Poetry.

Lyttelton Times, Volume X, Issue 609, 8 September 1858, Page 3

Poetry.

the peince of wales at the blarney '■■■■' '"".""■''•' stone. ' ■ ■ :

; ; ; (F,rom > Punch.') « The Groves of Blarney; they are ao charming," Surathe place and the po'mo wei all'of, usknowe: Rut moroiligantposiea and shuparioi-roses, Henceforward wiH bloomin tbo.fmoet ttock-clone. Since the hope of the; nation for recreation : To it condescindod to ropair, ; ■ ■ The daffydowndillieK, likewise the lilies, Houids their heads a dalo higher in the opon air.

If Lady Jeffreys still gracod ; tho nation -Twould rise her daadther, to think tins Koyal flower Shouldn't be attinded with more consideration Of his lofty station, climbm' up the tower. _ „„;„ 'twas a Wundther, that might confound her, That a Queen's son should wandther lika a pnvato gent, Aud vi-it Killarney and the Groves of Blarney, Wid Gibbs, that lamed him his rudiment.

And Captain do Bos, too, it'fl well he was clow to The Boyal offering, his.legs to secure, While Biddy Casey, that keeps the kays, «ho Was takiii'it aisy on the second flure. Littfo she was dthramin;, how thb Princo m sohamm' To be lot hang craning down over the wall, For a kiss of-the ■tone there, which it's woll known there, Makoß a man a deludther for good and all. But though his Highness,'for all hi« shyness, Wasn't let to 301* hi* lips to that stono Sure in Cork or Dublin; without much throubhn, He'll Hnd ita ennobling effects well shown. It's they that can carney and tip the blarney, In every bar'ny from Cloyne |to Cork, . And lick his shoes, Sir, wid nalaams aud kotoo<, S.r, Like any Sepoy, or Chinese Turk.

To rank .md quol'ty, let alone to roy lty, Sure it's Erin'- loy'lty that knows what's due : Your Saxon snobs, Sir, may hida their nobs, Sir, It's our Irish mob, Sir,"bates them black and blue Their own kings onc't,'Sir;':Connaughtan^Mnnster, Likewise Ulsther and ieiusther, they :did eirjoy, And till ejected, it's they wor respected, From Brian Bom to the prisint Viceroy.

Ii ho thinks he 1* goin, Sir, quite unbeknown, Sir, Lave Ireland alone, Sir, to spoil that game. Not » Kingston carman, or a Lea-roud barman, To lord Bandon in armine, but would think it shamo, Let him walk or ride, oh, on every side, oh, . Like Venus or Dido, he would übine out; Spite of Gibbs'H dthrynesH, and De Ros's shyness, " Long live his Highness" it's ineself 'ud nhout.

When a town hfi'd arrive at, I'd not lave him private, His crar I'd drive at—the Boyal Boy— With shouts ohstropolous, from Cork's metropolis To the Giant's Causeway^ sure I'd wish him joy. •Oh, was I a herald, or 8. Fitzgerald, Or Sir Bernard Burke, the Ulsther King-at-Armss, He'd be hard of hearin' e'er he left Green Erin, What wid nhouts"ahd cheerin' and big guvs' alarms