W HO'S not heard of Eva Tuohill,
Munster's purest, proudest jewel—
Queen of Limerick's lovely maidens,
Cork's colleens, and Galway girls—
With her slender shape that's swimmin'
Like a swan among the women,
With her voice of silver cadence,
And her crown of clustering curls?

O! the eyes of Eva Tuohill!
Now, why wouldn't Cromwell cruel,
Just have called two centuries later
With his cannon at Tervoe?
For, one flash of angry azure
Through that silky black embrasure,
And away old Noll should scatter
With his army out of view.

Is't describe you Eva Tuohill
With the dozenth rapier duel,
Fought to fix her sweet complexion
And the colour of her hair?
Is it picture you her figure,
That's compelled so many a trigger
Take the deadliest direction
Through the early morning air?

Well, no wonder, Eva Tuohill!
Since you're just one glorious jewel
Lit with lovely flying flushes
From delightful lip to brow;
Now in dreams your eyes they darkle,
Now with joy they dance and sparkle;
Now your cheek is bathed in blushes,
Drowned in dimpled laughter now.

But your beauty, Eva Tuohill,
Is no opal false and cruel;
Nor the meteor star deceiving,
Flashing ruin from above.
No! but some divinest splendour,
Out of angels' tear-drops tender
Crystalled, in one Iris weaving
Faith and Hope and Virgin Love.