The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves :: :: University of Virginia Library

I've been soft in a small way
On the girleens of Galway,
And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;
But there's no use denyin'
No girl I've set eye on
Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.

O, where
Can her like be found?
Nowhere,
The country round,
Spins at her wheel
Daughter as true,
Sets in the reel,
Wid a slide of the shoe,
a slinderer,
tinderer,
purtier,
wittier colleen than you,
Rose, aroo!

Her hair mocks the sunshine,
And the soft, silver moonshine
Neck and arm of the colleen complately eclipse;
Whilst the nose of the jewel
Slants straight as Carn Tual
From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lips.

O, where, &c.

Did your eyes ever follow
The wings of the swallow
Here and there, light as air, o'er the meadow field glance?
For if not you've no notion
Of the exquisite motion
Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.

O, where, &c.

If y' inquire why the nightingale
Still shuns the invitin' gale
That wafts every song-bird but her to the West,
Faix she knows, I suppose,
Ould Kenmare has a Rose
That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest.

O, where, &c.

When her voice gives the warnin'
For the milkin' in the mornin'
Ev'n the cow known for hornin' comes runnin' to her pail;
The lambs play about her
And the small bonneens snout her,
Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.

O, where, &c.

When at noon from our labour
We draw neighbour wid neighbour
From the heat of the sun to the shilter of the tree,
Wid spuds fresh from the bilin'
And new milk you come smilin',
All the boys' hearts beguilin', alannah machree!

O, where, &c.

But there's one sweeter hour
When the hot day is o'er
And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,
And she sittin' in the middle,
When she's guessed Larry's riddle,
Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv!

FAN FITZGERL

Wirra, wirra! ologone!
Can't ye lave a lad alone,
Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girl—
Not even Trojan Helen,
In beauty all excellin'—
Who's been up to half the divlement of Fan Fitzgerl.

Wid her brows of silky black
Arched above for the attack,
Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admirin' man;
Masther Cupid, point your arrows,
From this out, agin the sparrows,
For your bested at Love's archery by young Miss Fan.

See what showers of goolden thread
Lift and fall upon her head,
The likes of such a trammel-net at say was niver spread
For, whin accurately reckoned,
'Twas computed that each second
Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead.

Now mintion, if ye will,
Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill,
Or Ma'g'llicuddy's Reeks renowned for cripplin' all they can;
Still the countryside confisses
None of all its precipices
Cause a quarther so much carnage as the nose of Fan.

But your shatthered hearts suppose
Safely steered apast her nose,
She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck them rovin' ships.
My maning it is simple;
For that current is her dimple,
And the cruel reef 'twill coax ye to 's her coral lips.

I might inform ye further
Of her bosom's snowy murther,
And an ankle ambuscadin' through her gown's delightful whirl;
But what need, when all the village
Has forsook its peaceful tillage,
And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl!

EVA TUOHILL

Who's not heard of Eva Tuohill,
Munster's purest, proudest jewel—
Queen of Limerick's lovely maidens,
Cork's colleens, and Galway's girls—
With her slender shape that's swimmin'
Like a swan among the women,
With her voice of silver cadence,
And her crown of clustering curls?

O! the eyes of Eva Tuohill!
Now, why wouldn't Cromwell cruel
Just have called two centuries later
With his cannon at Tervoe?

For, one flash of angry azure
Through that silky black embrasure,
And away old Noll should scatter
With his army out of view.

Is't describe you, Eva Tuohill,
With the dozenth rapier duel
Fought to fix her sweet complexion
And the colour of her hair?
Is it picture you her figure,
That's compelled so many a trigger
Take the deadliest direction
Through the early morning air?

Well, no wonder, Eva Tuohill!
Since you're just one glorious jewel,
Lit with lovely flying flushes
From delightful lip to brow;
Now in dreams your eyes they darkle,
Now with joy they dance and sparkle;
Now your cheek is bathed in blushes,
Drowned in dimpled laughter now.

But your beauty, Eva Tuohill,
Is no opal false and cruel;
Nor the meteor star deceiving,
Flashing ruin from above.
No! but some divinest splendour,
Out of angels' tear-drops tender
Crystalled, in one Iris weaving
Faith and Hope and Virgin Love.

NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST

We have dark lovely looks on the shores where the Spanish
From their gay ships came gallantly forth,
And the sweet shrinking violets sooner will vanish
Than modest blue eyes from our north;
But, oh! if the fairest of fair-daughtered Erin
Gathered round at her golden request,
There's not one of them all that she'd think worth comparing
With Nancy, the pride of the west.

You'd suspect her the statue the Greek fell in love with,
If you chanced on her musing alone,
Or some Goddess great Jove was offended above with,
And chilled to a sculpture of stone;
But you'd think her no colourless, classical statue,
When she turned from her pensive repose,
With her glowing grey eyes glancing timidly at you,
And the blush of a beautiful rose.

Have you heard Nancy sigh? then you've caught the sad echo
From the wind harp enchantingly borne.
Have you heard the girl laugh? then you've heard the first cuckoo
Carol summer's delightful return.
And the songs that poor ignorant country folk fancy
The lark's liquid raptures on high,
Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of Nancy,
Flowing up and refreshing the sky.

And though her foot dances so soft from the heather
To the dew-twinkling tussocks of grass,
It but warns the bright drops to slip closer together
To image the exquisite lass;
We've no men left among us, so lost to emotion,
Or scornful, or cold to her sex,
Who'd resist her, if Nancy once took up the notion
To set that soft foot on their necks.

Yet, for all that the bee flies for honey-dew fragrant
To the half-opened flower of her lips,
And the butterfly pauses, the purple-eyed vagrant,
To play with her pink finger-tips;
From all human lovers she locks up the treasure
A thousand are starving to taste,
And the fairies alone know the magical measure
Of the ravishing round of her waist.

MOLLEEN OGE

Molleen oge, my Molleen oge,
Go put on your natest brogue,
And slip into your smartest gown,
You rosy little rogue;
For a message kind I bear
To yourself from ould Adair,
That Pat the Piper's come around
And there'll be dancin' there.

Molleen dear, I'd not presume
To encroach into your room,
But I'd forgot a fairin'
I'd brought you from Macroom;
So open! and I swear
Not one peep upon you; there!
'Tis a silver net to gather
At the glass your golden hair.

Molleen pet, my Molleen pet.
Faix I'm fairly in a fret
At the time you're titivatin'
Molleen, aren't you ready yet?
Now net and gown and brogue,
Are you sure you're quite the vogue?
But, bedad, you look so lovely
I'll forgive you, Molleen oge!