Both Rory and I endeavored, in the ardent enthusiasm of our fledgling passion, to give vent to the burning thoughts that flamed within us, through the lover's peculiar channel—poetry. My own extraordinary effusion I remember—his I have preserved, and although, at the time, I knew well which was best entitled to the world's consideration, I submit both productions now without a remark. They will at least serve for a description, however insufficient, of our inspiratress.
I had an immense advantage over my competitor in one instance; for, having an acquaintance in the editorial department of the local newspaper, my lucubration lent a lustre to the poets' corner, while, I am ashamed to confess, I exerted, successfully, the same influence to keep Rory's out; it was ungenerous, I own, unpardonable; but what won't a boy-rival do to clear the onward path before the impetuosity of a first love.
But here is the affair, just as it appeared in the Tipperary Gazette, headed, as I thought, with becoming modesty:
LINES TO A YOUNG LADY.
I will not venture to compare
Those flashing eyes
To sunny skies;
To threads of gold thy wealth of hair;
Thy cheek unto the rose's glow;
Thy polished brow,