TATTHER JACK WELSH.

Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair, With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair, With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig, To humour the way for himself and his pig? Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart, Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart; And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh— Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh! Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu, And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do, But breaking the hearts of the girls all around— Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found. For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune— Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.” Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself If you heard the fife played by that musical elf. One fine evening young Darby came up to our house, And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse, Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh, Shure you can’t court at all—look at Tatther Jack Welsh!” So up the rogue rushes, and gave me a pogue,[57] And Darby ran out, like he’d got a polthogue,[58]— “Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?” “Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!” Patrick J. McCall.