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

Ochone! Patrick Blake,
You're off up to Dublin,
And sure for your sake
I'm the terrible trouble in;
For I thought that I knew
What my “Yes” and my “No” meant,
Till I tried it on you
That misfortunate moment.
But somehow I find,
Since I sent Pat away,
It must be in my mind
I was wishful he'd stay.

While ago the young rogue
Came and softly stooped over,
And gave me a pogue
As I stretched in the clover;
How I boxed his two ears,
And axed him “How dare he?”
Now I'd let him for years—
'Tis the way women vary.

For somehow I find,
Since I sent Pat away,
It must be in my mind
I was wishful he'd stay.

Oh! why wouldn't he wait
To put his comether
Upon me complate,
When we both were together?
But no, Patrick, no;
You must have me consentin'
Too early, and so
Kitty's late for repentin'.
For somehow I find,
Since I sent Pat away,
It must be in my mind
I was wishful he'd stay.

Oh! Kitty O'Hea,
I'm the terrible trouble in,
For you're at Rossbeigh
And myself is in Dublin,
Through mistaking, bedad!
Your blushes and that trick
Of sighing you had
Showed a softness for Patrick.
And yet from my mind
A voice seems to spake:—
“Go back, and you'll find
That she's fond of you, Blake!”

Oh! Dublin is grand,
As all must acknowledge,
Wid the Bank on one hand,
On the other the College.
I'd be proud to be Mayor
Of so splendid a city,
But I'd far sooner share
A cabin wid Kitty.
And I may so some day,
For that voice in my mind
Keeps seeming to say:—
“After all she'll be kind.”

Oh! Dublin is fine
Wid her ships on the river,
And her iligant line
Of bridges forever.
But, Kitty, my dear,
I'd exchange them this minute
For our small little pier
And my boat, and you in it.
And I may so some day,
For that voice in my mind
Keeps seeming to say:—
“After all she'll be kind.”

Here you've beautiful squares
For all to be gay in,
Promenading in pairs,
Wid the band music playin';

But if I'd my choice,
Where our green hollies glisten,
To Kitty's sweet voice
I'd far sooner listen.
And I may so some day,
For that voice in my mind
Keeps seeming to say:—
“After all she'll be kind.”

Here's a wonderful Park,
Where the wild beasts are feedin'
For the world like No'h's Ark
Or the Garden of Eden!
But, faix! of the two,
I'd rather be sittin'
Manœuvring, aroo!
Wid your comical kitten.
And I may so some day,
For that voice in my mind
Keeps seeming to say:—
“After all she'll be kind.”

Yes, Dublin's a Queen
Wid her gardens and waters,
And her buildings between
For her sons and her daughters;
In learning so great,
So lovely and witty;
But she isn't complate
At all widout Kitty.

And that voice in my mind—
“Go back to the South!”—
So I will, then, and find
What you mane from her mouth.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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'.

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;

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.

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?”

“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.

BLACKBERRYING

When I was but a weeshy boy,
My mother's pride, my father's joy,
My mouth and hands had full employ,
When blackberries grew ripe;
And oft my mammy she should squeeze
The thorns from out my arms and knees,
And my good dad, to give me ease,
Put by his favourite pipe.
And even since I've become a man,
And dressed on quite a different plan,
I've still gone carrying the can,
When blackberries grew sweet.
Yes! trampling through the bramble brakes,
I'd court the keenest pains and aches
For two or three fair colleens' sakes,
Whose names I'll not repeat.

Till Norah of the amber hair,
Who'd been my partner here and there,
Around about and everywhere,
When blackberries came in;
As I just tried with too much haste
The richer, rarer fruit to taste,
That on her lips was goin' to waste,
She tosses up her chin,
And marches by me night and morn,
Her grey eyes only glancing scorn,
Regardless of the bitter thorn
That in my heart she's rooting!

Yet, somehow, something in my mind
Keeps murmuring, when she's most unkind,
“Have patience! she'll make friends, you'll find,
Ere blackberries finish fruiting!”

