light springs, Out here an' there vor flow'rs; An' there, of all that pried about The walls, I overlook'd em best, When woonce above the tun the smoke Edwin Waugh (LANCASHIRE) THE DULE'S I'THIS BONNET O' MINE TH' SWEETHEART GATE Он, there's mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end, But nobbut one for me; It winds by a rindlin' wayter side, It wanders into a shady dell; An' when aw 've done for th' day, Aw never can sattle this heart o' mine, Beawt walkin' deawn that way. It's noather garden, nor posied lea, Nor wayter rindlin' clear; But deawn i'th vale there's a rosy nook, An' my true love lives theer. It's olez summer where th' heart's content, Tho' wintry winds may blow; An' there's never a gate 'at 's so kind to th' fuut, As th' gate one likes to go. When aw set off o' sweetheartin,' aw 've But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass, It sets my heart a-jee ; Oh, there's summut i' th' leet o' yon two blue e'en That plays the dule wi' me! When th' layrock 's finished his wark aboon, He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops Aw know that hoo's reet full well; Aw wish that Candlemas day were past, An' aw wish that Kesmass time were here, Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'erThis maunderin' to an' fro; That aw could go whoam to my own true love, An' stop at neet an' o'. |