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 avore. (3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door. (2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye heär em now? (2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy ! Canst tell us where's the heäre? (4) He's got awoy. (2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed A heäre a-scotèn on wi' half his speed. (1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done. They can't catch anything wi' lags to run. (2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance O' catchèn o''n. (3) They had a perty dance. (1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would; He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood. (3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me feäre On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heäre. THE CASTLE RUINS A HAPPY day at Whitsuntide, We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll Her youngest sister, Poll, so gaÿ, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul, An' mid her wedlock fay Above the beäten mwold upsprung The driven doust, a-spreadèn light, An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung, Wer wool a-quiv'rèn white; An' corn, a-sheenèn bright, did bow, On slopen Meldon's zunny brow. There, down the roofless wall did glow The zun upon the grassy vloor, 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, An' what o' that? Why, I meäde out Noo mwore than all the rest: That there wer woonce the nest of zome That wer a-gone avore we come. When woonce above the tun the smoke Did tweil as brisk as bees; Bi th' mass, iv he 'll let me, aw will! 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, But deawn i'th vale there's a rosy nook, 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, 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'er— This maunderin' to an' fro; That aw could go whoam to my own true love, An' stop at neet an' o'. OWD PINDER OWD Pinder were a rackless foo, He're sure to crack o' deein'; "Eawr Matty's very fresh an' yung; 'T would ony mon bewilder; Hoo'll wed again afore it's lung, ; For th' lass is fond o' childer My bit o' brass 'll fly, -yo 'n see, When th' coffin-lid has screen'd me; It gwos again my pluck to dee, An' lev her wick beheend me. "Come, Matty, come, an' cool my yed, Aw 'm finish'd, to my thinkin';' Hoo happ'd him nicely up, an' said, "Thae's brought it on wi' drinkin'!" Samuel Lapcock (LANCASHIRE) God bless thee, love, aw 'm fain tha 'rt come, Tha 'rt loike thi mother to a tee, Come, come, tha need n't look so shy, An' tak this haup'ney for thisel', |