L. A. G. STRONG

I think I'll do a fearful deed Of wickedness and cruelty, And then, if Father Walsh speaks truth, Jesus will weep a tear for me, And I will catch it in my hat Just here outside my cabin door: And put it on my little field Where nothing ever grew before. And it will sprout so fine and brave, That lovely birds with yellow bills Will come to peck my crowded corn From all the Seven Holy Hills.

Aye, there's many a man does be drownded, An' carried a middling way: But never the like o' me brother Was floated from Dublin to Bray. An' him only two days in it— Sure ye'd hardly believe it at all: But it's God's truth. He went down fishing One night from the North Wall. What way was it? There's none knows rightly— He was there one turn o' the light, An' when next it came round he was no place: An' no sign of him till next night, When two men out o' Coliemore Harbour, Rowin' back from the fishin' ground, Seen him floatin' by on his belly Down the middle o' Dalkey Sound: But they didn't dare stop for to get him, For the boat was a heavy weight, An' the wind was strong, an' the current Was runnin' the divil's own gate. An' he crossed the Bay o' Killiney; Till next mornin', at twelve o' the clock, They found him all swelled an' puffy, At Bray, in the slit of a rock. Aye, there's many a man does be drownded, An' carried a middling way: But never the like o' me brother Was floated from Dublin to Bray.