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ever made in my life; and I give them here, spelt as I spelt them in
those days when I knew no better. And though they are not so
polished and elegant as 'Ardelia ease a Love-sick Swain,' and 'When
Sol bedecks the Daisied Mead,' and other lyrical effusions of mine
which obtained me so much reputation in after life, I still think
them pretty good for a humble lad of fifteen:--
THE ROSE OF FLORA.
Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle Brady.
On Brady's tower there grows a flower,
It is the loveliest flower that blows,--
At Castle Brady there lives a lady
(And how I love her no one knows):
Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora
Presents her with this blooming rose.
'O Lady Nora,' says the goddess Flora,
'I've many a rich and bright parterre;
In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers,
But you're the fairest lady there:
Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty,
Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!
What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her!
Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew
Beneath her eyelid is like the vi'let,
That darkly glistens with gentle jew?
The lily's nature is not surely whiter
Than Nora's neck is,--and her arrums too.
'Come, gentle Nora,' says the goddess Flora,
'My dearest creature, take my advice,
There is a poet, full well you know it,
Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,--
Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry,
If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise.'
On Sunday, no sooner was my mother gone to church, than I summoned
Phil the valet, and insisted upon his producing my best suit, in
which I arrayed myself (although I found that I had shot up so in my
illness that the old dress was wofully too small for me), and, with
my notable copy of verses in my hand, ran down towards Castle Brady,
bent upon beholding my beauty. The air was so fresh and bright, and
the birds sang so loud amidst the green trees, that I felt more
elated than I had been for months before, and sprang down the avenue
(my uncle had cut down every stick of the trees, by the way) as
brisk as a young fawn. My heart began to thump as I mounted the
grass-grown steps of the terrace, and passed in by the rickety hall-
door. The master and mistress were at church, Mr. Screw the butler
told me (after giving a start back at seeing my altered appearance,
and gaunt lean figure), and so were six of the young ladies.
'Was Miss Nora one?' I asked.
'No, Miss Nora was not one,' said Mr. Screw, assuming a very
puzzled, and yet knowing look.
'Where was she?' To this question he answered, or rather made
believe to answer, with usual Irish ingenuity, and left me to settle
whether she was gone to Kilwangan on the pillion behind her brother,
or whether she and her sister had gone for a walk, or whether she
was ill in her room; and while I was settling this query, Mr. Screw
left me abruptly.
I rushed away to the back court, where the Castle Brady stables
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