38. The Streams of Bunclody

OH, WERE I at the moss-house where the birds do increase,

At the foot of Mount Leinster or some silent place

Near the streams of Bunclody where all pleasures do meet,

And all I’d require is one kiss from you, sweet.

If I was in Bunclody I would think myself at home,

’Tis there I would have a sweetheart, but here I have none.

Drinking strong liquor in the height of my cheer—

Here’s a health to Bunclody and the lass I love dear.

The cuckoo is a pretty bird, it sings as it flies,

It brings us good tidings and tells us no lies,

It sucks the young bird’s eggs to make its voice clear,

And it never cries cuckoo till the summer is near.

If I was a clerk and could write a good hand,

I would write to my true love that she might understand,

I am a young fellow that is wounded in love,

That lived by Bunclody, but now must remove.

If I was a lark and had wings, I then could fly,

I would go to yon arbour where my love she doth lie,

I’d proceed to yon arbour where my love she does lie,

And on her fond bosom contented I would die.

The reason my love slights me, as you may understand,

Because she has a freehold, and I have no land,

She has a great store of riches and a large sum of gold,

And everything fitting a house to uphold.

So, adieu, my dear father, adieu, my dear mother,

Farewell to my sister, farewell to my brother;

I’m going to America, my fortune for to try;

When I think upon Bunclody, I’m ready for to die!