| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895. |
| |
| Rory O’More; Or, Good Omens |
| | | Samuel Lover (1797–1868) |
| |
| |
| YOUNG Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn, | |
| He was bold as a hawk,—she as soft as the dawn; | |
| He wish’d in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, | |
| And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. | |
| “Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry | 5 |
| (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), | |
| “With your tricks I don’t know, in troth, what I ’m about, | |
| Faith you’ve teas’d till I ’ve put on my cloak inside out.” | |
| “Oh! jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way | |
| You ’ve thrated my heart for this many a day; | 10 |
| And ’t is plaz’d that I am, and why not to be sure? | |
| For ’t is all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More. | |
| |
| “Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like, | |
| For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; | |
| The ground that I walk on he loves, I ’ll be bound.” | 15 |
| “Faith,” says Rory, “I ’d rather love you than the ground.” | |
| “Now, Rory, I ’ll cry if you don’t let me go; | |
| Sure I drame ev’ry night that I ’m hating you so!” | |
| “Oh,” says Rory, “that same I ’m delighted to hear, | |
| For drames always go by conthrairies, my dear; | 20 |
| Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die, | |
| And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! | |
| And ’t is plaz’d that I am, and why not, to be sure? | |
| Since ’t is all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More. | |
| |
| “Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve teas’d me enough, | 25 |
| Sure I ’ve thrash’d for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; | |
| And I ’ve made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, | |
| So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.” | |
| Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, | |
| So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, | 30 |
| And he look’d in her eyes that were beaming with light, | |
| And he kiss’d her sweet lips;—don’t you think he was right? | |
| “Now Rory, leave off, sir; you ’ll hug me no more, | |
| That ’s eight times to-day you have kiss’d me before.” | |
| “Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure, | 35 |
| For there ’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More. | |
| |
|
|
|
