 | Poems, Epigrams and Sonnets |  |
SONNET BY A SAXON.
O Blarney! Blarney, wonder-working gift!Why sat I never on the Blarney stone?
To plodding Saxon, canny Scot unknown,
What pen can paint, what skill its meaning sift?
Paddy's safe shield in every adverse shift,
His mirth is Blarney, Blarney is his moan;
Priest, Peer, and Peasant, all its influence own,
In Love Persuasive, Physic, Law, and Thrift.
Sure as he's born a Celt, the little Rogue
With mother's milk he sucks his Blarney in,
As natural to him as his native brogue.
Though, were I born in Connaught or Killarney,
On this my theme I might an epic spin,
How end my Sonnet?—Echo answers—Blarney!
| Poems, Epigrams and Sonnets | |