THE FALLIN' 0' THE RAIN.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 43, 25 February 1898, Page 15

THE FALLIN' 0' THE RAIN.

AN IRISH PAtLAD, Good-bye to County Carlow, 'tis the lonesome place to me ; Sure every week is like a month, and every month like three. The mist is comin' wet and cold, but now I won't complain, I'm goin' home and little reck the fallin' o' the rain. 'Twas foolishness that brought me here, I wonder at it now, Too proud was I to work the spade or follow up the plough ; But little work and «old »alorc won't heal the heart, o' pain, And I'm off to old Kilkenny through the fallin' o' the rain. 'Twas foolishness that brought me here, 'twas madness made mo stay, With not a hillside slopin' green to rest my eyes all day ; But Allen's bog outstretchin 1 like the level biindin' main, And ne'er a burst o' sunshine ior the iallin' o" the ram. A curse upon the landlord crew, they're evci y whore the same , If Ireland's deep in poverty, we know to whom the blame ; The devil's in their greedy heart*, they'd rob vi root and urain God's wrath iall heavy on 'em with the talhn' o the rain. he lad 4 are tall and hearty here, the cailins sweet Lo sue, nd Go I wil 1 sure reward 'em all their kindness unto me ; ut when I joined their rneriy dance, and heard the pipers play, My heart nigh burst with longin' for the iaees far away. I wonder if 'tis but a dream a hundred times a day, And draw my hand across my eyes to drive it all away : Then faint and dim I see the hill.s beyond this weary plain, They call my wild heart ever thro' the fallin' o' the rain. But soon I'll breathe the heather-breath on brown Knoc-braekch's side, And see a silver-shining stream acro.ss the valleys glide, No rest shall taste these weary limbs, or sleep the throbbin brain. Till Suir's flood shows glcatnin" thro' the fallm" o' the rain. Oh, high are Ormonde's castle stones and princely Currayh-Morc, But built are they on Irish bones, and washed w ith Irish goio . Yet surely out from bondage God will lcid his own again, And dry the tears long fallin' like the fallin' o the ram. And then my native Ossory. \\ho-<o vales now trreet my gaze. Upon thy hundred mountain peaks the triumph iires shall blaze. Thy glory shall be iairer for the waitin' years o" paiii, As comin' sunshine flashes thro' the fallin' o' the rain. Rev. .1. B. DoiiLAun (Kliav-na-mon). — M'tiMy /■'mm/ni.