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 devilment of Fan Fitzgerl !

Wid her brows of silky black,
Arched above for the attack,
Her eyes that dart such azure death on poor admiring man ;

Masther Cupid, point your arrows,
From this out, again the sparrows,
For your bested at love's archery by young Miss Fan.

See what showers of golden thread
Lift and fall upon her head,
The likes of such a trammel net at sea was never spread ;

For when 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 Magillicuddy's Reeks, renowned for cripplin' all they can ;

Still the country-side confisses
None of all its precipices
Cause a quarter of the carnage of the nose of Fan.

But your shattered hearts suppose
Safely steered apast her nose,
She's a current and a reef beyond to wreck them roving ships.

My meaning it is simple,
For that current is her dimple,
And the cruel reef 'twill coax ye's to her coral lips.

I might inform ye further
Of her bosom's snowy murther,
And an 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 !