FAN FITZGERL.

Wirra, wirra! ologone! Can’t ye lave a lad alone, Till he’s proved there’s no tradition left of any other girl— Not even Trojan Helen, In beauty all excellin’— Who’s been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl? Wid her brows of silky black Arched above for the attack, Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man; Masther Cupid, point your arrows, From this out, agin the sparrows, For you’re bested at Love’s archery by young Miss Fan. See what showers of goolden thread Lift and fall upon her head, The likes of such a trammel-net at say was never spread; For, whin accurately reckoned, ’Twas computed that each second Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead. Now mintion, if you will, Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill, Or Mag’llicuddy’s Reeks, renowned for cripplin’ all they can; Still the country-side confisses None of all its precipices Cause a quarther of the carnage of the nose of Fan. But your shatthered hearts suppose, Safely steered apast her nose, She’s a current and a reef beyand to wreck them roving ships. My meaning it is simple, For that current is her dimple, And the cruel reef ’twill coax ye to’s her coral lips. I might inform ye further Of her bosom’s snowy murther, And ah ankle ambuscadin’ through her gown’s delightful whirl; But what need when all the village Has forsook its peaceful tillage, And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl! Alfred Perceval Graves (1846).