Awake, my harp, sweet plaintiff, wake once more, Now while bedight in shadowy amice dim, Eve bathes the mountains in her radiant gore, And edges ocean with a fiery rim. And while I touch, with nails ypared anew, Thy parallel and quadrupedal strings, May fairies brush away the vesper dew, That else mote moist the chorded chitterlings. And ah! full oft the learned tribe, I trow, With baleful dews of cavil damp thy strain. But morning shall return, the sun shall glow, The baleful dews shall fly, the harp shall sound again. It was a castle of turrets grey, All nettles and chickweed inside; Where the wind did howl the livelong day, And the livelong night beside. It had no windows or roof, I am sure, Or parlour for Bell-accoyle; Where a Belamay and a Belamoure, In daynt Bellgards mote moyl. 'That same parlour,' said Jerry, 'has bells enough to bother the rookery of Thomastown, and that is the largest in Ireland.' Nathlesse, to stablish her rights, I ween, Came to that castle fair Cherubine. Nor the wind day and night could her astound, Nor the nettles and chickweed that grew on the ground. She was of the house of De Willoughby, And her story was long and melancholie; But her beauty never could rivalled be. Glittered her tresses like beams of sun, And snake-like over her neck did run. Her cheek, where dimples made beauteous breach, Lovelily smiled, and the down on each Was soft as fur of unfingered peach. While thro' her marble a blush did gleam, Like ruddy berries, all crushed in cream. The minstrel to the castle hied, His mother's hope, his mother's pride. Gramercy, how that mother cried! He was a gentle man of thought, And grave, but not ungracious aught. His face with thinking lines was wrought. And though his head was bald a space, Than he who shore it will get grace. 'Now that is a slap at me!' cried Jerry. Yet, though he sold full half his books, To lay out money on his looks; The lady had such deep disdain; That the poor minstrel, in his pain, From the hour that is natal, To the hour that is fatal, Mote sing these words, and sing in vain. SONG _The birds are all singing, The bells are all ringing, And tidings are bringing, Of peace and of joy. Then let us, my treasure, In love without measure, And tenderest pleasure, Our moments employ._ 'Eh! what? what's all that?' cried Jerry. 'Why sure--body o'me, sure you ant--Oh, confound me, but 'tis making love to the mistress you are!' The minstrel blushed, and more pointedly repeated;