A Celtic Psaltery Part 24

V. GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANTS

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charming variety, Far renowned for larning and piety; Still, I'd advance you, widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainte and slainte, and slainte agin; Powerfullest preacher, and Tenderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Famous for ever for Greek and Latinity, Dad, and the divels and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all.

Come, I vinture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard.

Down from Mythology Into Thayology, Troth! and Conchology, if he'd the call.

_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick!

Still, for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest conthroul Checkin' the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all saisons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity?

Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?"

_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.

LADY GWENNY

County by county for beauty and bounty Go search! and this pound to a penny, When you've one woman to show us as human And lovely as our Lady Gwenny; For she has the scorn for all scorners, And she has the tear for all mourners, Yet joying with joy, With no crabb'd annoy To pull down her mouth at the corners.

Up with the lark in the pasture you'll meet with her, Songs like his own sweetly trilling, Carrying now for some poor folk a treat with her, Small mouths with lollypops filling: And while, as he stands in a puzzle, She strokes the fierce bull on his muzzle, The calves and the lambs Run deserting their dams In her kind hands their noses to nuzzle.

Now with her maidens a sweet Cymric cadence She leads, just to lighten their sewing; Now at the farm, her food basket on arm, She has set all the c.o.c.k'rels a-crowing.

The turkey-c.o.c.k strutting and strumming, His bagpipe puts by at her humming, And even the old gander, The fowl-yard's commander, He winks his sly eye at her coming.

Never to wandering minstrel or pondering Poet her castle gate closes: Ever her kindly cheer--ever her praise sincere Falls like the dew on faint roses.

And when her Pennillions rhyming She mates to her triple harp's chiming, In her green Gorsedd gown-- The half of the town Up the fences to hear her are climbing.

Men in all fas.h.i.+ons have pleaded their pa.s.sions-- The scholar, the saint, and the sinner, Pleaded in vain Lady Gwenny to gain,-- For only a hero shall win her: And to share his strong work and sweet leisure He'll have no keen chaser of pleasure, But a loving young beauty With a soul set on duty, And a heart full of heaven's hid treasure.

OLD DOCTOR MACK

Ye may tramp the world over from Delhi to Dover, And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon; Circ.u.mvint back through the whole Zodiack, But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon.

Have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy?

Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez; No way infarior in skill, but suparior And lineal postarior to ould Aysculapius.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion clarety; Here's to his health, Honour and wealth, The king of his kind and the cream of all charity.

How the rich and the poor, to consult for a cure, Crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues or unlacin' their lungs, For divel wan sympton the docther disparages, Troth an' he'll tumble for high or for humble From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; Makin' as light of nursin' all night The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.

And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother, And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness, Prescribin' the right boys and girls to each other.

And the sufferin' childer! Your eyes 'twould bewilder, To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin'-- Each of them fast on some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.

Thin, his doctherin' done, in a rollickin' run Wid the rod or the gun he's the foremost to figure; Be Jupiter Ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!

And hark that view-holloa! 'Tis Mack in full follow On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'!

Och, but you'd think 'twas ould Nimrod in pink, Wid his spurs cryin' c.h.i.n.k over park wall and palin'.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion clarety.

Here's to his health, Honour and wealth, Hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity!

Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way!

All at once widout disparity!

One more cheer for our docther dear, The king of his kind and the cream of all charity, Hip, hip, hooray!

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN OWEN

HARLECH CHOIRMASTER

Who is this they bear along the street In his coffin through the suns.h.i.+ne sweet?

Who is this so many comrades crave, Turn by turn, to carry to the grave?

Who is this for whom the hillward track Glooms with mounting lines of mourners black?

Till the Baptists' green old burial-ground Clasps them all within its quiet bound.

Here John Owen we must lay to rest, 'Tis for him our hearts are sore distressed; Since his sister wistfully he eyed, Bowed his head upon her breast and died.

Well and truly at his work he wrought; Every Harlech road to order brought; Then through winter evenings dark and long At the chapel gave his heart to song.

Till before his gesture of command-- Till before his hus.h.i.+ng voice and hand-- Sweeter, fuller strains who could desire Than he charmed from out his Baptist choir.