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Table of Contents

The Bells of Shandon

By Killarney's
Lakes & Fells

The Leprechaun

Oh, Did You Ne'er
Hear of the Blarney

Saint Patrick
Was A Gentleman

Tho' The Last
Glimpse of Erin


The Bells of Shandon
Rev. Francis Sylvester Mahony
Sung to the Air:  The Groves of Blarney
From Holden's Irish Tunes Vol. I (1806)

With deep affection and recollection,
I often think of those Shandon Bells,
Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle their magic spells.
On this I ponder where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon that sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate,
But all their music spoke naught like thine;
For mem'ry dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry kneling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious, swinging up roarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber pealing solemnly,
Oh, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.


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By Killarney's Lakes and Fells
E. Falconer (Edmund O'Rourke)
From Innisfallen (1813-1879)

By Killarney's lakes and fells,
Em'rald isles and winding bays,
Mountain paths, and woodland dells
Mem'ry ever fondly strays;
Bounteous nature loves all lands;
Beauty wanders ev'rywhere
Footprints leaves on many strands,
But her home is surely there.
Angels fold their wings and rest
In that Eden of the west,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.
Innisfallen's ruin'd shrine
May suggest a passing sigh,
But man's faith can ne'er decline
Such God's wonders floating by;
Castle Lough and Glenna Bay,
Mountains Tore, and Eagles Nest,
Still at Mucross you must pray,
Though the monks are now at rest.
Angels wonder not that man
There would fain prolong life's span,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.

No place else can charm the eye
With such bright and varied tints;
Ev'ry rock that you pass by,
Verdure 'broiders orbe-sprints;
Virgin there the green grass grows,
Ev'ry morn springs natal day,
Bright-hued berries daff the snow,
Smiling winter's frown away.
Angels often pausing there
Doubt if Eden were more fair,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.

Music there for Echo dwells,
Makes each sound a harmony;
Many voic'd the chorus swells,
Till it faints in ecstasy;
With the charmful tints below,
Seems the heav'n above to vie;
All rich colors that we know,
Tinge the cloud wreaths in that sky.
Wings of angels so might shine,
Glancing back soft light divine,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.


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The Leprechaun
By Robert Dwyer Joyce (1830-83)

In a shady nook one moonlit night,
A leprahaun I spied
In scarlet coat and cap of green,
A cruiskeen by his side.
'Twas tick, tack, tick, his hammer went,
Upon a weeny shoe,
And I laughed to think of a purse of gold,
But the fairy was laughing too.

With tip-toe step and beating heart,
Quite softly I drew nigh.
There was mischief in his merry face,
A twinkle in his eye;
He hammered and sang with tiny voice,
And sipped the mountain dew;
Oh! I laughed to think he was caught at last,
But the fairy was laughing, too.

As quick as thought I grasped the elf,
"Your fairy purse," I cried,
"My purse?" said he, "'tis in her hand,
That lady by your side."
I turned to look, the elf was off,
And what was I to do?
Oh! I laughed to think what a fool I'd been,
And, the fairy was laughing too.


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Oh, Did You Ne'er Hear of the Blarney
Samuel Lover (1797-1868)

Oh, did you ne'er hear of the Blarney,
That's found near the banks of Killarney?
Believe it from me,
No girls heart is free,
Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney,
Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.

Oh say, would you find this same Blarney,
There's a castle not far from Killarney,
On the top of the wall
But take care you don't fall,
There's a stone that contains all this Blarney,
There's a stone that contains all this Blarney.

Like a magnet its influence such is,
That attraction it gives all it touches,
If you kiss it, they say,
That from that blessed day,
You may kiss whom you plaze, with your Blarney,
You may kiss whom you plaze with your Blarney.


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Saint Patrick Was A Gentleman
Henry Bennet and Mr. Tokeken

Saint Patrick was a gentleman,
   and he came from decent people,
In Dublin town he built a church,
   and on it put a steeple;
His father was a Gallagher,
   his mother was a Brady,
His aunt was an O'Shaugnessy,
   and his uncle was a Grady.

Then success to bold Saint Patrick's fist,
He was a saint so clever,
He gave the snakes and toads a twist,
And banish'd them forever!

There's not a mile in Ireland's Isle
   where the dirty vermin musters,
Where'er he put his dear foot down,
   he murder'd them in clusters;
The toads went hop, the frogs went flop,
   slap dash into the water,
And the snakes committed suicide,
   to save themselves from slaughter.


Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue,
   he charm'd with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloe
   in soups and second courses;
When blind worms crawling in the grass
   disgusted all the nation,
He gave them a rise and op'ned their eyes
   to a sense of their situation.


No wonder that our Irish boys
   should be so free and frisky,
For good Saint Patrick taught them first
   the joys of tippling whisky;
No wonder that the saint himself
   to taste it should be willing,
For his mother kept a small shebeen
   in the town of Inniskillin.


The Wicklow hills are very high,
   and so's the hill of Howth, Sir!
But there's a hill much higher still,
   aye, higher than them both, Sir!
'Twas on the top of this high hill
   Saint Patrick preach'd the sacrament,
That drove the frogs into the bogs,
   and bother'd all the varment.



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Tho' The Last Glimpse of Erin The Coulin
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp as wildly it breathes;
nor dread that the cold hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.


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