The Year That's Awa (1)/The Irish Farmer
For other versions of this work, see The Irish Farmer.
THE IRISH FARMER.
Tune—Sir John Scot's favourite.
Dear Judy, when first we got married.
Our fortune indeed was but small,
For save the light hearts that we carried,
Our riches were nothing at all.
sung while I rear'd up the cabin,
Ye powr's give me vigour and health!
And a truce to all sighing and sobbing,
For love is Pat Mulligan's wealth.
Our fortune indeed was but small,
For save the light hearts that we carried,
Our riches were nothing at all.
sung while I rear'd up the cabin,
Ye powr's give me vigour and health!
And a truce to all sighing and sobbing,
For love is Pat Mulligan's wealth.
Thro' summer and winter so dreary,
I cheerily toil'd on the farm,
Nor ever once dream d growing weary,
For love gave any labour its charm.
And now, though 'tis weak to be vaunty,
Yet here let is gratefully own,
We fire amidst pleasure and plenty,
As happy's the king on the throne.
I cheerily toil'd on the farm,
Nor ever once dream d growing weary,
For love gave any labour its charm.
And now, though 'tis weak to be vaunty,
Yet here let is gratefully own,
We fire amidst pleasure and plenty,
As happy's the king on the throne.
We've Murdoch, and Patrick and Connor,
As fine little lads as you'll see.
And Kitty, sweet girl, 'pon honour,
She's just the dear picture of thee.
Tho' some folks may still under-rate us,
Ah! why should we mind them a fig?
We're a large swinging field of potatoes,
A good Driminduath and a Pig,
As fine little lads as you'll see.
And Kitty, sweet girl, 'pon honour,
She's just the dear picture of thee.
Tho' some folks may still under-rate us,
Ah! why should we mind them a fig?
We're a large swinging field of potatoes,
A good Driminduath and a Pig,