WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green,

And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien ?

'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground God bless you, my sweet Tipperary! for where could your match be found?

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye;

But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie.

O, no! macushla storin, bright, bright, and

warm are you,

With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourself and your country true.

And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who brought it there

Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair; You've a hand for the grasp of friendship - another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them to take.

O, come for awhile among us and give us the friendly hand!

And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land;

From Upper to Lower Ormonde, bright welcomes and smiles will spring: On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king.

WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE

WERE I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him,

'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear;

I'd chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him,

So faint and so tender his heart would but hear;

I'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland,

And there at his feet I would lay them all down;

I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken island,

Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own.

There's a rose by his dwelling, - I'd tend the lone treasure,

That he might have flowers when the summer would come;

There's a harp in his hall, I would wake its sweet measure,

For he must have music to brighten his home.

The chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high,

An' zinkèn low, did swiftly vlee
Vrom shrinken moss, a-growèn dry,
Upon the leänèn apple tree.
An' there the dog, a-whippèn wide
His heäiry tail, an' comèn near,
Did fondly lay ageän your zide

His coal-black nose an' russet ear:
To win what I'd a-won avore,

Vrom your gay feäce, his woone smile

mwore.

An' while your mother bustled sprack,
A-gettèn supper out in hall,
An' cast her sheäde, a-whiv'rèn black
Avore the vire, upon the wall;
Your brother come, wi' easy peäce,

In drough the slammèn geäte, along
The path, wi' healthy-bloomèn feäce,

A-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong:
An' when he come avore the door,
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there,
Be mother on a husband's vloor,
An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceäre

Than what your heärty mother bore;
An' if abroad I have to rue

The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi' you

What's needvul free o' pinchèn need:

An' vind that you ha' still in store

My evenèn meal, an' woone smile

mwore.

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

THE primrwose in the sheäde do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,

The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maidens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gaït,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,
A-trippèn on so light o' waïght,
An' steppèn off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An' ring 'ithin the tow'r,

You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pol

lard! no! b'ye blind?

(2) There, I do zee em over-right thik

COW.

(1) He's geäme a-runnèn too. Why, he do mwore

Than eärn his life. (3) His life wer his

avore.

(1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right.

(1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight.

(1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well atried

Agwaïn down Verny Hill, o' t' other zide. They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops

Wull teäke en on to Knapton Lower Copse. (2) An' that's a meesh that he 've a-took

We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide
To Meldon, gret an' small;
Out where the Castle wall stood high
A-mwoldren to the zunny sky.

An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll

Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul,

An' mid her wedlock fay;
An' at our zides did play an' run
My little maïd an' smaller son.

Above the beäten mwold upsprung

The driven doust, a-spreadèn light,
An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung,
Wer wool a-quiv'rèn white;
An' corn, a-sheenèn bright, did bow,
On slopen Meldon's zunny brow.

There, down the roofless wall did glow
The zun upon the grassy vloor,
An' weakly-wandrèn winds did blow,
Unhinder'd by a door;

An' smokeless now avore the zun
Did stan' the ivy-girded tun.

My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings

A-flappen vrom their ivy bow'rs; My wife did watch my maïd's light springs,

Out here an' there vor flow'rs;
And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleäce
Vor him had only Polly's feäce.

An' there, of all that pried about

The walls, I overlook'd em best,
An' what o' that? Why, I meäde out
Noo mwore than all the rest:
That there wer woonce the nest of zome
That wer a-gone avore we come.

When woonce above the tun the smoke
Did wreathy blue among the trees,
An' down below, the livèn vo'k
Did tweil as brisk as bees;
Or zit wi' weary knees, the while
The sky wer lightless to their tweil.

THE DULE'S I'THIS BONNET O' MINE

TH' SWEETHEART GATE

Он, there's mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end,

But nobbut one for me;

It winds by a rindlin' wayter side,
An' o'er a posied lea,

It wanders into a shady dell;

An' when aw 've done for th' day, Aw never can sattle this heart o' mine, Beawt walkin' deawn that way.

It's noather garden, nor posied lea,

Nor wayter rindlin' clear;

But deawn i'th vale there's a rosy nook, An' my true love lives theer.

It's olez summer where th' heart's content, Tho' wintry winds may blow;

An' there's never a gate 'at 's so kind to th' fuut,

As th' gate one likes to go.

When aw set off o' sweetheartin,' aw 've
A theawsan' things to say;

But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top
It drives 'em o' away;

An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass,

It sets my heart a-jee ;

Oh, there's summut i' th' leet o' yon two

blue e'en

That plays the dule wi' me!

When th' layrock 's finished his wark aboon,
An' laid his music by,

He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops
Till dayleet stirs i' th' sky.
Though Matty sends me away at dark,

Aw know that hoo's reet full well;
An' it's heaw aw love a true-hearted lass,
No mortal tung can tell!

Aw wish that Candlemas day were past,
When wakin' time comes on ;

An' aw wish that Kesmass time were here,
An' Matty an' me were one.

Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'erThis maunderin' to an' fro;

That aw could go whoam to my own true love,

An' stop at neet an' o'.