William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
The Groves of BlarneyRichard Alfred Millikin (17671815)
T
They look so charming,
Down by the purling
Of sweet silent streams,
Being banked with posies,
That spontaneous grow there,
Planted in order
By the sweet rock close.
’Tis there’s the daisy
And the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink,
And the rose so fair;
The daffodowndilly—
Likewise the lily,
All flowers that scent
The sweet fragrant air.
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 pommel,
And made a breach
In her battlement.
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.
No daylight enters,
But cats and badgers
Are forever bred;
Being mossed by nature,
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;
Besides the leeches,
And groves of beeches,
Standing in order
For to guard the flood.
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,
Which my poor geni’
Could not entwine;
But were I Homer,
Or Nebuchadnezzar,
’Tis in every feature
I would make it shine.