Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick! Still, for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest conthroul Checkin' the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. _Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.
And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all saisons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity? Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?" _Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.
County by county for beauty and bounty Go search! and this pound to a penny, When you've one woman to show us as human And lovely as our Lady Gwenny; For she has the scorn for all scorners, And she has the tear for all mourners, Yet joying with joy, With no crabb'd annoy To pull down her mouth at the corners.
Up with the lark in the pasture you'll meet with her, Songs like his own sweetly trilling, Carrying now for some poor folk a treat with her, Small mouths with lollypops filling: And while, as he stands in a puzzle, She strokes the fierce bull on his muzzle, The calves and the lambs Run deserting their dams In her kind hands their noses to nuzzle.
Now with her maidens a sweet Cymric cadence She leads, just to lighten their sewing; Now at the farm, her food basket on arm, She has set all the cock'rels a-crowing. The turkey-cock strutting and strumming, His bagpipe puts by at her humming, And even the old gander, The fowl-yard's commander, He winks his sly eye at her coming.
Never to wandering minstrel or pondering Poet her castle gate closes: Ever her kindly cheer--ever her praise sincere Falls like the dew on faint roses. And when her Pennillions rhyming She mates to her triple harp's chiming, In her green Gorsedd gown-- The half of the town Up the fences to hear her are climbing.
Men in all fashions have pleaded their passions-- The scholar, the saint, and the sinner, Pleaded in vain Lady Gwenny to gain,-- For only a hero shall win her: And to share his strong work and sweet leisure He'll have no keen chaser of pleasure, But a loving young beauty With a soul set on duty, And a heart full of heaven's hid treasure.