Being the Twenty-Fifth of the Black Hole Ballads
O Harry, do not shout that ranting song,
Don’t shout that ranting song,
Don’t shout that ranting song
About the Mochyn Dhoo!
Thy fling spray has splashed out little throng
And all a-swim are we!
Thy raucous voice is heard o’er all the land,
And o’er and o’er the land,
And round about the land,
Wherever ye may be.
And groaning sounds are heard on either hand,
And almost deaf are we!
Oh, is it love, or is it hate; or hair,
A tress of golden hair,
Or maiden’s raven hair,
You once, alas, did see?
There never was a song fraught with despair
Like yours, “The Mochyn Dhoo”.
We took the out and rolled thee in the mud,
In lovely squelching mud,
In oozing slimy mud,
Till thy face we could not see;
But even then to our ears, where we stood,
Came strains of “Mochyn Dhoo”.
5. 6. 1928