 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
THE POTATO BLOSSOM
As fiddle in hand
I crossed the land,
Wid homesick heart so weighty,
I chanced to meet
A girl so sweet
That she turned my grief to gai'ty.
Now what cause for pause
Had her purty feet?
Faix, the beautiful flower of the pratee.
I crossed the land,
Wid homesick heart so weighty,
I chanced to meet
A girl so sweet
That she turned my grief to gai'ty.
Now what cause for pause
Had her purty feet?
Faix, the beautiful flower of the pratee.
Then more power to the flower of the pratee,
The beautiful flower of the pratee,
For fixin' the feet
Of that colleen sweet,
On the road to Cincinnati.
The beautiful flower of the pratee,
For fixin' the feet
Of that colleen sweet,
On the road to Cincinnati.
You'd imagine her eye
Was a bit of blue sky,
And her cheek had a darlin' dimple;
Her footstep faltered,
She blushed, and altered
Her shawl wid a timid trimble.
And, “Oh, sir, what's the blossom
You wear on your bosom?”
She asked most sweet and simple.
Was a bit of blue sky,
And her cheek had a darlin' dimple;
Her footstep faltered,
She blushed, and altered
Her shawl wid a timid trimble.
And, “Oh, sir, what's the blossom
You wear on your bosom?”
She asked most sweet and simple.
32
I looked in her face
To see could I trace
Any hint of lurkin' levity;
But there wasn't a line
Of her features fine
But expressed the gentlest gravity.
So quite at my aise
At her innocent ways,
Wid sorra a sign of brevity,
To see could I trace
Any hint of lurkin' levity;
But there wasn't a line
Of her features fine
But expressed the gentlest gravity.
So quite at my aise
At her innocent ways,
Wid sorra a sign of brevity,
Says I, “Don't you know
Where these blossoms blow,
And their name of fame, mavourneen?
I'd be believin'
You were deceivin'
Shiel Dhuv this summer mornin',
If your eyes didn't shine
So frank on mine,
Such a schemin' amusement scornin'.
Where these blossoms blow,
And their name of fame, mavourneen?
I'd be believin'
You were deceivin'
Shiel Dhuv this summer mornin',
If your eyes didn't shine
So frank on mine,
Such a schemin' amusement scornin'.
Now I don't deny
'Twould be asy why,
Clane off widout any reflection—
Barely to name
The plant of fame
Whose flower is your eye's attraction;
Asy for me,
But to you, machree,
Not the slenderest satisfaction;
'Twould be asy why,
Clane off widout any reflection—
Barely to name
The plant of fame
Whose flower is your eye's attraction;
Asy for me,
But to you, machree,
Not the slenderest satisfaction;
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For somehow I know
If I answered you so,
You'd be mad you could disrimimber
In what garden or bower
You'd seen this flower
Or adornin' what forest timber,
Or where to seek
For its fruit unique
From June until Novimber.
If I answered you so,
You'd be mad you could disrimimber
In what garden or bower
You'd seen this flower
Or adornin' what forest timber,
Or where to seek
For its fruit unique
From June until Novimber.
Since thin, I reply,
You take such joy
In this blossom I love so dearly,
Wid a bow like this
Shall I lave you, miss,
Whin I've mentioned the name of it merely;
Or take your choice,
Wid music and voice,
Shall I sing you its history clearly?”
You take such joy
In this blossom I love so dearly,
Wid a bow like this
Shall I lave you, miss,
Whin I've mentioned the name of it merely;
Or take your choice,
Wid music and voice,
Shall I sing you its history clearly?”
“Oh! the song, kind sir,
I'd much prefer,”
She answered wid eager gai'ty.
So we two and the fiddle
Turned off from the middle
Of the road to Cincinnati,
And from under the shade
That the maples made
I sang her “The Song of the Pratee.
I'd much prefer,”
She answered wid eager gai'ty.
So we two and the fiddle
Turned off from the middle
Of the road to Cincinnati,
And from under the shade
That the maples made
I sang her “The Song of the Pratee.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |