Page:The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution.djvu/71

 Sweet as the heather-bell on moorland height, Blue were her eyes, her hair a clouding night. What knew you, Hodge, of such a one as this, Whose lips were lewd and had a ploughman's kiss? She'll never love you, John, howe'er you smile— A sour grimace that hides the deeper guile. Too often you her tender heart betrayed For her at last to listen unafraid Of some new plan to strike her down again, To break her heart in plotting for your gain. Yes, as I love her, John, I you despise And loathe you for the sorrow in her eyes. Ah, no, we'll never like you, Hodge, your ways are crude, Your smile is pharisaical, your manners rude.