Molly Direen.

Observer, 21 December 1893, Page 15

Molly Direen.

Weitten fob the Oesebvek.

CsITT' Hi tail to the Muses, whom sin to abuse is, #•■3l I ax inforniayshun an' humbly I pray, yJIsV At foot ay the mountain ay Poethry's fountain, That no silly divil will lade me asthray. I'll schramble up now to the top ay Parnassus, Where morthials have never too frayquently been, Provokin' the invy ay rhyinesthers an' mashers, I'll sing to me bewtiful Molly Direen. Whin Pallas an' Vaynus an' stately Diana, In clouds on Olympus reigned proudly shuprame, The potes and the sages, 'tis true, "tare-an-ages," Ay love an' ay bewty did nothin' but dhrame. They dhreamt ay red lips, an' ay teeth that were pearly, The like ay such bewty no morthial had seen, But potes, yis, an' sages, will have to rise early To find such a bewty as Molly Direen. Her eyes are as bright an' as clear as a dewdhrop, Her cheeks have the delikit bloom ay' the rose, Her buzzom is whiter than, snow on a hill-top, Where Boreas blusthrin' etarnally blows. Her limbs round and smooth as a pillar ay marble, Her shrnile is too shweetfor the lipsavaqueen. Oh ! Heaven inshpire me to praise without blarney, The sowl - bustin' charms ay sweet Molly Direen. Her faytures (clear cut) are the pure classic Greeshin, Her figure, lithe, supple, an' graceful in pose, Her blood is as pure as the purest Feneeshin — A duchess would .give ninety pounds for her nose. Her hair is not ' black as the wing ay a raven,' But richest dark brown' wid an illigant sheen. The man who desaves her's a dasthardly craven — I'd blow him to blazes for Molly Direen. Her voice is the note ay the thrush an' the starlin', Her whisper a zephyr delicious an' sweet, All round she's a heart-brakin' witch ay a darlin', Thejshape of her head skulpthers brings to hexfeet. Her cheek has the loveliest bit ay a dimple, — A shnug little nest for a shmall fairy queen. — May Heaven presarve it from boil and from pimple, Afflictin' the sowl-case ay Molly Direen. Arrah ! What am I thinkin' an' what am I writin', No charms in the world wid yer own can compete. Let mashers not think I am manely invitin', Bruk hearts to be haped at yer door in the sbtreet. Hurroo for herself an' the dear land that bred her, That much thrampled Island whose imblem is green. Tho' jukes, aye an' princes, are dying to wed her, Meself is the bhoy for sweet Molly Direen. Tim Dool'an. The Blowhole, Mount Eden, N.Z.