  Oh! what have you done wid me, Daisy? You plump little rosy young witch! Sure my head and my heart’s so unaisy I scarcely can tell which is which. Whene’er I come in your sweet presence It’s telegraphed all o’er I feel; If I touch you, och! murther! it kills me Jest like an electrified eel. Your eyes are like flashings of lightning, Glancing there, darting here, oh! so frisky; Your sweet breath’s more intoxicating By far than old Irish whisky! Each eye, each limb, and each action, Your garments, too, every stitch Are all bent on Patrick’s destruction, You plump little rosy young witch! I learned a long speech to say to you When I came to your house t’other day, But I sat there as dumb as mackerel, And that’s every word I could say. To think that my tongue should address you, That it jumped up and stuck in my throttle Before I could gasp out “God bless you.” I told the good father confessor My troubles, says he, “Pat! I’m sure You’re bewitched by some wicked young fairy, And I only know one means of cure!” But he says that same cure is quite aisy, He’ll soon make all right, if I bring To church, one fine morn, my sweet Daisy, And likewise a little gold ring. H. W. Bidwell. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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