 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
57
A SHENACHUS
We were some of us old, but the more of us young;
Yet each of us shamed for the slip of our Tongue;
And studying, so, just as busy as Brownies,
At those little green primers of good Father Growney's.
When the gas jets a sudden strange jumping fit took,
And the print grew so dim in each slim Gaelic book,
That the teacher, our own Creeveen Eveen himself,
His volume laid by with a laugh on the shelf,
“And,” says he, “boys and girls, by this gas dhoul we're bet.
But we've got a full hour for a Shenachus yet.
So out with the gas, a fit light for a serf,
And heap up instead a big bonfire of turf!”
Yet each of us shamed for the slip of our Tongue;
And studying, so, just as busy as Brownies,
At those little green primers of good Father Growney's.
When the gas jets a sudden strange jumping fit took,
And the print grew so dim in each slim Gaelic book,
That the teacher, our own Creeveen Eveen himself,
His volume laid by with a laugh on the shelf,
“And,” says he, “boys and girls, by this gas dhoul we're bet.
But we've got a full hour for a Shenachus yet.
So out with the gas, a fit light for a serf,
And heap up instead a big bonfire of turf!”
One blast of the bellows—it yellows, it glows,
While a swirl of blue smoke up the black chimney goes.
“Now range yourselves all in a ring round the fire,
The priest by the parson, the clerk by the squire;
The landlord true blue facing tenants true green,
With madam and maiden mixed nicely between;
While Michael Mac Art fresh from Trinity College
First gives us a taste of his Classical knowledge;
For a little bird told me, that always was wise,
While a swirl of blue smoke up the black chimney goes.
“Now range yourselves all in a ring round the fire,
The priest by the parson, the clerk by the squire;
The landlord true blue facing tenants true green,
With madam and maiden mixed nicely between;
While Michael Mac Art fresh from Trinity College
First gives us a taste of his Classical knowledge;
For a little bird told me, that always was wise,
58
He's a poem sent in for the Chancellor's prize!
He doesn't deny it—Now, Michael, man, start,
For each girl on your Orpheus has just set her heart.
Colleens, isn't it so?”
He doesn't deny it—Now, Michael, man, start,
For each girl on your Orpheus has just set her heart.
Colleens, isn't it so?”
“Yes, indeed,” cried the girls,
So Michael he twitched for awhile at his curls,
Then held up his head and this old Grecian lay
Of Eurydice's Orpheus he chanted away.
So Michael he twitched for awhile at his curls,
Then held up his head and this old Grecian lay
Of Eurydice's Orpheus he chanted away.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |