POETRY.
"NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST."
AN IRISH SONG.
WE have dark, lovely looks on the shores where the Spanish From their gay ships came gallantly forth, And the sweet, shrinkin' violets sooner will vanish Than modest blue eyes from our North ; But oh I if the fairest of fair-daughtered Erin Gathered round at her golden request, There's not one of them all that she'd think worth comparie With Nancy, the Pride of the West.
You'd suspect her the statue the Greek fell in love with, If you chanced on her musin' alone, Or some goddess great Jove was offended above with, And chilled to a sculpture of stone ; But you'd think her no colourless, classical statue, When she turned from her pensive repose, With her glowin' gray eyes glanein' timidly at you, And the blush of a beautiful rose.
Have you heard Nancy sigh ?—then you've caught the sad echo From the wind-harp enchantingly borne.
Have you heard the girl laugh? then you've heard the first cuckoo Carol summer's delightful return.
And the songs that poor ignorant country-folk fancy The lark's liquid raptures on high, Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of Nancy, Flowin' up and refreshin' the sky.
And tho' her foot dances so soft from the heather To the dew-twinklin' tussocks of grass, It but warns the bright drops to slip closer together, To image the exquisite lass, We've no men left among us so lost to emotion, Or scornful, or cold to her sex, Who'd resist her, if Nancy once took up the notion, To set that soft foot on their necks.
Yet for all that the bee flies for honey-dew fragrant To the half-opened flower of her lips, And the butterfly pauses, the purple-eyed vagrant, To play with her pink finger-tips, From all human lovers she locks up the treasure A thousand are starvin' to taste, And the fairies alone know the magical measure Of the ravishin' round of her waist.
THE AUTHOR OF "SONGS OF KILLARNEY."
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