Black woe shall follow, the ship of doom is here — She hath not sailed the Irish hills since the famine year."

On past the sandhills, through the waving bent,
Right up the village street the tall spectre went;

And watchers by the windows saw towering sail and mast,

And a low sound of water and wind seethed past.

Like a dust-cloud of summer that whirlwinds left,
On past the houses they watched the vessel drift,
Till she rose and then sank again on a hilltop high,
And the lights of her hull vanished mid the stars of
the sky.

What ship is this? Is her name on earth known

That can pass without piercing of the granite stone, Which can sail o'er the mountains and pause not nor reel,

With Errigal's crest tossed skyward, like a wave below her keel?

In this Isle of sorrow, she is known since days of old, No storm wind can stay her, no mountain wall withhold.

Her name is Calamity, she can come by land or sea, And she is here, oh, Eri, dear, for anchorage in thee!

RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN (1767–1815)

THE GROVES OF BLARNEY

Τ

HE Groves of Blarney
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.

'Tis Lady Jeffers

That owns this station;
Like Alexander,

Or Queen Helen fair;
There's no commander
In all the nation,

For emulation,

Lan 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.

There's gravel walks there, 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.

For 'tis there's a cave where

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.

There's statues gracing
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.

[There is an additional verse to this song by Father Prout, relating to the famous Blarney Stone. Samuel Lover says any editor who would omit it deserves to be hung up to dry on his own lines. To avoid this fate here they are :]

There is a boat on
The lake to float on,
And lots of beauties

Which I can't entwine;

But were I a preacher,

Or a classic teacher,
In every feature

I'd make 'em shine!
There is a stone there,
That whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses

To grow eloquent ;
'Tis he may clamber
To a lady's chamber,
Or become a member
Of parliament.
A clever spouter

He'll soon turn out, or

An out-an-outer,

To be let alone.

Don't hope to hinder him,

Or to bewilder him,

Sure he's a pilgrim

From the Blarney Stone !