Peadar Og Goes Courtir

Now I am nicely dressed I'll go
Down to where the roses blow,
I'll pluck a fair and fragrant one
And make my mother pin it on:
Now she's laughing, so am I —
O, the blueness of the sky !

Down the street, turn to the right,
Round the corner out of sight,
Pass the church and out of town-
Dust does show on boots of brown,
I'd better brush them while I can;
Step out, Peadar, be a man!

Here's a field and there's a stile,
Shall I jump it? wait a while,
Scale it gently, stretch my foot
Across the mud in that big rut
And I'm still clean — faith, I'm not!
Get some grass and rub the spot.

Dodge those nettles, here the stream
Bubbles onward with a gleam
Steely white, and black, and gray,
Bending rushes on its way —
What's that moving? It's a rat
Washing his whiskers, isn't he fat?

Here the cow with the crumpledy horn
Whisks her tail and looks forlorn,
She wants a milkmaid bad I guess
How her udders swell and press
Against her legs — and here's some sheep,
And there's the shepherd fast asleep.

This is a sad and lonely field,
Thistles are all that it can yield,
I'll cross it quick, nor look behind,
There's nothing in it but the wind:
And if those bandy-legged trees
Could only talk they'd curse or sneeze.

A sour, unhappy, sloppy place —
That boot's loose ! I'll tie the lace
So, and jump this little ditch,
. . . Her father's really very rich:
He'll be angry — there's a crow,
Solemn blackhead ! off you go.

There a big gray, ancient ass
Is snoozing quiet in the grass,
He hears me coming, starts to rise,
And wags his big ears at the flies.
. . . What'll I say when — there's a frog,
Go it, long-legs, jig, jig-jog.

He'll be angry, say — "Pooh, pooh,
Boy, you know not what you do."
Shakespeare rot and good advice,
Fat old duffer — those field mice
Have a good time playing round
Through the corn and underground.

But her mother is friends with mine,
She always asks us out to dine,
And dear Nora, curly head,
Loves me; so at least she said.
. . . Damn that ass's hee-hee-haw —
Was that a rabbit's tail I saw?

This is the house, Lord, I'm afraid!
A man does suffer for a maid.
. . . How will I start? — the graining's new
On the door — O, pluck up, do.
Don't stand shivering there like that
. . . The knocker's funny — rat-tat-tat.

The Hill of Vision [1912]