The Mountains o' Mourne

I believe that, when writin', a wish you expressed

As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed,

Well, if you'll believe me, when axed to a ball,

Faith, they don't wear a top to their dresses at all.

Oh, I've seen them meself, and you could not, in thrath,

Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath—

Don't be startin' them fashions now, Mary Macree,

Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I seen England's King from the top of a 'bus—

I never knew him, though he means to know us

And though by the Saxon we once were oppressed,

Still, I cheered—God forgive me!—I cheered wid the rest

And now that he's visited Erin's green shore,

We'll be much better friends than we've been heretofore,

When we've got all we want we're as quiet as can be

Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the Sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin, of course—

Well, now, here he is here at the head o' the Force,

I met him to-day, I was crossing the Strand,

And he stopped the whole street wid wan wave of his hand

And there we stood talking of days that are gone,

While the whole population of London looked on

But for all these great powers he's wishful,

To be back where dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here—oh, never mind!

Wid beautiful shapes Nature never disigned,

And lovely complexions, all roses and crame,

But O'Loughlin remarked wid regard to them same;

"That if at those roses you venture to sip,

The colours might all come away on your lip."

So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me

Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the sea.