AN GAOḊAL.
179
FREAGRAḊ AINDRIAIS MicCRAIṪ
air
Ṡeáġan Ua Tuama,
Fonn — Sean-ḃean Ċríon an Drantáin.
Is duine ṫú ḋiolas liún lá.
Buisinn gan ḃríġ agus bran-dán,
Is ċuireas do ċuidioċtaḋ
Ar uireasbaḋ cuiṁne,
'S a n-inċinn líontaḋ de ṁeaḃ-rán.
Is deiṁin a rís go meallfáḋ
Go minic do ḃuiḋin le sleaṁ-nán,
'S Go g-cuirin gaċ duine
Ar giodam cum baoise
Le glugar gan ċríċ 's le stan-cárd.
Ní'l binneas ad laoiṫe — ná'd sean-dáin
'S ní milis dar linn do stran-cáin;
Bion iomad do ṫuise
Do ġloine gan líonaḋ,
'S d' uisge na dríbe ad stan-cáin.
Buisinn da ḋíol mar liún lá,
'S murrainn dá líonaḋ, 'na gann-ċáirt,
Ní sulṫṁar do 'n ḟuirion,
Siḃse dá ínsint,
Go ruiṫid dá ḃríġ sin ċum ran-gáis.
Is minic do líonuis lom-ċáirt,
Is ċuiris fá ṁaoil í le ċúḃar-án,
Do ċuir isi sinne
Gan ċumas ar ṡuiġe,
Ná imṫeaċt san t-slíġe gan tean-tán.
Cia mursanta ṡuiġir a g-ceann cláir,
'S do cuirfea tú síos gaċ gann ċáirt,
Muna m-beiḋeaḋ sgilling
Ag duine do ḋíolfaḋ,
Cuirfir do ḃuiḋin ċum stran-cáin.
Tigir go fíor ag lúġ-táil.
A g-coinne gaċ aon dá n-gaḃan sráid,
Gloine ma ṫugair
Do ḋuine gan díol,
San m-bille beiḋ ṡios air an am-tráiṫ.
Ar imṫeaċt a rís an deaṁan cáirt,
Do ġeabaiḋ gan díol nó geall-tán,
'S as cumaḋ cá h-ionad,
A ruiṫfiḋ cá díg,
Ioná d-tuitfiḋ fá ṫrí iona láṁ-cán.
Is é ċluinnim ar ḋís de d' cam-ceárd,
Go millid an tír le sleaṁ-rán,
Slibiriḋe an droiċid
ANDREW McGRATH'S REPLY TO JO
O’TOUMY.
Air — The Growling old Woman.
O’Tuomy you boast yourself handy
At selling good ale and bright brandy,
But the fact that your liquor,
Makes every one sicker,
I tell you that, I, your friend Andy!
Again you affect to be witty,
And your customers, more is the pity
Give in to your folly,
While you when your jolly
Droll forth some ridiculous ditty.
But your poems and pints by your fa-
[vor
Are alike wholly wanting a flavor,
Because its your pleasure,
You give us short measure,
And your ale has a ditch-water savor.
Vile swash do you sell us for porter,
And you draw the cask shorter and
shorter,
Your guests then disdaining,
To think of complaining,
Go tipple in some other quarter.
Very oft in your scant overfrothing
Tin quarts we found little or nothing
They could very ill follow
The road who would swallow,
Such stuff for their inner man’s cloth¬
[ing.
You sit gaily enough at the table,
But in spite of your mirth you are able,
To chalk down each tankard,
And if a man drink hard,
On tick ohl we'd have such a Babel.
You bow to the floors very level,
When customers enter to revel,
But if one in shy raiment,
Takes drink without payment,
You score it against the poor devil.
When quitting your house rather heady
They'll get nought without more of the
'ready
You leave them to stumble,
And stagger and tumble,
Into dykes as folk will when unsteady.
Two vinters late went about killing,
Men's fame by their vile Jack-and-Gil-
ling,
Now Tuomy I tell you,
