Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume II. Love. 1904. | | | | IV. Wooing and Winning | | Rory O’More | | Samuel Lover (1797–1868) |
| | Or, All for Good Luck
YOUNG Rory O’More courted Kathleen bawn,— | |
| He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn; | |
| He wished 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, | 5 |
| 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 tazed till I ’ve put on my cloak inside out.” | |
| “Och! jewel,” says Rory. “that same is the way | |
| Ye ’ve thrated my heart for this many a day; | 10 |
| And ’t is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? | |
| For ’t is all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More. | |
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| “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—” | 15 |
| “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 dream every night that I ’m hating you so!” | |
| “Och!” says Rory, “that same I ’m delighted to hear, | |
| For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. | 20 |
| So, jewel, kape dhraming that same till ye die, | |
| And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! | |
| And ’t is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? | |
| Since ’t is all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More. | |
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| “Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you ’ve tazed me enough; | 25 |
| Sure I ’ve thrashed, 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; | 30 |
| And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, | |
| And he kissed 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 that you ’ve kissed me before.” | |
| “Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure! | 35 |
| For there ’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More. | | | | |
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