There bustles round the room the lawhee-est[47] of vanithees,[48]
Fresh as in her young bloom, and trying all she can to please;
In vain to maintain you won’t have a deorin[49] more again—
She’ll never let you rest till your glass is brimming o’er again.
There smiles the cailin deas[50]—oh! where on earth’s the peer of her?
The modest grace, the sweet face, the humour and the cheer of her?
Eyes like the skies, when but twin stars beam above in them—
Oh! proud may be the boy that’s to light the lamp of love in them.
Then when you rise to go, ’tis “Ah, then, now, sit down again!”
“Isn’t it the haste you’re in,” and “Won’t you come round soon again?”