  Tune—"Cruiskeen lawn." Let others spend their time In roaming foreign clime, To furnish them with rhyme For books: They'll never find a scene Like Wicklow's valleys green, Wet-nurs'd, the hills between, With brooks— Brooks—brooks,— Wet-nurs'd, the hills between, With brooks! Oh! if I had a station In that part of creation, I'd study the first caws like rooks— Rooks—rooks,— I'd study the first caws like rooks! II. Oh! how the Morning loves To climb the Sugar-Loaves, And purple their dwarf groves Of heath! While cottage smoke below Reflects the bloomy glow, As up it winds, and slow, Its wreath— Wreath—wreath,— As up it winds, and slow, Its wreath! Oh! how a man does wonder him When he 'as the big cone-under-him, And ask'd to guess his home beneath— 'Neath—'neath,— And ask'd to guess his home beneath! III. And there's the Dargle deep, Where breezeless waters sleep, Or down their windings creep With fear; Lest, by their pebbly tread, They shake some lily's head, And cause, untimely shed, A tear— Tear—tear,— And cause, untimely shed, A tear! Oh! my native Dargle, Long may you rinse and gargle Your rocky throat with stream so clear, Clear—clear,— Your rocky throat with stream so clear! IV. And there is Luggalaw, A gem without a flaw, With lake, and glen, and shaw, So still; The new moon loves to sip Its dew with her young lip, Then takes a ling'ring trip O'er hill— Hill—hill,— Then takes a ling'ring trip O'er hill! Oh! hungry bards might dally For ever in this valley, And always get their fancy's fill— Fill—fill,— And always get their fancy's fill! V. And there's the "Divil's Glin," That devil ne'er was in, Nor anything like sin To blight: The Morning hurries there To scent the myrtle air; She'd stop, if she might dare, Till night— Night—night,— She'd stop, if she might dare, Till night! Oh! ye glassy streamlets, That bore the rocks like gimlets, There's nothing like your crystal bright, Bright—bright,— There's nothing like your crystal bright! VI. And there's Ovoca's vale, And classic Annadale, Where Psyche's gentle tale Was told: Where Moore's fam'd waters meet, And mix a draught more sweet Than flow'd at Pindus' feet Of old— Old—old,— Than flow'd at Pindus' feet Of old! Oh! all it wants is whiskey To make it taste more frisky; Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold— Gold—gold,— Then ev'ry drop would be worth gold! VII. And there's the Waterfall, That lulls its summer hall To sleep with voice as small As bee's: But when the winter rills Burst from the inward hills, A rock-rent thunder fills The breeze— Breeze—breeze,— A rock-rent thunder fills The breeze! Oh! if the land was taught her To fall as well as water, How much it would poor tenants please, Please—please,— How much it would poor tenants please! VIII. And if you have a mind For sweet, sad thoughts inclined, In Glendalough you'll find Them nigh:— Kathleen and Kevin's tale So sorrows that deep vale, That birds all songless sail Its sky— Its sky—sky,— That birds all songless sail Its sky! Oh! cruel Saint was Kevin To shun her eyes' blue heaven, Then drown her in the lake hard by— By—by,— Would I have sarved her so?—not I! IX. And there's—But what's the use Of praising Scalp or Douce?— The wide world can't produce Such sights: So I will sing adieu To Wicklow's hills so blue, And green vales glittering through Dim lights— Lights—lights,— And green vales glittering through Dim lights! Oh! I could from December Until the next November Muse on this way both days and nights, Nights—nights,— Muse on this way both days and nights! |
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