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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.

The Groves of Blarney

Richard Alfred Millikin (1767–1815)

THE 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,

Can 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.