THE Feeing Time
My friend and I struck frae Milngavie,
For Glasgow town we took our way;
When all along the road was strung
With lads and bonnie lassies gay.
When drawing nigh one did I spy,
She was walking slowly by hersel',
For fear the rain her claes would spoil,
I did display my umbrell.
Where are ye gaun, my bonnie lass,
How far, then, are you bound this way?
To Glasgow town, sir, I am bound,
For this you know is feeing day.
Says he, the day seems wet to be,
Although the morning did look fine;
Smiling, she said, I am afraid
I'll no be in again feeing time.
O, cheer your heart my bonnie lass,
We'll hae good weather by and bye,
And don't be sad when with a lad,
A roving baker frae Milngavie.
And if you will accept a gill,
Of whisky, brandy, rum, or wine,
Well hae a gill, and then we will
Be in Glasgow by the feeing time.
She gave consent, and in we went
To an ale-house that was by the way;
Glass after glass, round it did pass,
Till we baith forgot it was feeing day.
The clock struck three, she smiled on me,
Says she, young lad, the fault is thine,
For night is on and I'm from home,
And besides I've lost my feeing day.
Its lass don't grieve, for while I live,
I ne'er intend for to harm you;
For marriage I will surely try,
And baker lads they aye prove true.
I'm too young to wed a man,
Besides my mother has nane but me,
But I'll comply and ne'er deny,
And I'll wed before I take a fee.
We spent that night in merriment,
So we got married the next day.
And aye since syne my love does say,
I'm glad I lost my feeing day.
My love and I we do agree,
I neer do think she will repine,
For every day she smiles and says,
I'm glad I lost my feeing time.
W. M'Namara's Lament FOR JOHN MITCHELL.
You Irish heroes of Hibernia's nation,
Give ear with patience to what I say,
Let young and old of you be clad in mourning,
Since brave John Mitchell is in the clay;
For he loved the land the tyrant taught to handle,
Left many a foe in their crimson gore,
He felt the pain of Bermuda's chain,
But alas! John Mitchell is now no more.
In '48 he thought to complete
The work, great and grand, that was so long in hand,
Like famed Owen Roe, for to strike a blow,
And to drown each foe in the River Ban.
Because English peers they would not adhere
To nine millions' tears on the Shamrock Shore,
Mitchell said, Draw your freedom blades,
But alas! that hero is now no more.
If every man had made a stand,
And lent a hand to John Mitchell's call,
Our flag of green, we so much esteemed,
Would now be seen on each rampart wall.
But Mitchell, Maher, and O'Brien were taken,
And brave Jehn Martin of Rorstrevor shore;
They were tried, convicted, condemned, transported,
But, alas! John Mitchell is now no more.
For English gold then the cause was sold,
And our heroes bold had to cross the main,
Their crime was love to their Irish nation-
They had strove to burst the oppressor's chain.
John Mitchell brave would not live a slave,
To Bermuda's jail he soon bade adieu;
He wrote those words on his prison table:-
"The man that stops me, I'll run him through."
When he reached New York then he went to Cork,
In Bermuda's prison he would no more be seen,
He had friends galore, with their guns in store,
On Columbia's shore they'd still love the green.
To the American, Irish, and Yankee heroes,
The brave John Mitchell, he did relate
The persecution of the Irish people
From 1500 to '98.
How Ned and Bess did our church distress,
If a priest said mass he would suffer sore,
They would flog or mangle, behead or strangle,
Like to Father Murphy and thousands more.
When Michael Allan, O'Brien, and Larkin,
And the valiant Barrett, they suffered sore,
John Mitchell called up a Fenian meeting,
Of ten thousands heroes on Columbia's shore.
When he took the chair and saw what was there,
Amid deafening cheering and loud applause,
He said he'd risk his life and freedom,
For one Fenian charge through their martial laws.
But Mitchell's gone where the saints and martyrs,
And patriots wear a glorious crown,
Where perjured traitors receive their merit-
No orange juryman can there be found.
This noble friend has come to his end,
For the brave John Martin we do deplore,
His dying words were: "God Save Ireland,"
And alas! John Mitchell is now no more.
And Irish patriots will weep for him,
While the shamrock grows on Erin's shore,
And the harp shall murmur in accents wailing,
Our brave John Mitchell is now no more,
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Probable period of publication:
1840-1850 shelfmark: L.C.1270(018)
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