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An', afther, I thried her meself av the bird 'ud come to me call, But Molly, begorrah, 'ud listhen to naither at all, at all.


An' her nabours an' frinds 'ud consowl an' condow wid her, airly and late,

'Your Danny,' they says, 'niver crasst over say to the Sassenach whate; He's gone to the States, aroon, an' he's married another wife,

An' ye'll niver set eyes an the face of the thraithur agin in life!

An' to dhrame of a married man, death alive, is a mortial sin.'

But Molly says, 'I'd his hand-promise, an' shure he'll meet me agin.'


An' afther her paärints had inter'd glory, an' both in wan day,

She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an' whishper, an' say, 'Tomorra, Tomorra!' an' Father Molowny he tuk her in han', 'Molly, you're manin',' he says, 'me dear, av I undherstan', That ye'll meet your paärints agin an' yer Danny O'Roon afore God Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints; ' an' she gev him a friendly nod, 'Tomorra, Tomorra,' she says, an' she didn't intind to desave,

But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white as the snow an a grave.

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But och bad scran to the bogs wh they swallies the man intire! An' sorra the bog that's in Hiven wid al the light an' the glow,

An' there's hate enough, shure, widoc thim in the Divil's kitchen below.


Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I hard his Riverence say,

Could keep their haithen kings in the flesh for the Jidgemint day,

An', faix, be the piper o' Moses, they kep' the cat an' the dog,

But it 'ud 'a been aisier work av they lived be an Irish bog.


How-an-iver they laid this body they foun' an the grass

Be the chapel-door, an' the people 'ud see it that wint in to mass — But a frish gineration had riz, an' most of the ould was few,

An' I didn't know him meself, an' nōne of the parish knew.


But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick, she was lamed av a knee, Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, Div ye know him, Molly Magee?' An' she stood up straight as the Queen of the world-she lifted her head'He said he would meet me tomorra!' an' dhropt down dead an the dead.


Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start back agin into life, Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yer wake like husban' an' wife. Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the frinds that was gone! Sorra the silent throat but we hard it cryin' 'Ochone!'

An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten childer, hansome an' tall, Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if he had lost thim all.

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Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave be the dead boor-tree,1 The young man Danny O'Roon wid his ould woman, Molly Magee.



May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim blossom an' spring from the grass, Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other ye did over yer Crass! An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid his song to the Sun an' the Moon, An' tell thim in Hiven about Molly Magee an' her Danny O'Roon, Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays an' opens the gate!

An' shure, be the Crass, that's betther nor cuttin' the Sassenach whate To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an' Saints an' Marthyrs galore,

An' singin' yer Aves' an' Pathers' for iver an' ivermore.


An' now that I tould yer Honour whativer I hard an' seen, Yer Honour'ill give me a thrifle to dhrink yer health in potheen.



MILK for my sweet-arts, Bess! fur it mun be the time about now

When Molly cooms in fro' the far-end close wi' her paäils fro' the cow. Eh! tha be new to the plaäce — thou'rt gaäpin' doesn't tha see

I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo' me?


Naäy to be sewer it be past 'er time.
What maäkes 'er sa laäte?
Goä to the laäne at the back, an' looök
thruf Maddison's gaäte!

1 Elder-tree.

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But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw soom 'ud 'a thowt ma plaäin, An' I wasn't sa plaäin i' pink ribbons, ye said I wur pretty i' pinks,

An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beänt sich a fool as ye thinks;

Ye was stroäkin ma down wi' the 'air, as I be a-stroäkin o' you,

But whiniver I loooked i' the glass I wur sewer that it couldn't be true;

Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd it wur pleasant to 'ear,

Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, but my two 'oonderd a-year.


D'ya mind the murnin' when we was a-walkin' togither, an' stood

By the claäy'd-oop pond, that the foälk be sa scared at, i' Gigglesby wood, Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, black Sal, es 'ed been disgraäced? An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur a-creeäpin about my waäist; An' me es wur allus afear'd of a man's gittin' ower fond,

I sidled awaäy an' awaäy till I plumpt foot fust i' the pond;

And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa well, as I did that daäy,

Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha hoickt my feet wi' a flop fro' the claäy. Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop thy taäil, tha may gie ma a kiss,

Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam an' wur niver sa nigh saäyin' Yis. But wa boäth was i' sich a clat we was shaämed to cross Gigglesby Greeän, Fur a cat may looök at a king thou knaws but the cat mun be clean.

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Thaw thou was es soäber es daäy, wi' a niced red faäce, an' es cleän

Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a brannew 'eäd o' the Queeän,

An' thy farmin' es cleän es thysen', fur, Steevie, tha kep' it sa neät That I niver not spied sa much es a poppy along wi' the wheät, An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' seeädin' tha haäted to see; 'Twur es bad es a battle-twig1 'ere i' my oän blue chaumber to me. Ay, roob thy whiskers ageän ma, fur I could 'a taäen to tha well, But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a bouncin' boy an' a gell.


An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen o' my cats,

But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hevn't naw likin' fur brats; Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, an' they goäs fur a walk, Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' doesn't not 'inder the talk!

But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky bibs, an' the clats an' the clouts, An' their mashin' their toys to pieäces an' maäkin' ma deäf wi' their shouts, An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they was set upo' springs,


An' a-haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' saäyin' ondecent things, An' a-callin' ma hugly' mayhap to my faäce, or a-teärin' my gown Dear! dear! dear! I mun part them Tommies-Steevie git down.


Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you.
I tell'd ya, na moor o' that!
Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother
Tom 'ere o' the mat.


Theere! I ha' master'd them! Hed I married the Tommies - O Lord, To loove an' obaäy the Tommies! I couldn't 'a stuck by my word. To be horder'd about, an' waäked, when Molly 'd put out the light,

1 Earwig.

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Mew! mew! Bess wi' the milk! what ha maäde our Molly sa laäte? It should 'a been 'ere by seven, an' theere - it be strikin' height'Cushie wur craäzed fur 'er cauf,' well-I 'eärd 'er a-maäkin' 'er moän, An' I thowt to mysen 'thank God that I hevn't naw cauf o' my oän.'


Set it down!

Now Robby! You Tommies shall waäit to-night Till Robby an' Steevie 'es 'ed their lap -an' it sarves ye right,

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LATE, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts, Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts,

Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call,
I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall.

So your happy suit was blasted-she the faultless, the divine;
And you liken-boyish babble—this boy-love of yours with mine.

I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past;
Babble, babble; our old England may go down in babble at last.

'Curse him!' curse your fellow-victim? call him dotard in your rage? Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age.

Jilted for a wealthier! wealthier? yet perhaps she was not wise;
I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes.


In the hall there hangs a painting -
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting

Amy's arms about my neck
on the ribs of wreck.

In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown;
I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone.

Yours has been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake?
You, not you! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make.

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Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me, Amy was a timid child;
But your Judith-but your worldling she had never driven me wild.

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She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring,
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring.

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life,
While she vows 'till death shall part us,' she the would-be-widow wife.

She the worldling born of worldlings- father, mother-be content, Ev'n the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent.

Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground,
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound.

Cross'd! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride; Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died.

Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood,
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood.

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