Irene Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

In the mid year's afternoon,
Time and nature blushing June,
I go calling on my bonny girl, Irene,
And I meet her 'neath a bower,
Where the roses all a-flower,
Shed their fragrance in a deluge on Irene.
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this,
In all the world I know.


Hers is blissful company,
And I'm happy, don't you see,
When I'm calling on my bonny girl, Irene;
In the haunts that harbor her,
There a scent of lavender
Blends its sweetness with the roses for Irene;
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this,
In all the world I know.


There is magic in her eye,
And the Graces seem to vie,
In the placing of their glories on Irene,
When I fold her in my arms,
Captivated by the charms,
And the fascinating taction of Irene,
In all the world I know,
There's nothing just like this;
'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss!
And it delights me so;
There's nothing just like this
In all the world I know.