STREET SONGS

BALLADS AND ANONYMOUS VERSE

THE BANSHEE

HE day was declining,

THE

The dark night drew near, And the old lord grew sadder,

And paler with fear.

Come, listen, my daughter,
Come nearer,-O near !
It's the wind on the water
That sighs in my ear.

Not the wind nor the water
Now stirred the night air,
But a warning far sadder,-
The banshee was there.
Now rising, now swelling,
On the night-wind it bore
One cadence, still telling,
I want thee, Rossmore!

And then fast came his breath,
And more fixed grew his
And the shadow of death

Told his hour was nigh.

In the dawn of that morning
The struggle was o'er;

eye,

For when thrice came the warning,
A corpse was Rossmore.

BELLEWSTOWN RACES

F a respite ye'd borrow from turmoil or sorrow,

IF I'll tell you the secret of how it is done;

'Tis found in this version of all the diversion That Bellewstown knows when the races come on. Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,

Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,
In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,
And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!

On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty and fashion!

It Banagher bangs by the table o' war;

From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity
Jogging along on an ould low-backed car.

Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,

It's concussive jollity to mollify still;

O the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly
From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.

Arrived at its summit the view that you come at, From etherealized Mourne to where Tara ascends, There's no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!

To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends. And the soil 'neath your feet has a memory sweet, The patriots' deeds they hallow it still;

Eighty-two's volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!) Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.

But hark! there's a shout,—the horses are out,— 'Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo ! To old Crock-a-Fotha, the people that dot the

Broad plateau around are all for a view.

"Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I'll bet on the yellow!" "Success to the green! faith, we'll stand by it

still!"

The uplands and hollows they're skimming like swallows,

Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.

In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers, Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows; While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing, Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes. More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn't. sticky,

But bounds from the boards like a pay from the

quill.

O'twould cure a rheumatic,—he'd jump up ecstatic At "Tatter Jack Walsh

upon Bellewstown Hill.

O'tis there 'neath the haycocks, all splendid like pay

cocks,

In chattering groups that the quality dine;

Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers
In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.
And the gentry around from Navan and Cavan are
"having,"

'Neath the shade of the trees, an exquisite quadrille. All we read in the pages of pastoral ages

Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.

THE BOYS OF KILKENNY

H, the boys of Kilkenny are nate roving blades,
And whenever they meet with the nice little

maids,

They kiss them and coax them and spend their money

free!

Oh, of all the towns in Ireland, Kilkenny for me!

Through the town of Kilkenny there runs a clear

stream.

In the town of Kilkenny there lives a fair dame:
Her cheeks are like roses, and her lips much the same,
Or a dish of ripe strawberries smothered in cream.

Her eyes are as black as Kilkenny's famed coal,
And 'tis they through my poor heart have burned a
big hole;

Her mind, like its river, is deep, clear and pure,

And her heart is more hard than its marble I'm sure.

Oh, Kilkenny's a fine town, that shines where it stands,
And the more I think on it the more my heart warms;
If I was in Kilkenny I'd feel quite at home,
For it's there I'd get sweethearts, but here I get none.

B

BRIAN O'LINN1

RIAN O'Linn was a gentleman born,

His hair it was long and his beard unshorn,
His teeth were out and his eyes far in-

"I'm a wonderful beauty," says Brian O'Linn!

1 This version is made up from several in the possession of Mr. P. J. McCall, of Dublin. The last verse figures in most collections of "The Rhymes and Jingles of Mother Goose."

Brian O'Linn was hard up for a coat,
He borrowed the skin of a neighboring goat,
He buckled the horns right under his chin
"They'll answer for pistols," says Brian O'Linn !

Brian O'Linn had no breeches to wear,
He got him a sheepskin to make him a pair,
With the fleshy side out and the wooly side in —
"They are pleasant and cool," says Brian O'Linn!

Brian O'Linn had no hat to his head,

He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,
He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin-
"'Twill pass for a feather," says Brian O'Linn !

Brian O'Linn had no shirt to his back,

He went to a neighbor and borrowed a sack,

He puckered a meal-bag under his chin

66

'They'll take it for ruffles," says Brian O'Linn!

Brian O'Linn had no shoes at all,

He bought an old pair at a cobbler's stall, The uppers were broke and the soles were thin "They'll do me for dancing," says Brian O'Linn!

Brian O'Linn had no watch for to wear,

He bought a fine turnip and scooped it out fair,
He slipped a live cricket right under the skin

They'll think it is ticking," says Brian O'Linn !

Brian O'Linn was in want of a brooch,

He stuck a brass pin in a big cockroach, The breast of his shirt he fixed it straight in "They'll think it's a diamond," says Brian O'Linn!