 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
37
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 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 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!”
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!”
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |