SHEELAH.
My love for gentle Dermot faster grows,
Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.
Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O!
Love rooted out, again will never grow.
DERMOT.
No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:
(I spare the thistles for sir Arthur's[1] sake)
Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;
The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.
SHEELAH.
Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;
This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;
Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.
DERMOT.
At an old stubborn root I chanc'd to tug,
When the dean threw me this tobacco-plug:
A longer ha'p'orth[2] never did I see;
This, dearest Sheelah, thou shalt share with me.
SHEELAH.
In at the pantry door this morn I slipt,
And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:
Dennis[3] was out, and I got hither safe;
And thou, my dear, shalt have the bigger half.
DERMOT.
When you saw Tady at long bullets play,
You sate and lous'd him all a sunshine day:
- ↑ Who was a great lover of Scotland.
- ↑ Halfpennyworth.
- ↑ Sir Arthur's butler.
