Now the gown Murphy gave her, That expense he might save her, Though not quite bran new, still looked elegant rather, Of a sky-coloured blue, Without flounces, 'tis true, And being scanty in skirt rather tight round her drew; It was smothered with bows, Which descended in rows From her fine swelling chest to her neat little toes, Just like scarlet-runners,-- Love, sure, they had won hers, If at the beginning had been but for fun hers. At the top it was low, That her neck it might show, As white as a turnip or two-days'-back snow. Then her rather red face Was embedded in lace, With large green rosette, garnished to heighten each grace. But a bright crimson shawl Was her pride above all, Whose folds graceful descended the ground down to fall. The young ladies in white Will appear towards night, Their frocks from the mangle are not yet dry quite. So like _grubs_ they appear, Till through starching they're clear, And then prouder than _butterflies_ up their heads rear. With sweet roses entwined They their fair brows will bind, To make most of themselves they are really inclined. Little Michael was drest Out in his very best, With a pinafore over, lest they might be messed. He had watched with great int'rest the good things provided, And much longed for the time when they should be divided. "O you beautiful creature!" said Flannagan Ted, "How I wish it was me, and not Murphy instead; I quite think we must fight till there's one of us kilt, Unless he runs away that no blood may be spilt." "Oh, the false, faithless man!" cried a beauty beside him; "When I thought him so true, sure his words have belied him! To speak so in my presence,--oh, really, 'tis shocking! How often do men seem our best feelings mocking!' But the good dame replied, with a kind-hearted smile, "'Twas but flattery, Clare, his heart's your's all the while." Yet the beautiful maid still continued to pout, Till a loud, smacking kiss, rubbed the wrinkles all out.