A Broadside: No. 11. Seventh and Last Year of the Set
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300 copies only.
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AN ALLALU MO WAULEEN
(The Beggar's Address to his Bag)
Good neighbours, dear, be cautious,
And covet no man's pounds or pence.
Ambition's greedy maw shun,
And tread the path of innocence!
Dread crooked ways and cheating,
And be not like those hounds of Hell,
Like prowling wolves awaiting,
Which once upon my footsteps fell.
An allalu mo wauleen,
My little bag I treasured it;
'Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
A thousand times I measured it!
Should you ever reach Dungarvan,
That wretched hole of dole and sin,
Be on your sharpest guard, man,
Or the eyes out of your head they'll pin.
Since I left sweet Tipperary,
They eased me of my cherished load,
And left me light and airy,
A poor dark man upon the road!
An allalu mo wauleen,
No hole, no stitch, no rent in it,
'Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
My half year's rent was pent in it!
A gay gold ring unbroken,
A token to a fair young maid,
Which told of love unspoken,
To one whose hopes were long delayed,
A pair of woollen hoseen,
Close-knitted, without rib or seam,
And a pound of weed well-chosen,
Such as smokers taste in dream!
An allalu mo wauleen,
Such a store I had in it;
'Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
And nothing mean or bad in it!
Full oft in cosy corner
We'd sit beside a winter fire,
Nor envied prince or lord, or
To kingly rank did we aspire.
But twice they overhauled us,
The dark police of aspect dire,
Because they feared Mo Chairdeas,
You held the dreaded Fenian fire!
An allalu mo wauleen,
My bag and me they sundered us,
'Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
My bag of bags they sundered us!
Yourself and I, mo storeen,
At every hour of night and day,
Through road and lane and bohereen
Without complaint we made our way,
Till one sore day a carman
In pictu took us from the road,
And faced us towards Dungarvan
Where mortal sin hath firm abode.
An allalu mo wauleen,
Without a hole or rent in it!
'Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
My half-year's rent was pent in it!
My curse attend Dungarvan,
Her boats, her borough, and her fish,
May every woe that mars man
Come dancing down upon her dish!
For all the rogues behind you,
From Slaney's bank to Shannon's tide,
Are but poor scholars mind you,
To the rogues you'd meet in Abbeyside!
An allalu mo wauleen,
My little bag I treasured it,
'Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
A thousand times I measured it!
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