The Fair

A poem by Theodosia Garrison

The pick o' seven counties, so they're tellin' me, was there,
Horses racin' on the track, and fiddles on the green,
Flyin' flags and blowin' horns and all that makes a fair,
I'm hearin' that the like of it was something never seen.

So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, it may be true--
I only know the bonnet strings
Beneath your chin were blue.

I'm hearin' that the cattle came that thick they stood in rows,
And Doolan's Timmy caught the pig and Terry climbed the pole,
They're tellin' me they showed the cream of everything that grows,
And never man had eyes enough for takin' in the whole.

So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, it may be so,
I only know your little gown
Was whiter than the snow.

They're tellin' me the gentry came from twenty miles about,
And him that came from Ballinsloe sang limpin' Jamesey down,
And 'twas Himself, no less, stood by to give the prizes out,
They're tellin' me you'd hear the noise from here to Dublin town.

So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, the same may be,
I only know that comin' home
You gave your word to me.

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