The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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THE POET'S APOLOGY TO A YOUNG LADY,
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 | The Shamrock |  |
THE POET'S APOLOGY TO A YOUNG LADY,
For not answering her Verses.
A fortnight past, and somewhat more,
Since ---'s Verses came—
Each Day, she murmurs o'er and o'er,
And stands prepar'd to blame.
Since ---'s Verses came—
Each Day, she murmurs o'er and o'er,
And stands prepar'd to blame.
For Rebus, and Acrostic, both,
I owe, 'tis true;—and, yet,
By Clio's Harp (and there's my Oath)
I cannot pay the Debt.
I owe, 'tis true;—and, yet,
By Clio's Harp (and there's my Oath)
I cannot pay the Debt.
That thus the Bard the Song delays,
Impute not to Design;
For, by the God that wears the Bays,
The Fault is none of mine.
Impute not to Design;
For, by the God that wears the Bays,
The Fault is none of mine.
Had He once heard my frequent Prayer,
Then might my Verse have shewn
Those Cheeks, whose Freshness may compare
With Roses newly blown:
Then might my Verse have shewn
Those Cheeks, whose Freshness may compare
With Roses newly blown:
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That Je ne scai quoi, from Foot to Head;
That Neck, of lilly Hue;
Those Lips as moist, and eke as red,
As Cherries wet with Dew;
That Neck, of lilly Hue;
Those Lips as moist, and eke as red,
As Cherries wet with Dew;
That Form, that might on Ida's Brow
Have gain'd the golden Prize;
That Wit, whose Lustre yields, I trow,
To nothing but your Eyes.
Have gain'd the golden Prize;
That Wit, whose Lustre yields, I trow,
To nothing but your Eyes.
Thus, had I sung; and, thus, each Hour
Would I the Theme renew;
'Till Matt had mourn'd his rivall'd Power,
And Cloe bow'd to you—
Would I the Theme renew;
'Till Matt had mourn'd his rivall'd Power,
And Cloe bow'd to you—
But, ah! what boots it to rehearse!—
How vain the Poet's Dream!
The World, and you have lost the Verse;
And I have lost the Fame.
How vain the Poet's Dream!
The World, and you have lost the Verse;
And I have lost the Fame.
And, yet, Heaven knows, from Day to Day,
How oft I urg'd the Prayer;
But, spight of all that I could say,
Apollo would not hear:
How oft I urg'd the Prayer;
But, spight of all that I could say,
Apollo would not hear:
I call'd the Muses to my Aid;
But they deny'd the Strain:
I bit my Nails, and scratch'd my Head;
But bit, and scratch'd, in vain:
But they deny'd the Strain:
I bit my Nails, and scratch'd my Head;
But bit, and scratch'd, in vain:
To pump for Similies, and Rhyme,
No longer then I try;
'Tis Loss of Labour, and of Time;
The Spring, alas! is dry.
No longer then I try;
'Tis Loss of Labour, and of Time;
The Spring, alas! is dry.
| The Shamrock | |