  The groves of Blarney They look so charming Down by the purling Of sweet, silent brooks, Being banked with posies That spontaneous grow there, Planted in order By the sweet rock close. And the sweet carnation, The blooming pink, And the rose so fair, The daffydowndilly, Likewise the lily, All flowers that scent The sweet, fragrant air. 'Tis Lady Jeffers That owns this station; Like Alexander, Or Queen Helen fair. There's no commander In all the nation, For emulation, Can with her compare. Such walls surround her That no nine-pounder Could dare to plunder Her place of strength; But Oliver Cromwell Her he did pommell, In her battlement. There's gravel walks there For speculation And conversation In sweet solitude. 'Tis there the lover May hear the dove, or The gentle plover In the afternoon; And if a lady Would be so engaging As to walk alone in Those shady bowers, 'Tis there the courtier He may transport her Into some fort, or All under ground. For 'tis there's a cave where No daylight enters, But cats and badgers Are for ever bred; That makes it sweeter Than a coach-and-six or A feather bed. 'Tis there the lake is, Well stored with perches, And comely eels in The verdant mud; Beside the leeches, And groves of beeches, Standing in order For to guard the flood. There's statues gracing This noble place in— All heathen gods And nymphs so fair; Bold Neptune, Plutarch, And Nicodemus, All standing naked In the open air. So now to finish This brave narration, Could not entwine; But were I Homer Or Nebuchadnezzar, 'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. Richard Alfred Milliken |
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