Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Gardener's Song
The Gardener's Song.
Sung at the Anniversary Dinner of the Horticultural Society in Dublin in 1817.
When the tendrils of love once strike root in the heart,
They shoot freely without cultivation;
If the sun of encouragement warmth but impart
To the soil of a sweet inclination.
They shoot freely without cultivation;
If the sun of encouragement warmth but impart
To the soil of a sweet inclination.
Yet in this wide world's borders, wherever 'tis found,
The Bindweed of interest gets seed in;
Anymoney and Marygold cover the ground,
While beneath the sweet Rose, Love lies bleeding.
The Bindweed of interest gets seed in;
Anymoney and Marygold cover the ground,
While beneath the sweet Rose, Love lies bleeding.
Though single for some time an Adonis may keep,
Sagely railing at wedlock so witty;
While in Venus's Looking-glass, at every peep,
A Narcissus appears None so pretty.
At last if he spies, 'mong the fair Queens of the Mead,
A good Shepherd's Purse full of bright money;
His Bachelor's Buttons then begin to look dead,
And he longs to be Suckling the Honey.
Sagely railing at wedlock so witty;
While in Venus's Looking-glass, at every peep,
A Narcissus appears None so pretty.
At last if he spies, 'mong the fair Queens of the Mead,
A good Shepherd's Purse full of bright money;
His Bachelor's Buttons then begin to look dead,
And he longs to be Suckling the Honey.
Of raking now tired (though as chill Cucumber cold,
The fair daughter should prove to their union).
His eyes gaily glisten at the thought of her gold,
And you'd think he'd been slicing an Onion.
The fair daughter should prove to their union).
His eyes gaily glisten at the thought of her gold,
And you'd think he'd been slicing an Onion.
In for love, lack-a-daisies, he ruefully pines,
Of a Willow he talks and his Garters,
Ev'n the Sultan's Imperial Crown he'd resign,
To be saved from the fate of love's martyrs.
Of a Willow he talks and his Garters,
Ev'n the Sultan's Imperial Crown he'd resign,
To be saved from the fate of love's martyrs.
Thus I, when a trenching the stiff heart of my dear,
So well drilled, and lined out my whole carriage,
That fair words (though they butter no Parsnips 'tis clear),
Full soon buttered her over to marriage.
So well drilled, and lined out my whole carriage,
That fair words (though they butter no Parsnips 'tis clear),
Full soon buttered her over to marriage.
When I had Cabbaged her heart, and got her to wed,
O! this rare Nonpareil, thought so oft on!
A Briar (not a sweet one) I found in my bed,
A Crab good for nought but to graft on.
O! this rare Nonpareil, thought so oft on!
A Briar (not a sweet one) I found in my bed,
A Crab good for nought but to graft on.