LOVE'S HALLOWED SEAL

When sky-larks soaring to Heav'n were pouring
The trembling cadence of their long, sweet cry;
As lone I wandered and pensive pondered,
My Queen of Maidens she came musing by.
Her footstep faltered, she blushed and altered
Her crimson kerchief with gesture shy;
It could not hide her, and so beside her
I took the mountain track to old Athy.

Till as we rounded the ridge that bounded
The cowslip meadow from the coom below,
A sad, slow tolling, from far uprolling,
Cast sudden shadow on my colleen's brow.
In prayer low bending she knelt, commending
The parting spirit to Heav'n above,
And that one motion of pure devotion
Has set a hallowed seal upon my love.

THE MILKING CAN

All in Tipp'rary's Golden Vale
I met with Kate Magee,
Upon her poll the milking pail,
A lamb beside her knee.

O, her eyes were dreams of blue,
With the sunlight dancing through,
And her laughing lips the hue
Of the rose upon the tree;
And a step so light, the daisies white
Scarce stirr'd upon the lea.

For a year, an eager, aching year,
With pleasure hard by pain,
And many a hope and many a fear,
I'd sought her love to gain.
Ev'ry art of tongue and eye
Fond lads with lasses try,
I had used with ceaseless sigh—
Yet all, yet all in vain;
And a fortnight since she made me wince
With her wit in that very lane.

But that morning, at the tender tale
Of trouble in my eyes,
Her footsteps fail, she lowers her pail,
And soft my name she sighs;
And a happy, happy man,
I'd her slender waist to span,
And a kiss above her can,
And a small hand for my prize,
As soft as silk, as white as milk,
And as warm as summer skies.

CHANGING HER MIND

As I rolled on my side-car to Santry Fair,
I chanced round a corner on Rose Adair,
Her shoes in her hands as she took the track,
And a fowl in a basket upon her back.
“Step up, Miss Rose! Och, that bird's luck,
Attendin' the fair as Rose's duck,
As Rose's duck, as Rose's duck!”
“No! Shawn Magee, the bird's a goose,
And to travel with two, there's no sort of use.”

I couldn't but laugh, though I'd had it hot,
But I fired, as I passed her, one partin' shot.
“The poor second gander that got the worst,”
Says I, “must leave Rose to mind the first.
The creature must fly and boldly try
To seem a swan in some girl's eye,
Some other girl's eye, some other girl's eye.
Good day to you, Rose, for I'd best push on,
And perhaps at the fair I'll be some girl's swan.”

But hardly a furlong away I'd flown,
When plainly behind me I heard her moan.
In a breath I was back, where she limped forlorn,
With her purty foot pierced by a thumpin' thorn.
With one soft squeeze I gave her ease;
Then turning kind, say she, “I find
I'm—changing—my—mind—I've changed my mind!”
“Change more,” says I. “What's that?” says she.
“Your name to mine. Be Rose Magee!”

JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING

“Ah, Jenny, I'm not jesting,
Believe what I'm protesting,
And yield what I'm requesting
These seven years through.”
“Ah, Lawrence, I may grieve you;
Yet, if I can't relieve you,
Sure, why should I deceive you
With words untrue.
But, since you must be courtin',
There's Rosy and her fortune,
'Tis rumoured your consortin'
With her of late.
Or there's your cousin Kitty,
So charming and so witty,
She'd wed you out of pity,
Kind Kate.”

“Fie! Jenny, since I knew you,
Of all the lads that woo you,
None's been so faithful to you.
If truth were told;
Even when yourself was dartin'
Fond looks at fickle Martin,
Till off the thief went startin'
For Sheela's gold.”
“And, if you've known me longest,
Why should your love be strongest,
And his that's now the youngest,
For that be worst?”

“Fire, Jenny, quickest kindled
Is always soonest dwindled,
And thread the swiftest spindled
Snaps first.”

