THE IRISH MOTHER'S SONG
Ah! the sound o' your voice! How my oul' ears have missed it. Your step at the door Was music, but, sure, since the day that you 'listed T ; s silent, mo stoir!* Tho' my poor heart nigh broke \vi' the partin' carcssm', An' the hour thai you loft me was dark an' disthressin', Sure, I gave you my Prayer Book, my beads, an'—my blcssin', I couldn't give more; Oeh, I couldn't give more. It's lonesome 1 bo when the. twilight comes st ok 1 in' O'er mountain an' bawn: It's wakeful the- night an' it's fretful the feelin' That comes wi' the dawn. For yourself was stilt near me at noon, night, or niornin". Yet to hold yen away from the War I'd bo scornin', When the braves; an' best i' the land you were born in Are goiii' or gone— All goin' or gene. You havo left with a name that was never dishonored. Your arm was as strong As the tall mountain ash on the slopes o' Sb'cvo, Donard, An' soft was your song — .Except when it rang wi' the wrongs o' your nation, An' your wild notes would throb wi' the tempest's pulsation. Oh, praise be to God for the blest liberation We prayed for so long! We sighed for so long! The sweet, priceless thought o' your faith an' devotion My spirit consoles: An' your love o' your land is as'deep as the ocean Between n? that rolls. An' your arm an' your heart, boy, will never disgrace you; So God be your guide till again I embrace you: An' as for tho focmen who happen to face' you— Well, God res!, iheir souls! Oeh! God rest their souls! M. Hunt. * My darling.
Permanent link to this item
THE IRISH MOTHER'S SONG, Evening Star, Issue 15708, 23 January 1915