Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers,

Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!"

But it was Bridget Sullivan,

Her locks flour-sprent,

That danced beneath the flowering tree

Leaping as she went.

"If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation

(Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard),

Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,'

Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd!