Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,
Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,
Bless me, ain’t it pleasant,
Sparking Sunday night?
How your heart is thumping ’gainst your Sunday vest,
How wickedly ’tis working on this day of rest!
Hours seem but minutes, as they take their flight,
Bless me, ain’t it pleasant, sparking Sunday night?
Dad and Mam are sleeping, on their peaceful bed,
Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.
“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;
Bless me, DON’T we do it--sparking Sunday night?
One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,
You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,
She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;
Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant--sparking Sunday night?
But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,
As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go has COME.
You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”
And wonder if IT ever--sparked on Sunday night!
One, two, three sweet kisses; four, five, six, you hook;
But, thinking that you rob her, give back those you took;
Then, as for home you hurry, from the fair one’s sight,
Don’t you wish EACH DAY was only Sunday night?
42
Answer of Katy Darling.
Oh, in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,
There my smiles you may ever more behold.
I believed not you were false to Katy Darling.
Or that your love had ever grown cold.
Oh no, I could not believe
That my Dermot was untrue.
No love was like the love of Katy Darling,
Search the world you will find very few.
I’m ever near you, dearest.
When all is wrapp’d in slumber, Katy Darling
Is watching by her dear Dermot’s side,
Your loving and beloved Katy Darling,
Her spirit will ever be your guide.
When you kneel by the grave of Katy Darling,
Katy’s spirit will meet with you there,
Dear Dermot, weep no more for Katy Darling,
This bright world is free from all care.
By my grave I see you weeping
In the silent starry light,
I long to have you with your Katy Darling,
Happy you’d be with her this night.
I hear you dear Dermot.
And every night by the grave of Katy Darling,
She will meet you till you lie by her side,
Then in heaven you will meet your Katy Darling,
Dear Dermot and his much loved bride.
43
Sprig of Shillelah.
Och, love is the soul of a neat Irishman;
He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can;
With a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.
His heart is good-humor’d, ’tis honest and sound,
No malice or hatred is there to be found;
He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights
For love--all for love--for in that he delights,
With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.
Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair?
An Irishman all in his glory is there,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;
His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck,
A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;
He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown,
He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,
From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,
Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.
To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,
A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”
With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?
“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,
Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,
Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green.
May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,
Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon.
United and happy, at liberty’s shrine,
May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine
Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”
44
The Low Back’d Car.
When first I saw sweet Peggy,
’Twas on a market day;
A Low Back’d Car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay.
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And deck’d with flowers of spring,
No flowers were there that could compare
With the lovely girl I sing,
As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar,
Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll,
But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.
In battle’s wild commotion,
The proud and mighty Mars,
With hostile scythes, demands his tythes,
Of death in warlike scars;
But Peggy, peaceful goddess,
Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down in the market-town,
As right and left they fly;
As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far,
For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heart
That is hit from the Low Back’d Car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,
Has strings of ducks and geese;
But the scores of hearts she slaughters,
By far outnumber these.
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle-dove,
Well worth the cage, I do engage,
Of the blooming God of Love.
As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar,
And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking,
As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.
I’d rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
With a lady for my bride.
For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,
With my arm around her waist.
As we rode in that Low Back’d Car, to be married by Father Magar,
Oh, my heart would beat high at each glance of her eye,
As we rode in the Low Back’d Car.
45
Poor Old Maids.
Fourscore and four of us, poor old maids,
What will become of us, poor old maids?
Fourscore and four of us,
Without a penny in our purse,
What the deuce then can be worse, poor old maids?
Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,
Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue, poor old maids,
Dress’d in yellow, pink, and blue,
Nursing cats is all we do,
Nursing cats is all we do, poor old maids.
All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,
All alone we go to bed, poor old maids,
All alone we go to bed,
And not a word to us is said,
And not a word to us is said, poor old maids.
We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,
We’re all in a willing mind, poor old maids,
We’re all in a willing mind,
If the men would be so kind,
As to wed the lame and blind, poor old maids.
And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,
And if there’s any in this room, poor old maids,
And if there’s any in this room,
I hope they’ll marry very soon,
And enjoy life’s honeymoon, poor old maids.
46
O God! Preserve the Mariner.
Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND, & CO., 547 Broadway, publishers
of the music.
O God! preserve the mariner,
When o’er the troubled deep
The rolling thunder-lightning flash,
And howling tempests sweep;
When like a reed the tall mast shakes,
And human art is vain,
O God! restore the mariner
To home, dear home again.
The sailor’s wife sinks down to rest,
But dreams disturb her sleep,
She starts to hear the hollow wind,
And turns aside to weep;
She clasps her baby, and she prays,
Through tears, like falling rain,
“O God! restore the mariner,
To home, dear home again.”
The widow for her darling child,
Her bosom’s only joy,
Invokes the Power that rules the storm,
For blessings on her boy.
When ruin lurketh in the cloud,
And death sweeps o’er the main,
O God! restore the mariner,
To home, dear home again.
47
A Merry Gipsy Girl again.
Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, N. Y.,
publishers of the music.
A merry Gipsy girl again,
I’m free to rove at will:
The woodlands wild, the meadows sweet,
The valley and the hill
How poor the proudest roof ye boast
To that high-arched dome,
Whose boundless circle makes me think
The whole wide world my home.
Here none can bar the free fresh air,
Nor mete out heaven’s light,
Nor make the glorious day appear
Too near akin to night.
Amid the beauties of the mead
My summer days are spent,
And joyfully the stars look down
Upon my Gipsy tent;
And joyfully the stars look down
Upon my Gipsy tent.
I wander freely as the fawn
Which hath not learnt to fear
The death-cry of the hunter’s voice
Resounding far and near;
And bounding through the woods
I feel as if I too could soar,
Bird-like, upon the wings of joy,
And sing for evermore!
Come out, ye pent-up toilers!
Come, from city dark and drear,
And see what gladness Nature has
In all her beauties here;
And ere ye seek your homes, ye’ll say,
Your time has well been spent,
And wish that all the world
Could be, one happy Gipsy tent;
And wish that all the world
Could be, one happy Gipsy tent.
48
Let Me Kiss Him for His Mother.
Let me kiss him for his mother,
Let me kiss his youthful brow;
I will love him for his mother,
And seek her blessing now.
Kind friends have soothed his pillow,
Have watch’d his every care;
Beneath the weeping willow,
Oh, lay him gently there.