O Mary Leslie, blithe and shrill
The bugles blew for Spain:
And you below the Castle Hill
Stood in the crowd your lane.
'Tis pretty to be in Ballinderry,
'Tis pretty to be in Ballindoon,
But 'tis prettier far in County Kerry
Coortin' under the bran' new moon,
Wake! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept
Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept,
To commemorate the virtue of Homoeopathy in restoring one apparently drowned.
Love, that in a tear was drown'd,
By the late W. W. (of H.M. Inland Revenue Service).
And is it so? Can Folly stalk
And aim her unrespecting darts
Down in the street the last late hansoms go
Still westward, but with backward eyes of red
The harlot shuffles to her lonely bed;
You and I and Burd so blithe—
Burd so blithe, and you, and I—
After T. I.
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree,
After W. M. P.
At length the term's ending;
I 'm in for my Schools in a week;