Classic Poem

Young Pat was heir to fourscore cows,
Five hundred sheep and sixty sows,
Two lordly bulls, four breeding mares,
A house with half a flight of stairs,
Well thatched and plastered round with clay,
Of diff'rent colors, blue and gray,
As snug as any thrush's nest:
Proceed, dear Muse, and tell the rest.
Before you bring him on the stage,
Pray tell the reader Paddy's age:
“Just twenty-four”—I think you're right,
For I was told the same last night.
The gods to honest Pat were kind
In gifts of body and of mind;
For he could read, and write, and sing,
And touch with art the trembling string;
The foremost in the fight or chase,
And never known to lose a race;
In wrestling skilled; oh Muse divine,
Around his rival how he'd twine!
His legs well made, a better pair
Was never seen at any fair,
Proportioned well in every part,
And add to this a gen'rous heart.
As yet our swain ne'er thought of love;
Youth, like the bee, delights to rove
From flower to flower, from tree to tree:
Oh Cupid! mind thy just decree,
Prepare thy bow, evince thy power,
And wound the breast that wounds a flower.
Let not the wretch ‘scape like the bee,
And lay the fault on destiny.
This was not Paddy's case I own;
Sometimes he thought to lie alone
Was not so pleasant as it might,
Provided everything went right,
That half a bed, an honest soul,
Was often better than the whole,
Provided Sally filled the other;
Why not as well as her fair mother?
With thoughts like these amused one night,
He sunk to rest, his sleep was light:
He dreamt, and in the pleasing trance
He thought he saw a nymph advance
With swimming mien and measured pace;
Her locks were bound with silver lace,
And decked with buds of every hue,
The pansy pale, the violet blue;
The lightest summer cloud her veil,
While vestments floating on the gale,
With trembling dew-drops sprinkled o'er;
The like was never seen before.
Pat thought at first she was the queen
Of love, or goddess of the green;
At all events resolved to wait,
With courage like a man, his fate.
He wasn't held in long suspense;
There's nothing like the present tense;
In love, at least, it is the best,
For time, you know, destroys the zest.
With honeyed words and accents mild,
Conducted by fair Venus' child:
“I'm come to offer you my hand,
Not for the sake of house or land,
For I despise your dirty pelf;
I love you only for yourself;
Your gen'rous worth has fired my breast;
Forgive—my eyes will tell the rest.
That fleecy coat I'll quickly change;
With cows and sheep no more you'll range;
Your hair with riband shall be bound,
Your hat with roses decked thrice round;
Your homespun hose shall yield to silk,
Your gloves as white as snow or milk;
Potatoes vile shall yield to truffles,
And wristbands plain to flowing ruffles;
Wax tapers shall flame round in brass,
And wooden cups give way to glass.”
Pat heard with wonder; we'll suppose
At every gaze new charms arose;
He pressed her hand, but was afraid
To kiss so bright, so fair a maid.
His breast was filled with soft alarms:
She knew the magic of her charms;
And left him to reflect awhile,
Then softly vanished in a smile.
That he might have his choice of two,
Another just appeared in view,
That was not fit to be her maid,
In point of dress, so coarse arrayed;
Her coat was poplin, home-made stuff,
Her stockings blue, and somewhat rough;
But there was something in her eyes
That might command the richest prize;
But modesty forbade the trial,
And every look spoke self-denial.
Her modest eye, 'stead of her tongue,
Spoke thus, as by the fairies sung:
“Young Pat, I see your heart is won;
If so, poor Shela is undone:
Your house, that braves the rudest storm,
Must change, alas! its pleasing form;
Your locks, that wanton in the wind,
The gaudy riband now must bind;
Your kine and swine must all be sold,
And wooden cups exchanged for gold;
Your father's homely cheer you'll quit,
The plain roast joint and wooden spit;
Potatoes must not show their face,
And whiskey sink into disgrace.
But say, dear Pat, when all is past,
How long you think this game will last;
When all is spent, and friendship fled,
Will beauty serve you in its stead?
Or will the fair, whose pride is dress,
Remain with you in deep distress?
In such a case, what would you do?
I'd live, and love, and die with you;
At night I'd trim the little fire,
And knit your stockings on fine wire;
I'd stuff your pumps with softest hay,
And hang your hat out of the way;
From every bush I'd pluck the wool,
And when I'd have my apron full,
I'd spin it on my fav'rite wheel,
And wind it on a hand-cross reel;
In heath well dyed a purple black,
How it would shine upon your back!
And when you went at night to bed,
I'd wash your shirt, and bind your head;
With verdant moss I'd fill your pillow,
And wreath the window with a willow;
Green rushes on the floor I'd strew,
And thus I'd live and die with you.
If fate should bless us with a race,
I'd trace the father in each face.”
Pat paused a while, and Shela stood
Like the pale primrose in the wood.
The youth advanced, and seized her hand,
And kissed it thrice at love's command.
He waked, and knew where Shela dwelt;
Her eyes confessed the pangs she felt:
Hymen was ready with his torch,
And led them to the sacred porch.