Croker of Ballinagarde

Ballinagarde was a house to be sure

With windows that went from the ceiling to floor,

And fish in the river and hens in the yard.

And Croker was master of Ballinagarde.

There was mates in the meadows: the grass was so good

The cows never tired of chewing the cud;

One mouthful sufficed all the sheep on the sward;

They forced them to fatten at Ballinagarde.

So close and convenient and wide were his grounds

He could hunt with the Tipps or the Waterford hounds;

And many's the cup and the Horse Show award

That shone on the sideboard in Ballinagarde.

He bought his own whiskey but brewed his own ale

That foamed up like beastings that thicken the pail.

No fiddler no more than the man with his card

Was ever sent empty from Ballinagarde.

His daughter got married at sweet twenty-two:

To lose her was more than her father could do.

To give her away it had gone very hard,

You could see that, by Croker of Ballinagarde.

The wedding was over a week and a day

Before the last guest could be driven away;

For everyone's going he tried to retard:

"What ails ye?" said Croker of Ballinagarde.

One day when out hunting and going like fire

His horse was flung down-Oh, bad Scrant to the wire!

And something in Croker was broken or marred,

So the parson was sent for to Ballinagarde.

The parson remarked as the grounds he drove through

"The land's in good heart. What a beautiful view!

It's but what I'm thinking 'twill go very hard

To comfort the owner of Ballinagarde."

He tried to persuade him and make him resigned,

On Heavenly mansions to fasten his mind.

"There's a Land that is Fairer than this," he declared.

"I doubt it!" said Croker of Ballinagarde.