Sweet as a wild-rose was Kitty Adare,
Blithe as a laverock and shy as a hare;
Mid all the grand ladies of all the grand cities
You'd not find the face half so pretty as Kitty's;
"'Tis the fine morning this, Kit," says I; she says, "It is,"
The day she went walking to get to the Fair.
She was bred to give trouble, was Kitty Adare,
For she had my heart caught like a bird in a snare;
O, her laugh was the ripple of quick-running water,
And—the seventh-born child of a seventh-born daughter—