 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
FIXIN' THE DAY
PATRICKArrah, 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?
40
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.
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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,
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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.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |