O BLARNEY! Blarney, wonder-working gift! Why sat I never on the Blarney stone? To plodding Saxon, canny Scot unknown, What pen can paint, what skill its meaning sift? Paddy's safe shield in every adverse shift, His mirth is Blarney, Blarney is his moan; Priest, Peer, and Peasant, all its influence own, In Love Persuasive, Physic, Law, and Thrift. Sure as he's born a Celt, the little Rogue With mother's milk he sucks his Blarney in, As natural to him as his native brogue. Though, were I born in Connaught or Killarney, On this my theme I might an epic spin, How end my Sonnet?—Echo answers—Blarney! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES WRITTEN IN BUTLER'S SERMONS by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE LAST MAN: RECEPTION OF EVIL TIDINGS by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES TRANSFIGURATION by MARGIE B. BOSWELL NIMROD: 6 by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH DARTMOOR: SUNSET AT CHAGFORD: HOMO LOQVITUR by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |