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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Samuel Lover 1797–1868

Rory O’More; Or, Good Omens


YOUNG Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn,

He was bold as a hawk,—she as soft as the dawn;

He wish’d in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

“Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry

(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye),

“With your tricks I don’t know, in troth, what I ’m about,

Faith you’ve teas’d till I ’ve put on my cloak inside out.”

“Oh! jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way

You ’ve thrated my heart for this many a day;

And ’t is plaz’d that I am, and why not to be sure?

For ’t is all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like,

For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;

The ground that I walk on he loves, I ’ll be bound.”

“Faith,” says Rory, “I ’d rather love you than the ground.”

“Now, Rory, I ’ll cry if you don’t let me go;

Sure I drame ev’ry night that I ’m hating you so!”

“Oh,” says Rory, “that same I ’m delighted to hear,

For drames always go by conthrairies, my dear;

Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die,

And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!

And ’t is plaz’d that I am, and why not, to be sure?

Since ’t is all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve teas’d me enough,

Sure I ’ve thrash’d for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;

And I ’ve made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.”

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,

And he look’d in her eyes that were beaming with light,

And he kiss’d her sweet lips;—don’t you think he was right?

“Now Rory, leave off, sir; you ’ll hug me no more,

That ’s eight times to-day you have kiss’d me before.”

“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure,

For there ’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More.