Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo Callin' his mate in May, When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, An' he tells it the one sweet way. But my heart is sore at the cushadoo Filled wid his own soft glee, Over an' over his "me an' you!" He's never the bird for me.
Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast Singin' his lone on a thorn, Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, Brave wid his heart forlorn. The time is in dark November, An' no spring hopes has he: "Remember," he sings, "remember!" Ay, _thon's_ the wee bird for me.
Sure he's five months old, an' he's two foot long, Baby Johneen; Watch yerself now, for he's terrible sthrong, Baby Johneen. An' his fists 'ill be up if ye make any slips, He has finger-ends like the daisy-tips, But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips, Will Johneen.
There' nobody can rightly tell the colour of his eyes, This Johneen; For they're partly o' the earth an' still they're partly o' the skies, Like Johneen. So far as he's thravelled he's been laughin' all the way, For the little soul is quare an' wise, the little heart is gay; An' he likes the merry daffodils, he thinks they'd do to play With Johneen.
He'll sail a boat yet, if he only has his luck, Young Johneen, For he takes to the wather like any little duck, Boy Johneen; Sure them are the hands now to pull on a rope, An' nate feet for walkin' the deck on a slope, But the ship she must wait a wee while yet, I hope, For Johneen.
For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet, Och, Johneen; 'Tis you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet, Wee Johneen. Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night _Slainte gal, avic machree!_ live an' do right, _Slainte gal avourneen!_ may your days be bright, Johneen!
_Youth's for an hour,_ _Beauty's a flower,_ _But love is the jewel that wins the world._
Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet, Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet; In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she, I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.
Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long, There' little knowin' who may live to sing another song; For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife, An' Mary--God be good to her!--is all I love in life.