The Plaidie.

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel?
Sweet Mary," says I;

"If your father and mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die!"

"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you I see;
Since my parents are both so contrary-
You'd better ask me!"

729

Samuel Lover [1797-1868]

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,

With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.

"Oh! what shall I do now-'twas looking at you, now;
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again!
'Twas the pride of my dairy! Oh! Barney MacCleary,
You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her,

She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again,

'Twas hay-making season-I can't tell the reason-
Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain;

For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

THE PLAIDIE

UPON ane stormy Sunday,

Coming adoon the lane,

Were a score of bonnie lassies—

And the sweetest I maintain,
Was Caddie,

That I took un'neath my plaidie,
To shield her from the rain.

Unknown

She said the daisies blushed
For the kiss that I had ta'en;
I wadna hae thought the lassie
Wad sae of a kiss complain;
"Now, laddie!

I winna stay under your plaidie,
If I gang hame in the rain!"

But, on an after Sunday,

When cloud there was not ane,
This self-same winsome lassie

(We chanced to meet in the lane)
Said, "Laddie,

Why dinna ye wear your plaidie?

Wha kens but it may rain?"

KITTY NEIL

Charles Sibley [?]

"Ан, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel,
Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;
Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree,

Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning. The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-moon

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley, While all the air rings with the soft, loving things

Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing; 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,

So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad groups are seen,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,—

Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground,

The maids move around just like swans on the ocean:

"The Dule's i' This Bonnet o' Mine" 731

Cheeks bright as the rose-feet light as the doe's,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing

Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,

Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh,

"Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love !" John Francis Waller [1810-1894]

"THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE"

THE dule's i' this bonnet o' mine;

My ribbins'll never be reet;
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine,
For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet;
He met me i' th' lone t'other day,—
Aw're gooin' for wayter to th' well,-
An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May;-
Bi th' mass, iv he'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his,
Good Lord, heaw they trembled between;

An' aw durstn't look up in his face,
Becose on him seein' my e'en;
My check went as red as a rose;—
There's never a mortal can tell
Heaw happy aw felt; for, thea knows,
One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung,-
To let it eawt wouldn't be reet,-
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung,
So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet;
But Mally, thae knows very weel,—

Though it isn't a thing one should own,-
Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel',
Aw'd qather ha' Jamie or noan.

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind;
What would to do iv't wur thee?
"Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined,
An' a farrantly bargain he'd be;
For Jamie's as gradely a lad

As ever stepped eawt into th' sun;

Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed,

An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!"

Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon,—

Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait;

Aw connut for shame be too soon,

An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late;

Aw'm a' ov a tremble to th' heel,

Dost think 'at my bonnet'll do?'Be off, lass,-thae looks very weel;

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!"

Edwin Waugh (1817-1890]

THE OULD PLAID SHAWL

Not far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May, When birds were singing cheerily, there came across my way, As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall,

A little Irish cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm;
And oh! her face; and oh! her grace, the soul of saint would

charm:

Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm

of all

Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl.

I courteously saluted her "God save you, miss," says I;

'God save you kindly, sir," said she, and shyly passed me

by;

Twickenham Ferry

733

Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl.

Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure delight,
Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight;
But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall,
"The grace of God about you and your ould plaid shawl.”

I've heard of highway robbers that with pistols and with knives,

Make trembling travelers yield them up their money or their lives,

But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all

To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear,
And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair,
But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace, bower, or hall,
Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl.

Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name: My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but smallYou might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl.

I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through
Clare,

I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler everywhere,
For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call
That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl.

Francis A. Fahy [1854

TWICKENHAM FERRY

"AHOY! and O-ho! and it's who's for the ferry?"
(The briar's in bud and the sun going down)
"And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady,
And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town."