Women Every man in Ireland caught By some girl with eyes of blue Dolefully laments his lot Unless her hair be golden too. What has this to do with me? No fanaticism I share For blue or black in someone’s eye Or the colour of her hair. Golden mane or rosy grace Can never be my whole delight. Dusky be the woman’s face And her hair as black as night. Black was the dam of her who brought Troy into the dust of old, And the girl for whom they fought, Helen, was all white and gold. Beautiful surely were the two Though one was dark and one was fair. No one who ever saw them knew Which was the lovelier of the pair. In little shells it may befall The loveliest of pearls is found, And God created three things small— The horse, the woman and the hound. Public confession suits my case, And all may hear what I would say— In women, such is my disgrace, I never found a thing astray. Though some are small I like them neat And some are tall of them I sing; Two long legs to grace the sheet Are satisfaction for a king. Foam may be brighter than her skin Or snow upon the mountain cold, I’ll take what pack I find her in And think her sweeter for being old. Nor should I slight a relative For someone from outside the state; Though novelty keep love alive Kinsmen love at double rate. Nor do I ask for intellect: A little scholarship will pass; All that of women I expect Is to know water-cress from grass. I don’t require them cold or warm; Widows have knowledge and good sense But there is still a certain charm In a young girl’s inexperience. I like them in Church, demure and slow, Solemn without, relaxed at home; I like them full of push and go When love has left me overcome. I find no fault in them, by God, But being old and gone to waste Who still are girls at forty odd— And every man may suit his taste. Richard Burke Source: Frank O'Connor; The Little Monasteries; Dublin; Dolmen Press; 1963, 1976 (1976 ed.); pp.25-27