Thus it was I drew her Scouring of a kettle, (Faith! her blushing cheeks Reddened on the metal!) Ah! but 'tis in vain That I try to sketch it; The pot perhaps is like, But Peggy's face is wretched. No, the best of lead, And of Indian rubber, Never could depict That sweet kettle scrubber! See her as she moves! Scarce the ground she touches; Airy as a fay, Graceful as a duchess; Bare her rounded arm, Bare her little leg is; Vestris never showed Ankles like to Peggy's; Braided is her hair, Soft her look and modest, Slim her little waist, Comfortably bodiced. This I do declare, Happy is the laddy Who the heart can share Of Peg of Limavaddy; Married if she were, Blest would be the daddy Of the children fair Of Peg of Limavaddy. Beauty is not rare In the land of Paddy; Fair beyond compare Is Peg of Limavaddy. Citizen or Squire, Tory, Whig, or Radical would all desire Peg of Limavaddy. Had I Homer's fire, Or that of Serjeant Taddy, Meetly I'd admire Peg of Limavaddy. And till I expire, Or till I grow mad, I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy! MAY DAY ODE. BUT yesterday a naked sod, The dandies sneered from Rotten Row, And cantered o'er it to and fro; And see, 'tis done! As though 'twere by a wizard's rod A blazing arch of lucid glass To meet the sun! A quiet green but few days since, A palace, as for fairy Prince, A rare pavilion, such as man Saw never, since mankind began 5* And built and glazed! (53) A peaceful place it was but now, A multitude of nations meets; A countless throng, I see beneath the crystal bow, And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk, Each with his native handiwork And busy tongue. I felt a thrill of love and awe To mark the different garb of each; The changing tongue, the various speech A thrill, methinks, like His who saw High sovereign, in your Royal state, Are open set; Hush! ere you pass the shining gate; A moment yet. People and prince a silence keep! Helmet and plume, bow lowly down, Before the splendid portal step, (While still the wondrous banquet stays,) From Heaven supreme a blessing prays Upon the feast. Then onwards let the triumph march; And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll, And pass the gate. Pass underneath the shining arch, 'Neath which the leafy elms are green; Ascend unto your throne, O queen! And take your state. Behold her in her Royal place; A gentle lady; and the hand That sways the sceptre of this land, How frail and weak! Soft is the voice, and fair the face, She breathes amen to prayer and hymn; No wonder that her eyes are dim, And pale her cheek. |