Yes! All true! And now you also can thrill to the diabolical versical horror that is "Maureen." Straight outta the Quiller-Couch edition of the Oxford Book of English Verse (1250-1900). "Sir Patrick Spens"? Forget that crap . . . "To the Virgins"? Feh! There's "Maureen" to read.
Maureen
O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies,
Maureen?
Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,
White rose of the West, Maureen:
For it 's pale you are, and the fear that 's on you is over me too,
Maureen!
Sure it 's one complaint that 's on us, asthore, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen:
The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say,
Maureen!
I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,
Mavourneen, my own Maureen!
When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace,
Maureen!
O where was the King o' the World that day-only me?
My one true love, Maureen!
And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree,
Maureen!
Wow! But don't thank me! Thank John Todhunter (1836-1916). He sounds a very nice man with only the slight problem of writing poems of impossible meter and incomprehensible topic. There are overtones of "Annabel Lee" here except rather than being doomed, I think the lovers here are merely inconvenienced by being in love, as though passion were a kind of mild digestive upset.
At any rate, if anyone out there wants to start calling me "White rose of the West," (and I think you do), I will begin answering to it. But in any future homages to the glory of Maureenosity, please limit yourself to sonnet form (whether Shakespearian or Spenserian I leave up to you).
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