PHELIM O'TOOLE'S
NINE MUSE-INGS ON HIS NATIVE COUNTY.

Tune—"Cruiskeen lawn."

 

Let others spend their time
In roaming foreign clime,
To furnish them with rhyme
For books:
They'll never find a scene
Like Wicklow's valleys green,
Wet-nurs'd, the hills between,
With brooks—
Brooks—brooks,—
Wet-nurs'd, the hills between,
With brooks!
Oh! if I had a station
In that part of creation,
I'd study the first caws like rooks—
Rooks—rooks,—
I'd study the first caws like rooks!
II.
Oh! how the Morning loves
To climb the Sugar-Loaves,
And purple their dwarf groves
Of heath!
While cottage smoke below
Reflects the bloomy glow,
As up it winds, and slow,
Its wreath—
Wreath—wreath,—
As up it winds, and slow,
Its wreath!
Oh! how a man does wonder him
When he 'as the big cone-under-him,
And ask'd to guess his home beneath—
'Neath—'neath,—
And ask'd to guess his home beneath!
III.
And there's the Dargle deep,
Where breezeless waters sleep,
Or down their windings creep
With fear;
Lest, by their pebbly tread,
They shake some lily's head,
And cause, untimely shed,
A tear—
Tear—tear,—
And cause, untimely shed,
A tear!
Oh! my native Dargle,
Long may you rinse and gargle
Your rocky throat with stream so clear,
Clear—clear,—
Your rocky throat with stream so clear!
IV.
And there is Luggalaw,
A gem without a flaw,
With lake, and glen, and shaw,
So still;
The new moon loves to sip
Its dew with her young lip,
Then takes a ling'ring trip
O'er hill—
Hill—hill,—
Then takes a ling'ring trip
O'er hill!
Oh! hungry bards might dally
For ever in this valley,
And always get their fancy's fill—
Fill—fill,—
And always get their fancy's fill!
V.
And there's the "Divil's Glin,"
That devil ne'er was in,
Nor anything like sin
To blight:
The Morning hurries there
To scent the myrtle air;
She'd stop, if she might dare,
Till night—
Night—night,—
She'd stop, if she might dare,
Till night!
Oh! ye glassy streamlets,
That bore the rocks like gimlets,
There's nothing like your crystal bright,
Bright—bright,—
There's nothing like your crystal bright!
VI.
And there's Ovoca's vale,
And classic Annadale,
Where Psyche's gentle tale
Was told:
Where Moore's fam'd waters meet,
And mix a draught more sweet
Than flow'd at Pindus' feet
Of old—
Old—old,—
Than flow'd at Pindus' feet
Of old!
Oh! all it wants is whiskey
To make it taste more frisky;
Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold—
Gold—gold,—
Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold!
VII.
And there's the Waterfall,
That lulls its summer hall
To sleep with voice as small
As bee's:
But when the winter rills
Burst from the inward hills,
A rock-rent thunder fills
The breeze—
Breeze—breeze,—
A rock-rent thunder fills
The breeze!
Oh! if the land was taught her
To fall as well as water,
How much it would poor tenants please,
Please—please,—
How much it would poor tenants please!
VIII.
And if you have a mind
For sweet, sad thoughts inclined,
In Glendalough you'll find
Them nigh:—
Kathleen and Kevin's tale
So sorrows that deep vale,
That birds all songless sail
Its sky—
Its sky—sky,—
That birds all songless sail
Its sky!
Oh! cruel Saint was Kevin
To shun her eyes' blue heaven,
Then drown her in the lake hard by—
By—by,—
Would I have sarved her so?—not I!
IX.
And there's—But what's the use
Of praising Scalp or Douce?—
The wide world can't produce
Such sights:
So I will sing adieu
To Wicklow's hills so blue,
And green vales glittering through
Dim lights—
Lights—lights,—
And green vales glittering through
Dim lights!
Oh! I could from December
Until the next November
Muse on this way both days and nights,
Nights—nights,—
Muse on this way both days and nights!