Historic Sheet Music Collection

Document Type

Score

Publication Date

1860

Comments

The Pretty Girl Milking Her Cow
Irish Ballad
As sung by Miss Agnes Robertson in Bourcicalt's Drama of the Collen Bawn
(The Valley Lay Smiling Before Me)

New York. Published by John J. Daly 179 Eighth Av.

Some of the resources may contain offensive language or negative stereotypes. Such materials should be seen in the context of the time period and as a reflection of attitudes of the time. The items are part of the historical record, and do not represent the views of the libraries or the institution.

Abstract

One morning when Sol was adorning
The dew painted fragrant rose
The Larks sung their tunes melodious
And flowers sweet oders disclosed.
'Twas near to the foot of a Mountain
Where cataracts rapidly flow,
I saw that fair artist of nature
Called Colleen dhas crutha na mbo.
The nightengale vied with the Syrren,
The Linnet she sang on each spray,
The Dove with the sweetest allurements,
And Lambs round the sweet one did play,
While Cupid sat there in his chariot
Well armed with quiver and Bow,
To wound all the hearts that came near to This
Colleen dhas crutha na mbo.

'Twas on a bright mornin' in summer
I first heard his voice spakin' low
As he said to a colleen beside me
Who's that purty girl milking her Cow.
Oh many times afther ye met me,
An' vowed that I always should be,
Your darlin a Chushla,
Alanna Ma vourneen A suilish Ma chree.
I hav'nt the manners or graces
Of the Girls in the world where ye move,
I hav'nt their beautiful faces,
But oh I've a heart that can love.
If it plase ye I'll dress me in satin
An' jewels I'll put on my brow,
But oh don't be afther forgetting
Your purty girl milking her cow.


The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni. To the same air.

The Valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind
Yet I trembled and something hung o'er me
that sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd;
But, tho' darkness began to enfold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

I flew to her chamber 'twas lonely
As if the lov'd tenant lay dead!
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains in to bliss
While the hand that had wak'd it so often,
Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women!
When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, thro' a million of foemen,
Who dar'd but to doubt thee in thought!
While now, O degenerate daughter,
Of Erin, how fall'n is thy fame!
And, thro' ages of bondage and slaughter,
Thy country shall bleed for thy shame.

I flew to her chamber 'twas lonely
As if the lov'd tenant lay dead!
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And here hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains in to bliss
While the hand that had wak'd it so often,
Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss.

Already, the curse is upon her,
And strangers her vallies profane
They come to divide to dishouour
And tyrants they long will remain!
But onward! the green banner rearing,
Go, flest ev'ry sword to the hilt!
On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.

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