DESPAIR

  Let me close the eyes of my soul
    That I may not see
  What stands between thee and me.

  Let me shut the ears of my heart
    That I may not hear
  A voice that drowns yours, my dear.

  Let me cut the cords of my life,
    Of my desolate being,
  Since cursed is my hearing and seeing.

CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES

  Tim Murphy’s gon’ walkin’ wid Maggie O’Neill,
          O chone! 
  If I was her muther, I’d frown on sich foolin’,
          O chone! 
  I’m sure it’s unmutherlike, darin’ an’ wrong
  To let a gyrul hear tell the sass an’ the song
  Of every young felly that happens along,
          O chone!

  An’ Murphy, the things that’s be’n sed of his doin’,
          O chone! 
  ‘Tis a cud that no dacent folks wants to be chewin’,
          O chone! 
  If he came to my door wid his cane on a twirl,
  Fur to thry to make love to you, Biddy, my girl,
  Ah, wouldn’t I send him away wid a whirl,
          O chone!

  They say the gossoon is indecent and dirty,
          O chone! 
  In spite of his dressin’ so. 
          O chone! 
  Let him dress up ez foine ez a king or a queen,
  Let him put on more wrinkles than ever was seen,
  You’ll be sure he’s no match for my little colleen,
          O chone!

  Faith the two is comin’ back an’ their walk is all over,
          O chone! 
  ’Twas a pretty short walk fur to take wid a lover,
          O chone! 
  Why, I believe that Tim Murphy’s a kumin’ this way,
  Ah, Biddy jest look at him steppin’ so gay,
  I’d niver belave what the gossipers say,
          O chone!

  He’s turned in the gate an’ he’s coming a-caperin’,
          O chone! 
  Go, Biddy, go quick an’ put on a clane apern,
          O chone! 
  Be quick as ye kin fur he’s right at the dure;
  Come in, master Tim, fur ye’re welcome I’m shure. 
  We were talkin’ o’ ye jest a minute before. 
          O chone!

TILL THE WIND GETS RIGHT

  Oh the breeze is blowin’ balmy
    An the sun is in a haze;
  There’s a cloud jest givin’ coolness
    To the laziest of days. 
  There are crowds upon the lakeside,
    But the fish refuse to bite,
  So I’ll wait and go a-fishin’
    When the wind gets right.

  Now my boat tugs at her anchor,
    Eager now to kiss the spray,
  While the little waves are callin’
    Drowsy sailor come away,
  There’s a harbor for the happy,
    And its sheen is just in sight,
  But I won’t set sail to get there,
    Till the wind gets right.

  That’s my trouble, too, I reckon,
    I’ve been waitin’ all too long,
  Tho’ the days were always
    Still the wind is always wrong. 
  An’ when Gabriel blows his trumpet,
    In the day o’ in the night,
  I will still be found waitin’,
    Till the wind gets right.