Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Fruit of Old Ireland
The Fruit of Old Ireland.
Some sing of roast beef, and some sing of kail brose,
And some praise plum-pudding, the Englishman's dose;
Such poets, we think, should be counted our foes
When they name not the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
And some praise plum-pudding, the Englishman's dose;
Such poets, we think, should be counted our foes
When they name not the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
This sweet little plant is the choicest of fruit,
It grows not on branches, but lies at the root;
So modest and humble, it's just at your foot—
The elegant fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful sweet Irish fruit.
It grows not on branches, but lies at the root;
So modest and humble, it's just at your foot—
The elegant fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful sweet Irish fruit.
When evening sets in Paddy puts on the pot,
To boil the dear praties and serve them up hot;
His sweet little hearth-stone is then the dear spot
Where you meet with the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
To boil the dear praties and serve them up hot;
His sweet little hearth-stone is then the dear spot
Where you meet with the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
And then he sets out full of praties and love,
To court his own Judy, the sweet turtle-dove,
One would think him inspired by young Cupid above,
But its nought but the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
To court his own Judy, the sweet turtle-dove,
One would think him inspired by young Cupid above,
But its nought but the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
For down by her side he so boldly will sit,
And tell how his heart has been bothered and smit,
Peace or quiet in this world he can ne'er get a bit;
For she's loved like the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
And tell how his heart has been bothered and smit,
Peace or quiet in this world he can ne'er get a bit;
For she's loved like the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
So the heart of poor Judy is melted like fat,
While thus it's besieged by young flattering Pat,
Och! he swears that his life is not worth an old hat,
For she's dear as the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
While thus it's besieged by young flattering Pat,
Och! he swears that his life is not worth an old hat,
For she's dear as the fruit of old Ireland—the beautiful nice Irish fruit.
Have ye e'er been in Ireland, at Dublin or Clare,
Or passed half a night at a wake or a fair?
Oh! the beautiful fruit that we often see there,
Is the pride and the glory of Ireland—the elegant nice Irish fruit.
Or passed half a night at a wake or a fair?
Oh! the beautiful fruit that we often see there,
Is the pride and the glory of Ireland—the elegant nice Irish fruit.
If e'er in that country you go to a feast,
Or sit down to dinner with bishop or priest,
Be assured, that at table there's one dish at least,
Containing the fruit of old Ireland—the elegant nice Irish fruit.
Or sit down to dinner with bishop or priest,
Be assured, that at table there's one dish at least,
Containing the fruit of old Ireland—the elegant nice Irish fruit.
But to sing all the wonders produced by this root,
How it's prized by each man, woman, child, and poor brute,
Would require Homer's powers; then, hurra, for the fruit,
The beautiful fruit of old Ireland—the elegant nice Irish fruit.
How it's prized by each man, woman, child, and poor brute,
Would require Homer's powers; then, hurra, for the fruit,
The beautiful fruit of old Ireland—the elegant nice Irish fruit.