Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,
Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,—
Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!
Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,—
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,—
Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;