THE CRUISKEEN LAWN.

Let the farmer praise his grounds, Let the huntsman praise his hounds, The farmer his sweet-scented lawn; While I, more blest than they, Spend each happy night and day With my smiling little cruiskeen lawn. Gra-ma-chree-ma cruiskeen, Slainte geal ma vourneen, Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn, bawn, bawn, Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn! Immortal and divine, Great Bacchus, god of wine, Create me by adoption your son, In hope that you’ll comply That my glass shall ne’er run dry, Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn. Gra-ma-chree, etc. And when grim Death appears, After few but happy years, And tells me my glass it is run, I’ll say, “Begone, you slave! For great Bacchus gave me leave Just to fill another cruiskeen lawn.” Gra-ma-chree, etc. Then fill your glasses high, Let’s not part with lips a-dry, Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn; And since we can’t remain, May we shortly meet again To fill another cruiskeen lawn. Gra-ma-chree, etc. Anonymous.