There are grottos in Wicklow, and groves in Kildare,
And the loveliest glens robed with shamrock in Clare,
And in fairy Killarney ’tis easy to find
Sweet retreats where a swain can unburden his mind;
But of all the dear spots in our emerald isle,
Where verdure and sunshine crown life with a smile,
There’s one boreen I love, for ’twas there I confess
I first met my fate,—what it was you can guess.
It was under the shade of its bordering trees,
One day I grew suddenly weak at the knees
At the thought of what seemed quite a terrible task,
And yet it was but a short question to ask.
’Twas over, and since, night and morning, I bless
The boreen that heard the soft whisper of “yes.”
And the breezes that toyed with each clustering tress;
And the question was this—but I’m sure you can guess.