Classic Poem

Air —“ O weep for the hour !”

Oh! the muse shed a tear
When the cruel auctioneer,
With a hammer in his hand, to sweet Blarney came!
Lady Jeffery's ghost
Left the Stygian coast,
And shriek'd the live-long night for her grandson's shame.
The Vandal's hammer fell.
And we know full well
Who bought the castle furniture and fixtures, O!
And took off in a cart
('Twas enough to break one's heart!)
All the statues made of lead, and the pictures, O!
You're the man I mean, hight
Sir Thomas Deane, knight,
Whom the people have no reason to thank at all;
But for you those things so old
Sure would never have been sold,
Nor the fox be looking out from the banquet-hall.
Oh, ye pull'd at such a rate
At every wainscoting and grate,
Determin'd the old house to sack and garble, O!
That you didn't leave a splinter,
To keep out the could winter,
Except a limestone chimney-piece of marble, O!
And there the place was left
Where bold King Charles the Twelfth
Hung, before his portrait went upon a journey, O!
Och! the family's itch
For going to law was sitch,
That they bound him long before to an attorney, O!
But still the magic stone
(Blessings on it!) is not flown,
To which a debt of gratitude Pat Lardner owes:
Kiss that block, if you're a dunce,
And you'll emulate at once
The genius who to fame by dint of blarney rose.