The humour of Ireland

by Unknown

In chattering groups that the quality dine;

Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,

In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.

And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having”

’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.

All we read in the pages of pastoral ages

Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.

Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,

From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,

There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!