1 the title and metre are suggested by mahony's most musical
verses in praise of the bells of shandon.
i.
with swate sensashuns,
and palpitashuns,
and suspirashuns,
which thrill me through!
here in limerick, city of maidens pretty,
a tender ditty i'll chant to you.
ii.
with maid and man on,
a stamer ran on,
where silver shannon in glory glames!
shure, all big rivers he bates to shivers,
rowling majestic,
this king o' strames!
iii.
there, blandly baming,
as we went staming,
och, was i draming?
i first did note,
such a swate fairy,
as super mare,
no, nor yet in aere,
did iver float!
iv.
her very bonnet
desarves a sonnet,
and i'd write one on it,
if i'd the time.
but something fairer,
and dear, and rarer,
in coorse, the wearer,
shall have my rhyme.
v.
with eyes like mayteors,
and parfect phaytures,
which aisy bate yours,
great vanus, fair!
i'll ne'er forget her,
as first i met her,
on (what place betther?)
the cabin stair!
vi.
her darlint face is
beyond all praises,
and thin for graces,
there's not her like.
all other lasses
she just surpasses,
as wine molasses,
or salmon pike!
vii.
her hair's the brightest,
her hand the whitest,
her step the lightest,—
ah me, those fate!
you need not tell a—bout
cinderella,
for hers excel a-
ny boots you'll mate!
viii.
with look the purest,
that ever tourist,
from eyes azurest,
saw anywhere,
i met her blushing,
as i went rushing,
for bitter beer, down
the cabin stair.
ix.
then she sat and smiled, where,
on luggage piled there, 1
she me beguiled,—ne'er
a smile like that!
and i began to compose a canto
on frank's portmanteau,
whereon she sat.
x.
i've read in story,
what dades of glory,
knights grand and gory,
for love have wrought.
but ne'er was duel,
nor torture cruel,
i'd shun, my jewel,
if you besought!
xi.
for her voice is swatest,
her shape the natest,
and she complatest
of womankind.
and while that river,
in sunlight quiver,
oh, sure, he'll niver
her aqual find
xii.
troth, since we've parted,
i've felt down-hearted,
and disconsarted,—
a cup too low!
and so i think, boys,
we'd better drink, boys,
her health in whiskey,
before we go.
1 this luggage included a long narrow box, and, from an
aperture at the top there emerged from time to time a
peacock's head, exhibiting (despite the presence of juno) an
expression of sublime misery. i doubt whether that bird will
ever take heart to spread his tail again!
“he'll forget her to-morrow morning,” said frank to his neighbour, in a pretended whisper, which all could hear, “and it's better so, poor fellow, for the girl's ridiculously fond of me, and i've got no end of her hair in my pocket.”
of course, there were plenty of fools to giggle; but i never could see any wit in lies. i am quite positive, that, when we parted, she returned my regretful gaze, and
“phyllida amo ante alias; nam me discedere flevit.”
