TIMES ARE CHANGED.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume II, Issue 102, 10 April 1875, Page 3

TIMES ARE CHANGED.

BT TIBIA. Q-od be good to us, look at me here— Here at the fire, this Christmas night, An' I goin' on to my eightieth year, Wantin' a month of it, if I'm right ; Daughters, and sons, and husband dead. And I sittin' here in a pauper shed. Och ! ay, bhey are kind, God bless them all, So far as that goes I have nothin' to say. An' the masther he got me this woollen shawl, For you see the ticken was cowld as clay ; But for all their kindness— l may be wrong— They think God's lavin' me life too long. An' I often wish, wer't the will of God, An' my sowl was fit and prepared to go, I was lyin' at pace 'neath the churchyard sod, Where the green grass waves and the daises blow, I might meet wid my girshas and gossoons, then, An' my fine brave hußband, the best o' men. Kitty, the clip, with the laughing eyes, An' Eily that married the man from Clare, An' there wid her little first baby lies ; An' Rose, my pet, with the yellow hair, An' Dennis that went for the Queen o' Spain, And never came back to his home again. Thirty acres we had for a farm, " That was not bad," I can hear you cay, Bad, inagh ! we were snug and warm When the sickness came to our house one day ; We had six milch cows, and two calves beside. An' a score of sheep on the day Tom died. An' then my husband, my lovely man, That was tall and straight as a poplar tree, Mybright life-stay, my own bouchalan ban, Went out in his coffin from home and me ; Oh, God ! my God ! if I then had died I'd have lain in the grave by my darlin's side. But it wasn't to be, I had more to bear, For the blight came down, and my stock was sold, An' here I am now, wid my lank white hair, A pauper woman all bent and old, Wid all that loved me long lyin' at rest, But to Christ be glory. He knows what's best. Dublin Irithman.