O’SHANAHAN DHU.

O’Shanahan Dhu, you’re a rover, and you’ll never be better, I fear, A rogue, a deludherin’ lover, with a girl for each day in the year; Don’t you know how the mothers go frowning, when a village you wander athrough, For the priest you’d not seek were you drowning— “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu, “For I’m aisy in love and divarsion,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu. O’Shanahan, don’t think you’re welcome, for I was but this moment, I’m sure, Saying—“Speak of the dhioul[30] and he’ll come,” and that moment you stood on the floor; Now you’ll blarney, and flatter, and swear it, while you know I’ve my spinning to do, It would take a bright angel to bear it— “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu; “For, darling, all know you’re an angel,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu. O’Shanahan Dhu, there’s Jack Morrow, the smith in the hill-forge above, Who says marriage is nothing but sorrow, and a wedding the end of all love; I myself don’t care much for believing that it’s gospel, yet what can one do, When you men are so given to deceiving— “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu; “We’re the thieves of the world, still you like us,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu. O’Shanahan Dhu, why come scheming, when there’s nobody in but poor me, Can you fancy I’m foolish or draming, to believe that our hearts could agree? Don’t you know, sir, all round they’re reporting, with good reason, perhaps, for it too, That Jack Shea’s dainty daughter you’re courting?— “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu, “But there’s no one believes it, my darling,” with a wink, says O’Shanahan Dhu. O’Shanahan Dhu, now you’ll vex me, let me go, sir, this moment, I say, I’m in airnest, and why so perplex me, see I’m losing the work of the day. There’s my spinning all gone to a tangle, my bleached clothes all boiled to a blue, While for kisses you wrestle and wrangle— “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu, “I own I’ve a weakness for kisses,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu. O’Shanahan Dhu, here’s my mother, if you don’t let me go, faith, I’ll cry, Why, she’ll tell both my father and brother, and with shame maybe cause me to die, And then at your bedside I’ll haunt you, with a light in my hand burning blue, From my shroud moaning, “Shemus, I want you,”— “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu, “But, ah, darling, say that while you’re living,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu. James J. Bourke (1837–1894).