Till he’s proved there’s no tradition left of any other girl—
Not even Trojan Helen,
In beauty all excellin’—
Who’s been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl?
Wid her brows of silky black
Arched above for the attack,
Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man;
Masther Cupid, point your arrows,
From this out, agin the sparrows,
For you’re bested at Love’s archery by young Miss Fan.