Star of Sunday’s Well


Ye damsels of Castalia, Melpomene and Thalia
Extenuate an alien that languishes in woe
In that Cupid has surprised me, waylaid and pauperised me
Why thus he martyrised me, is what I wish to know
Exiled in this fair city, a paragon of pity
I lucubrate my ditty and catalogue to tell
Of the beauties of that matron, my connoisseur and patron
That consort fit for Satan, the Star of Sunday’s Well

Expressly fabricated for to be venerated
Her weight is estimated at fully fifieen stone
The undulating ocean recalls her vagrant motion
Magnanimous devotion I render her alone
She’s blooming and she’s bonny with real estate and money
A floweret filled with honey in a soft suburban dell
And the bees go soaring around her bower adoring
The beauty and the store of` the Star of Sunday’s Well

This matron subsidises both Beamish’s and Wise’s
The vines that she prizes provide most comely fare
I wish I could administer a modicum of Guinness to her
For there is nothing sinister or medieval there
Her heart I would allure it, but that a grocer’s curate
Is planning to secure it by artifices fell
I’ve given hints abundant to that obscure incumbent
To flutter less redundant round the Star of Sunday’s Well

All through the summer weather, two lovers linked together
Patrolled Marina’s heather or strolled along the Dyke
The blackbirds and the thrushes established in the bushes
Their elegies in gushes propelled to Kerry Pike
I heard their jocund royster and sighed as for his cloister
The quaint but fulsome oyster, like a hermit in his cell
I lacked reciprocation in this matron’s cogitation
For I got a harsh negation from the Star of Sunday’s Well


W. B. GUINEY in The Cork Examiner, 1870.

Song Clip