THE OLD GREY MARE
At break of day, I chanced to stray
All by the Seine's fair side,
When to ease my heart young Bonaparte
Came forward for to ride.
On a field of green, with gallant mien
He formed his men in square
And down the line, with looks divine
He rode his Old Grey Mare.
'My sporting boys that's tall and straight
Take counsel and be wise,
Attention pay to what I say,
My lecture don't despise:
Let patience guide yous everywhere,
And from traitors now beware,
For there's none but him that's sound within
Can ride my Old Grey Mare.'
Bonaparte on her did start
He rode too fast, Is Truagh!
She lost a show at Moscow Fair
And got lamed at Waterloo.
But wait till she comes back again
Where she'll have farrier's care,
And the very next date she'll win the plate
My sporting Old Grey Mare.
THE NOBLE THREE
(To the air of 'The Black hores')
One time when walking down a lane
As night was drawing nigh,
I met a colleen with three flowers
And she more young than I.
'Saint Patrick bless you, dear,' said I
'If you'll be quick and tell
The place where you did find those flowers
I seem to know so well.'
She took one flower and kissed it thrice
And softly said to me:
'This flower I found in Thomas Street,
In Dublin Fair,' said she;
'It's name is Robert Emmett
The youngest flower of all.
But I'll keep it fresh beside my breast
If all th world should fall.'
She took and kissed the next flower twice
And softly said to me,
'This flower I culled in Antrim's fields
Outside Belfast' said she;
'The name I call it is Wolfe Tone,
The bravest flower of all.
But I'll keep it fresh beside my breast
If all the world should fall.'
She took and kissed the next flower once
And softly said to me,
'This flower comes from the Wicklow hills,
Its name is Dwyer,' said she.
'But Emmett, Dwyer and Tone I'll keep
For I do love them all.
And I'll keep them fresh beside my breast
If all the world should fall.'
G. N. Reddin.
THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS
O, Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle!
O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle.
I have seen - and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true -
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.
Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser;
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:
And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows.
Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
See where Memonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants,
'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the great attendants!
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, and you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?
The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;
Movrone! for they were banish'd, with no hope of returning -
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?
Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!
O, think of Donnell of the ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted -
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse -
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrin'd in story-
Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory-
Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,
And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!
Th' O'Carrolls, also, framed when fame was only for the boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?
Just to think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!
Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,
And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,
If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!
James Clarence Mangan