Och, an’ she was a bride! Not a sowl but was wishin’ good luck to her groom.
All in white, like a branch o’ wild pear, when ye scarce see the stem for the bloom,
An’ her dark hair just glintin’ wid glames, like the bird’s wing that sthrakes off the dew--
Och, a beauty complate, from the crown of her head to the point of her shoe.
Wid her hand on Sir Maurice’s arm, an’ he lookin’ as proud as ye plase,
An’ eight iligant bridesmaids behind her, each pair dhressed as like as two pase,
Wid their booquees o’ flowers like big stars in a thrimble o’ fern laves; ye’d say
Be the scint they’d dhropped straight out of Heaven; I remember the smell to this day.