A man, they say, in spite of all, is betther for a wife, In-undher this ould roof I live me lone; I never seen the woman yet I wanted all me life, An' I never made me pillow on a stone. 'Tis "fancy buys the ribbon" an' all, An' fancy sticks to the young; But a man of his years can do wi' a pipe Can smoke an' hould his tongue, D'ye mind, Smoke an' hould his tongue.
Ye see me now an ould man, his work near done, Sure the hair upon me head's gone white; But the things meself consated 'or the time that I could run, They're the nearest to me heart this night. Just the daisies down in the low grass, The stars high up in the skies, The first I knowed of a mother's face Wi' the kind love in her eyes, Och, och! The kind love in her eyes.
Och, what was it got me at all that time To promise I'd marry a Rachray man? An' now he'll not listen to rason or rhyme, He's strivin' to hurry me all that he can. "Come on, an' ye _be_ to come on!" says he, "Ye're bound for the Island, to live wi' me."
See Rachray Island beyont in the bay, An' the dear knows what they be doin' out there But fishin' an' fightin' an' tearin' away, An' who's to hindher, an' what do they care? The goodness can tell what 'ud happen to me When Rachray 'ud have me, _anee, anee!_
I might have took Pether from over the hill, A dacent poacher, the kind poor boy: Could I keep the ould places about me still I'd never set foot out o' sweet Ballyvoy. My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves, An' blackneck divers, an' weary ould waves!
I'll never win back now, whatever may fall, So give me good luck, for ye'll see me no more; Sure an Island man is the mischief an' all-- An' me that never was married before! Oh think o' my fate when ye dance at a fair, In Rachray there' no Christianity there.
Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistlin' bould in March, Before there' a primrose peepin' out, Or a wee red cone on the larch; Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, An' the wind to come over the sea, But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, He's never the bird for me.
Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush After an April rain Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, Wishful to sing again; An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, He's never the bird for me.