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364 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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But hark ! there's a shout,—the horses are out,—
'Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo! To old Crock-a-Fotha, the people that dot the
Broad plateau around are all for a view. " Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I'll bet on the yellow ! "
" Success to the green ! faith, we'll stand by it j still!" The uplands and hollows they're skimming like swal- 1 lows,
Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill. ' |
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In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,
Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows; While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,
Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes. More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn't J sticky,
But bounds from the boards like a pay from the] quill. O 'twould cure a rheumatic,—he'd jump up ecstatic
At "Tatter Jack Walsh" upon Bellewstown Hill.
O 'tis there 'neath the haycocks, all splendid like pay- 1 cocks,
In chattering groups that the quality dine; Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers I
In flattery spout and come out mighty fine. And the gentry around from Navan and Cavan are! "having,"
'Neath the shade of the trees, an exquisite quadrille. All we read in the pages of pastoral ages
Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill. |
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