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KITTY MACLURE.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

KITTY MACLURE.

Of the beauties of old
Heathen poets have told,
But I, on the faith of a Christian, more pure,
Abjure all the lays
Of their classical days,
For my own Irish beauty—sweet Kitty Maclure!

195

Cleopatra, the gipsy—
Ariadne, the tipsy—
Tho' bumper'd by Bacchus in nectar so pure,
Were less worthy a toast
Than the beauty I boast,
So, in bright mountain-dew, here's to Kitty Maclure!
Fair Helen of Greece
And the Roman Lucrece,
Compar'd with my swan were but geese, I am sure:
What poet could speak
Of a beauty antique,
Compar'd with my young one—sweet Kitty Maclure?
Oh, sweet Kitty,
So pretty, so witty,
To melt you to pity what flames I endure;
While I sigh forth your name,
It increases my flame,
Till I'm turned into cinders for Kitty Maclure!
This world below here
Is but darksome and drear,
So I set about finding for darkness a cure,
And I got the sweet knowledge
From Cupid's own college—
'Twas light from the eyes of sweet Kitty Maclure.
If all the dark pages
Of all the dark ages
Were bound in one volume, you might be secure
To illumine them quite,
With the mirth-giving light
That beams from the eyes of sweet Kitty Maclure!

196

As Cupid, one day,
Hide and seek went to play,
He knew where to hide himself, sly and secure;
So, away the rogue dashes
To hide 'mid the lashes
That fringe the bright eyes of sweet Kitty Maclure.
She thought 'twas a fly
That got into her eye,
So she wink'd—for the tickling she could not endure;
But Love would not fly
At her winking so sly,
And still lurks in the eye of sweet Kitty Maclure!