LIFE IN IRELAND i8i 



THE SONG OF BRIAN BORU, ESQUIRE. 

 Tune—' Poor Tom.' 



It was on an Irish morning, 



From Ringsend we did go ; 

 The sun the hills adorning 



With an unusual glow. 



Tom Evans steer'd a six oar'd boat, 



For he knew how to steer, 

 And if you kept his sotil afloat^ 



You had no cause to fear. 



But if you let his spirits sink, 



You had much cause for dread. 

 For Tom bereft of meat and drink, 



Scarce knew his heels from head. 



Upon this great eventful day. 

 Poor Tom yow fresh might call, 



So thinking— not qtiite salt our clay, 

 He straight capsiz'd us all. 



Poor Tom he died — that is, was drown'd, 



He's buried in Clontarf, 

 Just by the place where he was found, 



'Twas near the broken wharf. 



While drunken pilots shall exist, 



To cause a nation's groans, 

 Tom Evans never can be miss'd, 



So peace be to his bones. 



•A truly lamentable ditty,' said Sir Shawn, 'and 

 well worthy of the subject ; by my honour, Brian, I '11 

 try to make you both composer and vocalist at 

 TowNSEND Chapel, where you would charm the 

 hearts of half the Tab women and Sugar Bakers in 



