THE groves of Blarney, they look so charming,
Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks,
All decked by posies that spontaneous grow there,
Planted in order in the rocky nooks.
"Tis there the daisy, and the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink, and the rose so fair;
Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly-
All flowers that scent the sweet open air.
'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation;
Like Alexander, or like Helen fair,
There's no commander in all the nation,
For regulation can with her compare.
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder
Could ever plunder her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell, her he did pommell,
And made a breach in her battlement.
There is a cave where no daylight enters,
But bats and badgers are for ever bred;
And mossed by nature makes it completer
Than a coach-and-six, or a downy-bed.
"Tis there the lake is well stored with fishes,
And comely eels in the verdant mud;
Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches,
Standing in order to guard the flood.
1 A burlesque upon a song, "Castle Hyde," long since forgotten.
There gravel walks are for recreation,
And meditation in sweet solitude.
"Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover, in the afternoon;
And if a lady would be so engaging
As for to walk in those shady groves,
"Tis there the courtier might soon transport her Into some fort, or the "sweet rock-close."
There are statues gracing this noble place in
All heathen gods, and nymphs so fair;
Bold Neptune, Caesar, and Nebuchadnezzar,
All standing naked in the open air!
There is a boat on the lake to float on,
And lots of beauties which I can't entwine;
But were I a preacher, or a classic teacher,
In every feature I'd make 'em shine!
There is a stone there, that whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent.
"Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a member of parliament:
A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or
An out-and-outer, "to be let alone,"
Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him;
Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney stone!
LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF MILTON,
IN TONSON'S FOLIO EDITION OF THE PARADISE LOST," 1688.
THREE poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next, in majesty; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no farther go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
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