“If that's your wisdom, Larry,
The longer I can tarry,
The luckier I shall marry
At long, long last.”
“I've known of girls amusing,
Their minds, the men refusing,
Till none were left for choosing
At long, long last.”
“Well, since it seems that marriage
Is still the safest carriage,
And all the world disparage
The spinster lone;
Since you might still forsake me,
I think I'll let you take me.
Yes! Larry, you may make me
Your own!”

FIXIN' THE DAY

PATRICK
Arrah, answer me now, sweet Kitty Mulreddin,
Why won't you be fixin' the day of our weddin'?

KITTY
Now, Patrick O'Brien, what a hurry you're in!
Can't you wait till the summer comes round to begin?

PATRICK
O, no, Kitty machree, in all sinse and all raison,
The winter's the properest marryin' saison;
For to comfort oneself from the frost and the rain,
There's nothin' like weddin' in winter, 'tis plain.

KITTY
If it's only protection you want from the cowld,
There's a parish that's called the Equator, I'm tould,
That for single young men is kept hot through the year.
Where's the use of your marryin'? off wid you there!

PATRICK
But there's also a spot not so pleasantly warmed,
Set aside for ould maids, if I'm rightly informed,
Where some mornin', if still she can't make up her mind,
A misfortune colleen, called Kathleen, you'll find.

KITTY
Is it threatenin' you are that I'll die an ould maid,
Who refused, for your sake, Mr. Laurence M'Quaide?
Faix! I think I'll forgive him; for this I'll be bound,
He'd wait like a lamb till the summer came round.

PATRICK
Now it's thinkin' I am that this same Mr. Larry
Is what makes you so slow in agreein' to marry.

KITTY
And your wish to be settled wid me in such haste
Doesn't prove that you're jealous of him in the laste?

PATRICK
Well, we'll not say that Kitty'll die an ould maid.

KITTY
And we'll bother no more about Larry M'Quaide.

PATRICK
But, Kitty machree, sure those weddin's in spring,
When the Long Fast is out, are as common a thing
As the turfs in a rick, or the stones on a wall—
Faith! you might just as well not be married at all.
But a weddin', consider, at this side of Lent,
Would be thought such a far more surprisin' event—
So delightful to all at this dull time of year.
Now say “Yes!” for the sake of the neighbours, my dear!

KITTY
No, Patrick, we'll wed when the woods and the grass
Wave a welcome of purtiest green, as we pass
Through the sweet cowslip meadow, and up by the mill
To the chapel itself on the side of the hill—
Where the thorn, that's now sighin' a widow's lamint,
In a bridesmaid's costume 'll be smilin' contint,

And the thrush and the blackbird pipe, “Haste to the weddin',
Of Patrick O'Brien and Kitty Mulreddin.”

PATRICK
Will you really promise that, Kitty, you rogue?

KITTY
Whisper, Patrick, the contract I'll seal wid—a pogue.

[Kissing him.

BARNEY BRALLAGHAN

[_]

(Adapted)

On a night of June
A fine young Irish farmer
Thus takes up his tune,
Complainin' to his charmer;
“'Tis a twelve-month, Kate,
Since I first came courtin',
Yet my suit you trate
Still with cruel sportin'.

Och, just say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan!
Don't say nay,
Charmin' Kitty Callaghan!”

“Eyes, whose heavenly ray
Shot through shadowy fringes,
Cost me in one day
Twenty thousand twinges.
Dimpled chin and cheek,
Whose hue just sets me silly,
Since, 'tis hide and seek
Betwixt the rose and lily.

Beauty's star,
Charmin' Kitty Callaghan,
That's what you are,
Sighs poor Barney Brallaghan.”

“And though there's just a doubt,
If I've enough of cash, dear,
You've the lovely mout'
And I the grand moustache, dear;
You've the genteel taste,
And I'm the boy to hit it;
You've the perfect waist,
And I the arm to fit it.

So just say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charmin' Kitty Callaghan!”