THE FAMILY OF o'BORE. 147 



We'll never heed the date now for the place* 



There is in Erin's emerald isle that book ! 

 I wish I had it by me now to trace 



The very spot, but you had better look 

 In your own copy, for 'twould take more space 



Than probably my readers could well brook, 

 Were I to send off for the document, 

 Besides, I might not get it if I sent. 



It makes small difference " Once upon a time," 



Somewhere, in Ireland, was a fairy well, 

 Famed for rewarding good and punishing crime, 



Because of an occurrence which befel 

 Thereat and then the people of my rhyme 



Whose story I am just about to tell. 

 This well was in a wild romantic glade, 

 Bestrewed with flowers and overhung with shade. 



And not far from it stood a mansion, where 



Resided an old knight, Sir Brian O'Bore, 

 Whose pedigree, he was wont to declare, 



Could be traced to the very year before 

 St. Patrick came with his " God save all here !" 



And his grand ancestor, Icing Phelimore, 

 Was said to be the first that had demanded 

 That bright apostle's blessing when he landed. 



Unhappily our knight was rather poor. 



He had been a wild fellow in his day, 

 A devil among the girls, you may be sure, 



And, which was worse, addicted to high play ; 

 At last he took a wife, by way of cure, 



A little of the spit-fire too, they say. 

 But she died, luckily, after three years, 

 Leaving two infant daughters, " pretty dears !" 

 The first had been named Norah, but the second 



(Who was called Sheelah, after the mamma) 

 Rather the prettier of the two was reckoned, 



(No very great eulogium, by the La !) 

 And was a favourite with her till death beckon'd 



Her off, and only left them their papa, 

 Who loved them both alike, but hardly tarried 

 A year, until a second wife he married. 



She was in beauty, and in temper too 



(Which latter is of far more consequence), 

 Vastly superior to the lady who 



Preceded her; in proof of her good sense, 

 She used to bear with what but very few 



Could listen to, without taking offence 

 The old knight's constant hobby to dilate 

 On the perfections of his/ormer mate. 



She was, by his account, an angel " quite 

 Unlike yourself, my dear," said he, the brute ! 



Was it his wish to break her heart outright ? 

 'Tis hardly credible yet he did do't ! 



For she was not made for enduring slight, 



But deeply felt unkindness though still mute ! 



She died conjuring him, with tears, to 



A little daughter that she left behind. 



