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Fiddler's Green-Blarney Roses

Blarney Roses
Can anybody tell me where the Blarney Roses grow
It might be down in Limerick town, it might be in Mayo
It's somewhere in the Emerald Isle and this I want to know
Can anybody tell me where the Blarney Roses grow

T' was over in old Ireland, near the town of Cushendall
One morn' I met a damsel there, the fairest of them all
T' was with my young affections and my money she did go
She told me she belonged to where the Blarney Roses grow

Her cheeks were like red roses and her hair a raven hue
Before that she bad done with me, she had me raving too
She sorely left me stranded, not a coin she left, you know
Did the damsel that belonged to where the Blarney Roses grow

There's roses in Killarney and there's some in County Clare
But upon my word, the roses, lads, I can't find anywhere
She blarneyed me for by the power, she left me broke, you know
Did the damsel that belonged to where the Blarney Roses grow

A-chusla gra mo chroi young man, she murmered soft to me
If you belong to Ireland, it's yourself belongs to me
Her Donegal come-all-ye-brogue, it captured me you know
Bad luck to her and bugger the place where the Blarney Roses grow

20.2.06 09:24


by Abram Joseph Ryan

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary;
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's no one left to lave it
In the blood that heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it--let it rest!

Take that banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is its shaft and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;
Hard to think there's none to hold it;
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that banner! furl it sadly!
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly.
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
Till that flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that Banner--it is trailing!
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it!
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!
Weep for those who fell before it!
Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh! wildly they deplored it!
Now who furl and fold it so.

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust;
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages--
Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently--it is holy--
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not--unfold it never,
Let it droop there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
20.2.06 09:19

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