Now the Queen of this mansion was Widow O'Neal, A lady of Irish extraction; Who often procured our good friar a meal, Which gave him supreme satisfaction. For though she a rum 'un might seem to the look, She was without doubt a most excellent cook; And could give fish and game such a delicate taste, That your platter you'd empty in double-quick haste, Nor a scrap, nor a morsel would e'er chance to waste. Now of children this widow had four, As handsome a set as you anywhere saw, Although you the country have travelled right o'er. The eldest, her pet, was a beautiful boy, The pride of his mother, her treasure, her joy; Whose light hair crept over his head like a mat, And boasted the 'nomen of "Clever Young Pat." For he could milk cows, and was once known to try To milk the old sow, but, alas! found her dry, So left her in future at rest in her sty. For birds' nests Pat climbed up the tallest of trees-- The greater the danger the more it would please. A stranger to fear as to sorrow was he, For nothing delighted his heart like a spree; And often, and dearly, his neighbours had rued The spirits of fun which young Patrick pursued. Then in racing he'd beat all competitors hollow, And would leave them behind at a distance to follow. For he had a knack, Without e'er a whack,-- As he stuck tight as wax to the animal's back-- To make it proceed With such rapid speed That you'd doubt if 'twas really a jackass indeed.
The next two were daughters, and might be called fair, For brightly would glitter their dark glossy hair, As bandless and free, by no fetters confined (Except when a wild flower its sweetness entwined), 'Twas wafted about by the impudent wind. Then their eyes, black as sloes, with a sweet sunny smile, Would surely your thoughts for a moment beguile, And cause you, though hurried, to tarry awhile To ask the best way to the neighbouring town, Or frame some excuse from your horse to get down Just to look at the view from a picturesque stile Of these two lovely daughters of Erin's green isle.
The widow's fourth child was a delicate boy, Whose life seemed to hang by a thread; His ailings and wants both his sisters employ, Whose love even health seemed to shed. For as his weak limbs were unable to walk, They'd carry him up to the top of the hill; And so would amuse with their innocent talk, That he'd almost forget what it was to be ill. And when the sun rose with his hot scorching rays, They'd seek a cool spot in the forest shade, where They would sing him to sleep with their sweet native lays, And watch o'er his slumbers with sisterly care. Then one would roam forth for his favourite flower, And twine a fair wreath for his delicate brow; Or weave round him sleeping a fairy-like bower, By drooping and tangling the hazel's green bough.