He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench, He springs in his saddle and chasses the French With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. "His spirits are high, and he little knows care, Whether sipping his claret, or charging a square With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. As ready to sing, or to skirmish he's found, To take off his wine, or to take up his ground; When the bugle may call him, how little he fears, To charge forth in column, and beat the Mounseers With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. "When the battle is over, he gaily rides back To cheer every soul in the night bivouac With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. wwww Oh! there you may see him in full glory crown'd, As he sits with his friends on the hardly won ground, And hear with what feeling the toast he will give, As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche." THE MAN FOR GALWAY To drink a toast, A proctor roast, Or bailiff, as the case is; To kiss your wife, Or take your life At ten or fifteen paces: To keep game cocks-to hunt the fox, The king of Oude Is mighty proud, And so were onst the Caysars (Cæsars; But ould Giles Eyre Would make them stare, Av he had them with the Blazers. To the devil I fling-ould Rungeet Sing, He's only a Prince in a small way, And knows nothing at all of a six foot wall; Oh he'd never 'do for Galway' "Ye think the Blakes They're all his blood relations, At the grim Chinese, For they come from the Phenaycians, So fill to the brim, and here's to him Who'd drink in punch the Solway With debts galore, but fun far more; Q! that's the man, for Galway.' Chorus-With debts, &c THE WIDOW MALONE Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone ! Alone! Who lived in the town of Athlone Oh! she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, In store; From the minister down To the clerks of the crown, All were courting the widow Malone, Ohone ! All were courting the Widow Malone But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'Twas known No one ever could see her alone, Ohone Let them ogle and sigh, Ohone So bashful the Widow Malone. "Till one Mister O'Brien of Clare, How quare? It's little for blushin' they care Down there; Put his arms round her waist Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone, My own;' Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone.' And the Widow they all thought so shy; My eye! For why? Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, But 'Lucius,' says she, Since you've made now so free You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone! You may marry your Mary Malone." There's moral contained in my song, And one comfort it's not If for widows you die Not wrong; But strong: Learn to kiss not to sigh; For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! Oh! they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. |