THE STAR OF SLANE

Ye brilliant muses who ne’er refuses,
But still infuses the poet’s mind.
Your kind sweet favours to his endeavours
That his ardent labours appear sublime.
Preserve my study from growing muddy
My notion’s ready now inspire my brain.
My quill refine as I pan each line
On a nymph divine called the Star of Slane.

In beauteous Spring, when the warblers sing,
And their carols ring through each fragant grove;
Bright Sol did shine, which made me incline;
By the river Boyne for to go to rove,
I was ruminating and meditating
And contemplating as I paced the plain,
When a charming fair one beyond comparing,
Did my heart esnare near the town of Slane.

To praise her beauty then is my duty,
But alas! I’m footy in this noble part,
And to my sorrow, sly Cupid’s arrow
Full deep did burrow in my tender heart;
In pain and trouble yet I will struggle,
Though sadly hobbled by my stupid brain,
Yet backed by Nature I can tell each feature
Of this lovely creature called the Star of Slane