The woman’s daughter, who spills all her talk

Out of a wide mouth, but who has eyes as gray

As Connemara, where the mountain-ash

Shows berries red indeed: they enter now—

Our country singers!

“Sing, my good woman, sing us some romance

That has been round your chimney-nooks so long

’Tis nearly native; something blown here

And since made racy—like yon tree, I might say,

Native by influence if not by species,