|St Johnston - Carrigans ~ Co Donegal.|
The Poet started out that night to attend the Nurses' Dance,
To gain an early entrance, if he could get the chance;
His troubles all were ended, he gave a thankful sigh,
When he saw the checker at the door had only got one eye.
He knocked about a little while until the Guards arrived,
The way was cleared for Sergt. White, then in the poet dived;
The ladies all came fussing round, their joy it knew no bounds;
Poor White was in a desperate plight, a hare among the hounds.
The night was passing slowly, the dancers were but few,
Says nurse in desperation, "Oh James what will we do;
The floor is in good order, the Band it seems alright,
If we get the Guards to clear the pubs, we'll have a topping night."
It was wearing close on midnight, when along came Young O' Hare
Accompanied by a lady friend, at her the crowd did stare;
The checker would not let her in, to nursie he did call.
To ask for her authority to admit her to the ball.
They hurriedly consulted to see what they would do,
And finally decided they would not let her through;
On second thoughts Jane called her back and then to Jamie said.
"Tis always nine more shillings, it will help to pay McDaid."
The attendants at the supper were brought from far and near
To distribute the sandwiches, the cookies and the beer.
The poet would accept no tea, he preferred a glass of milk;
It was served to him by Bella who was dressed in yellow silk.
When she served him with the glass of milk, she vanished from his sight:
The next place he saw her was along with Sergt. White;
Another girl was in the hall, she tramped upon his toe,
He excused himself to Bella and said he had to go.
When news of White's departure was conveyed to sister Jane,
She hurried off to Bella to soothe her in her pain;
Poor Bella looking gloomy looked up and said to Nurse,
"If I could get another boy I wouldn't give a curse".
The poet feeling weary started on his way for home;
He knew that he had enough of notes to make another poem;
So here's health to all fair maids that's left upon the shelf,
The last verse of this little poem is all about myself.
The poet she's a fellow has his hair bobbed round his ear;
He roams about at dark of night when the moon is shining clear,
He's an old maid's only daughter, his father's gone to sea,
But he has left his son behind him to attend the American Tea.
A Bashful Author.
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