“The heathen gods,
And nymphs so fair,
Bold Neptune, Plutarch,
And Nicodemus,
All standing naked
In the open air.”
As Father Prout further says, the—
“ ... gravel walks there
For speculation
And conversation”—
are still in good order, and to wander in—
“The Groves of Blarney
. . . . . . . . . .
Down by the purling
Of sweet silent streams,”
and among the—
“ ... flowers that scent
The sweet fragrant air”—
is a most pleasant occupation for a summer’s afternoon.
Blarney Castle was built in the fifteenth century by Cormac MacCarthy, and consists, to-day, of only the massive donjon tower, perhaps 120 feet in height, and another lower portion, less substantial, though hardy enough to warrant the conjecture that, before the introduction of firearms, it must have been impregnable. It is almost as marvellous as the power attributed to the Blarney Stone that a few lines of rather cheap doggerel, containing in themselves no merit save their absurdity, should succeed in gaining a world-wide notoriety for a place which, otherwise, might not have been greatly celebrated beyond its own neighbourhood.