Album of Six Songs by A. P. Graves

Would I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you,
   Or Erin's rose in all its beauty blown,
To drop my richest petals down before you,
   Within the garden where you walk alone;
In hope you'd turn and pluck a little posy,
   With loving fingers through my foliage pressed,
And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy
   To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast
 
Would I might take the pigeon's flight towards you,
   And perch beside your window-pane above,
And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you,
   O hundred thousand treasures of my love;
In hope you'd stretch your slender hand and take me,
   And smooth my wildly-fluttering wings to rest,
And lift me to your loving lips and make me
   My bower of blisses in your loving breast.

The white blossom's off the bog, and the leaves are off the trees,
And the singing birds have scattered across the stormy seas;
            And oh! 'tis winter,
            Wild, wild winter!
With the lonesome wind sighing for ever through the trees.
 
How green the leaves were springing! how glad the birds were singing!
When I rested in the meadow with my head on Patrick's knees;
            And oh! 'twas spring time,
            Sweet, sweet spring time!
With the daisies all dancing before in the breeze.
 
With the spring the fresh leaves they'll laugh upon the trees,
And the birds they'll flutter back with their songs across the seas,
But I'll never rest again with my head on Patrick's knees;
            And for me 'twill be winter,
            All the year winter,
With the lonesome wind sighing for ever through the trees.

   "Have you ere a new song,
      My Limerick Poet,
   To help us along
      Wid this terrible boat
   Away over to Tork?"
   "Arrah, I understand;
   For all of your work,
      'Twill tighten you, boys,
   To cargo that sand
   To the overside strand,
      Wid the current so strong,
      Unless you've a song--
A song to lighten and brighten you, boys.
   Be listenin' then,
   My brave Kerry men,
      And the new song,
      And the true song
Of the Limerick Lasses 'tis I will begin."
 
     O Limerick dear,
     It's far and it's near
I've travelled the round of this circular sphere;
     Still an' all to my mind,
     No colleens you'll find
As lovely and modest, as merry and kind,
     As our Limerick Lasses;
     Our Limerick Lasses --
So lovely and modest, so merry and kind.
       So row,
          Strong and slow,
       Chorusing after me as we go,--
          Still in all to my mind
          No colleens you'll find,
       As lovely and modest, as merry and kind,
          As our Limerick Lasses,
          Our Limerick Lasses,
       So lovely and modest, so merry and kind.
 
     O your English colleen
     Has the wonderful mien
Of a goddess in marble, all grand and serene;
     And, though slow to unbend,
     Win her once for your friend,
And -- no alter or falter -- she's yours to the end.
       But O! row,
          Strong and slow, etc.

     Of the French demoiselle
     Delighted I'll tell,
For her sparkle and grace suit us Irishmen well;
     And, taken complete,
     From her head to her feet,
She's the perfectest picture of polish you'll meet.
       But O! row,
          Strong and slow, etc.
 
     O, Donna of Spain,
     It's the darlingest pain
From your dark eyes I've suffered again and again,
     When you'd gracefully glide,
     Like a swan at my side,
Or sing till with rapture the woodbird replied.
       But O! row,
          Strong and slow, etc.
 
     Now my Maryland girl,
     With your sunshiny curl,
Your sweet spirit eyes, and complexion of pearl;
     And the goodness and grace,
     That illumine your face,
You're the purtiest approach to my Limerick Lass.
       But O! row,
          Strong and slow, etc.

As Jack the jolly ploughboy was ploughing through his land,
He turned his share and shouted to bid his horses stand,
Then down beside his team he sat, contented as a king,
And Jack he sang his song so sweet he made the mountains ring
          With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na,
          Sing ta-ran-nan nanty na,
     While the mountains all ringing re-echoed the singing
          Of Taran-nan nanty na.
 
'Tis said old England's sailors, when wintry tempests roar,
Will plough the stormy waters, and pray for those on shore;
But through the angry winter the share, the share for me,
To drive a steady furrow, and pray for those at sea.
          With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na, etc.
 
When heaven above is bluest, and earth most green below,
Away from wife and sweetheart the fisherman must go;
But golden seed I'll scatter beside the girl I love,
And smile to hear the cuckoo, and sigh to hear the dove,
          With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na, etc.
 
'Tis oft the hardy fishers a scanty harvest earn,
And gallant tars from glory on wooden legs return,
But a bursting crop for ever shall dance before my flail;
For I'll live and die a farmer all in the Golden Vale.
          With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na, etc.

     I've been soft in a small way
     On the girleens of Galway,
And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;
     But there's no use denyin'
     No girl I've set eye on
Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.
                    O, where
               Can her like be found?
                    Nowhere,
               The country round,
               Spins at her wheel
                    Daughter as true,
               Sets in the reel,
                    Wid a slide of the shoe
                         a slinderer,
                         tinderer,
                         purtier,
                         wittier colleen than you,
                    Rose, aroo!
 
     Her hair mocks the sunshine,
     And the soft, silver moonshine
Neck and arm of the colleen complately eclipse;
     Whilst the nose of the jewel
     Slants straight as Carn Tual
From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lips.
                    O, where, etc.
 
     Did your eyes ever follow
     The wings of the swallow
Here and there, light as air, o'er the meadow field glance?
     For if not you've no notion
     Of the exquisite motion
Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.
                    O, where, etc.
 
     If y'inquire why the nightingale
     Still shuns the invitin' gale
That wafts every song-bird but her to the West,
     Faix she knows, I suppose,
     Ould Kenmare has a Rose
That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest.
                    O, where, etc.
 
     When her voice gives the warnin'
     For the milkin' in the mornin'
Ev'n the cow known for hornin' comes runnin' to her pail;
     The lambs play about her
     And the small bonneens snout her,
Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.
                    O, where, etc.
 
     When at noon from our labour
     We draw neighbour wid neighbour
From the heat of the sun to the shilter of the tree,
     Wid spuds fresh from the bilin'
     And new milk you come smilin',
All the boys' hearts beguilin', alannah machree!
                    O, where, etc.
 
     But there's one sweeter hour
     When the hot day is o'er
And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,
     And she sittin' in the middle,
     When she's guessed Larry's riddle,
Cries, "Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv."
                    O, where, etc.

Before the first ray of blushing day,
  Who should come by but Kitty Bawn,
With her cheek like the rose on a bed of snows,
  And her bosom beneath like the sailing swan.
  I look'd and look'd till my heart was gone.
 
With the foot of the fawn she crossed the lawn,
  Half confiding and half in fear;
And her eyes of blue they thrill'd me through,
  One blessèd minute; then like the deer,
  Away she darted, and left me here.
 
Oh! Sun, you are late at your golden gate,
  For you've nothing to show beneath the sky
To compare to the lass who crossed the grass
  Of the shamrock field ere the dew was dry,
  And the glance that she gave me as she went by.