AN GAODHAL.
179
FREAGRADH AINDRIAIS MicCRAITH
air
Sheághan Ua Tuama,
Fonn — Sean-bhean Chríon an Drantáin.
Is duine thú dhiolas liún lá.
Buisinn gan bhrígh agus bran-dán,
Is chuireas do chuidiochtadh
Ar uireasbadh cuimhne,
'S a n-inchinn líontadh de mheabh-rán.
Is deimhin a rís go meallfádh
Go minic do bhuidhin le sleamh-nán,
'S Go g-cuirin gach duine
Ar giodam cum baoise
Le glugar gan chrích 's le stan-cárd.
Ní'l binneas ad laoithe — ná'd sean-dáin
'S ní milis dar linn do stran-cáin;
Bion iomad do thuise
Do ghloine gan líonadh,
'S d' uisge na dríbe ad stan-cáin.
Buisinn da dhíol mar liún lá,
'S murrainn dá líonadh, 'na gann-cháirt,
Ní sulthmhar do 'n fhuirion,
Sibhse dá ínsint,
Go ruithid dá bhrígh sin chum ran-gáis.
Is minic do líonuis lom-cháirt,
Is chuiris fá mhaoil í le chúbhar-án,
Do chuir isi sinne
Gan chumas ar shuighe,
Ná imtheacht san t-slíghe gan tean-tán.
Cia mursanta shuighir a g-ceann cláir,
'S do cuirfea tú síos gach gann cháirt,
Muna m-beidheadh sgilling
Ag duine do dhíolfadh,
Cuirfir do bhuidhin chum stran-cáin.
Tigir go fíor ag lúgh-táil.
A g-coinne gach aon dá n-gabhan sráid,
Gloine ma thugair
Do dhuine gan díol,
San m-bille beidh shios air an am-tráith.
Ar imtheacht a rís an deamhan cáirt,
Do gheabaidh gan díol nó geall-tán,
'S as cumadh cá h-ionad,
A ruithfidh cá díg,
Ioná d-tuitfidh fá thrí iona lámh-cán.
Is é chluinnim ar dhís de d' cam-ceárd,
Go millid an tír le sleamh-rán,
Slibiridhe an droichid
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,
