THE BANSHEE’S COMB
“On goin’ to church last Sunday me thrue love passed me by,
I knew her mind was changed be the twinklin’ of her eye;
I knew her mind was changed, which caused me for to moan,
’Tis a terrible black misfortin to think she cowld has grown.”
I knew her mind was changed be the twinklin’ of her eye;
I knew her mind was changed, which caused me for to moan,
’Tis a terrible black misfortin to think she cowld has grown.”
“That’s what I call rale poethry,” says Darby.
“There’s no foiner,” says the King, standing up on the sate, his face beaming.
“The next varse’ll make yez cry salt tears,” says Shaun. An’ he sang very affectin’:
“Oh, dig me a grave both large, wide, an’ deep,
An’ lay me down gently, to take me long sleep;
Put a stone at me head an’ a stone at me feet,
Since I cannot get Mary McGinnis.”
An’ lay me down gently, to take me long sleep;
Put a stone at me head an’ a stone at me feet,
Since I cannot get Mary McGinnis.”
“Faith, ’tis a foine, pittiful song,” says Darby, “an’ I’d give a great dale if I only had it,” says he.
“Musha, who knows; maybe ye can get it,” says the ould King, with a wink. “Ye may daymand the favours of the three wishes for bringing her what yer bringin’,” he whuspered. “Shaun!” he says, out loud, “do ye think the banshee’ll give that song for the bringing back of the lost comb, I dunno?”
“I dunno meself,” says the head, jubious.
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