Racy Tune from the 18th Century - Oh MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
Recently, I spoke with archeologist and historian Damian Shiels for the Rogue Historian podcast. We had a great talk - mostly about Irish immigration in the 19th century and about Irish in the American Civil War. Good stuff. But something came up when we were discussing odd things one might find in the archives. Damian mentioned a previously unpublished song that was loaded with - shall we say - bawdy lyrics. I asked to publish the song here...how could I resist. Read if you will...and try not to blush...just watch out for the Shilealy.
‘A New Song’
Murtagh O’Blany & Jenny O’Donely
Both went together to thresh in the barn
He laid her down and her so bonnily
Arra says he but I’ll do you no harm
O but says Jenny I fear you’ll be In me
And what if I am I’ll do you no harm
O Murtagh be easy I faint
Be quiet my Jewel my door
For by St. Patrick our Saint
I’ll give you no reason to fear
Then with a look so engaging and gently
He to her bosom his hand did apply
Both her snowy mountains he tousled so daintily
That with her passion caused many a sigh
O But says Jenny I fear you’ll be in me
By Jesus says he if I don’t I shall die
O’ Murtagh be easy I pray
Do prithy be gone from my sight
By Jesus my virtue’l give way
I’m lost in a flood of delight
He then beholding her eyelids thus quivering
Scarcely from pity his heart could refrain
Fearing to anger her he stood a wavering
But was resolved to attack her again
Then Mr. Blaney pulled out his Shilealy
A weapon he ne’er show’d a woman In vain
Staring she lift up her eyes
And gently she rear’d up her head
What is it O Murtagh she cries
That looms so stately and red
Sweet one says Murtagh I’ll show you the use of it
Gently fall backwards your legs open wide
No girl in Munster to big it as you so fitt
It with your hand you’d vouchsafe it to guide
Then Miss O’Donnely strok’d it so bonnily
Arrah says she but I’ll down with your pride
Then closing with eager embrace
They soon reach’d the end of their joy
Jenny now alter’d her gaze
No longer was she squeamish and Coy
With sweet raptures and soft dying murmurings
Lifeless they lay as it was in a trance
Eager he drove but could drive it no further in
Jenny had shiver’d the lance
Oh what’s that says Jenny
Felt so warm in me
That makes all my bowels to prance
‘Tis loves luscious Balsom my dear
Says Murtagh the tulip of life
A cordial that banishes care
Curd cures the worst scold of a wife’
Wow. Original available at
National Library of Ireland MS. 3240: ‘Notebook of an Irish Ensign Gilbert King serving with the British Forces in Canada & Containing Personal Accounts, Copies of letters & two songs, 1761-68.’
With compliments,
Keith