A Broadside: No. 11
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Translated by Lady Gregory from the Irish of An Chraoibhin
Listen, young son, to the old man,
And as it is right follow his counsel,
And do not let out of your mouth
A destroying story of your neighbour.
For if there is but a little yellow wren
Listening to you from the top of the house,
The secret will go out in the talk of the birds
Till it snatches away his good name from him.
There are three things I gave my love to
And not without cause; your fine woman,
Along with that your good old whiskey;
And you lord that is right and pleasant.
There are three things that I hate;
Your sluts of yellow women;
Your empty glasses on the table;
And no welcome from the man of the house.
One night came on a hurricane,
The sea was mountains rolling,
When Barney Buntling turn'd his quid,
And said to Billy Bowling,
'A strong sou'wester is blowing, Bill,
Can't you hear it roar now?
Lord help 'em how I pities all
Unhappy folks on shore now!
Fool-hardy chaps as lives in town,
What danger they are all in;
And now they're quaking in their beds,
For fear the roof should fall in;
Poor creatures, how they envies us,
And wishes I've a notion,
For our good luck, in such a storm,
To be upon the ocean.
They have to keep them out all day
On business from their houses,
And late at night are coming home,
To cheer their wives and spouses;
While you and I upon the deck,
Are comfortably lying,
MY eyes, what tiles and chimeny pots,
About their heads are flying!
And often have we seamen heard
How men are killed or undone,
By overturns in carriages
And thieves and fires in London;
We've heard what risks all landsmen run
From noblemen to tailors;
So, Bill, let's thank Providence,
That you and I are sailors.'