Classic Poem

TO THE HARD — HEARTED MOLLY CAREW, THE LAMENT OF HER IRISH LOVER .

O CH hone!
Oh! what will I do?
Sure my love is all crost,
Like a bud in the frost ...
And there's no use at all
In my going to bed;
For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep,
That comes into my head...
And 'tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew,
And indeed 'tis a sin
And a shame. —
You're complater than nature
In every feature;
The snow can't compare
To your forehead so fair;
And I rather would spy
Just one blink of your eye
Than the purtiest star
That shines out of the sky;
Tho' — by this and by that!
For the matter o' that —
You're more distant by far
Than that same.
Och hone, wierasthrew!
I am alone
In this world without you:

Och hone!
But why should I speak
Of your forehead and eyes,
When your nose it defies
Paddy Blake the schoolmaster
To put it in rhyme? —
Though there's one Burke ,
He says,
Who would call it Snub lime ...
And then for your cheek,
Throth, 'twould take him a week
Its beauties to tell
As he'd rather: —
Then your lips, O machree!
In their beautiful glow
They a pattern might be
For the cherries to grow. —
'Twas an apple that tempted
Our mother, we know;
For apples were scarce
I suppose long ago:
But at this time o'day,
'Pon my conscience I'll say,
Such cherries might tempt
A man's father!
Och hone, wierasthrew!
I'm alone
In this world without you!

Och hone!
By the man in the moon!
You teaze me all ways
That a woman can plaze;
For you dance twice as high
With that thief Pat Macghee
As when you take share
Of a jig, dear, with me;
Though the piper I bate,
For fear the ould chate
Wouldn't play you your
Favourite tune.
And when you're at Mass
My devotion you crass,
For 'tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew;
While you wear on purpose
A bonnet so deep,
That I can't at your sweet
Pretty face get a peep.
Oh! lave off that bonnet,
Or else I'll lave on it
The loss of my wandering
Sowl!
Och hone! like an owl,
Day is night,
Dear, to me without you!

Och hone!
Don't provoke me to do it;
For there's girls by the score
That loves me, and more.
And you'd look very queer,
If some morning you'd meet
My wedding all marching
In pride down the street.
Throth you'd open your eyes,
And you'd die of surprise
To think 'twasn't you
Was come to it.
And faith! Katty Naile
And her cow, I go bail,
Would jump if I'd say,
" Katty Naile, name the day. "
And though you're fair and fresh
As the blossoms of May,
And she's short and dark
Like a cowld winter's day,
Yet, if you don't repent
Before Easter, — when Lent
Is over — I'll marry
For spite.
Och hone! and when I
Die for you,
'Tis my ghost that you'll see every night!