Ireland's Lore and Tales

A poem by “Barney Maglone” aka Robert Arthur Wilson (1820-75)

Of all the navygations

That ever left the shore

I tell this mortal nation

‘Tis potheen I adore.

I have the tender crathur

All in her punchy dhress

And when she’s mother-naked

I love her none the less.

If she had but a night-dhress

Of Shugar on her skin,

I’m not the boy that would refuse

To take the swate one in.

Well I mind the lively night

Her mother, Sall, lay in;

How did I press the babe

Between my nose and chin.

An’ if she was ould as

Methoosalem’s first hat,

I’d love her as the crame’s loved by

That sleekit bastem, the cat.

If mighty Dutheronomy

That hayro of renown,

Likewise July-us Saizer

That won the British Crown –

If Hector an’ bowld Vaynus,

With Lusy-an the ass,

Also Neb-you-codnazzur,

So mighty at the grass –

Were all with Martin Luther,

With Gladstone, and with Lowe,

I’d box them left and right afore

I’d let my charmer go.

It’s thrue she has been thricky,

As Irish maids do be;

An’ I must own that sometimes

She’s played a prank on me.

She rowled me in the soft mud

One night she got me down,

When I was just meanderin’

About a mile from town.

She gave my eyes a paintin’

And gave my nose a swell,

Another winther’s evenin’

When huggin’ her too well.

But all these lovin’ capers

I aisily forgive

An’ if she knocks my branes out,

I’ll love her while I live.

I’d face the French and Prooshans’

An’ the Permissive Bill,

Afore, I’d lose my darlin’

The daughter of the still!

End