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Show V ! AN IRISH MOTHER; - r - " ' f. - By Percy French. A.wee lip drawin' water. Me ould man at the plougu, . . No grown-up son nor daughter, That's the way we're farmln' nuw. ., j "No work and little pleasure" Was the cry before they wint, Now they're gettin' bota, lull measure, t And I ought to be contint, t. 1 ! Great wages men is givin' J In that land beyond the say, -' "y But it's lonely lonely livin I "Whin the childher is away. Oh, the baby in the cradle, - c ay ii Blue eyes and curlin' hair, God knows I'd give a gra'dle To have little Pether there. No doubt he'd find it funny, ' Lying here upon me arm,. ', ,. Him that's earnln' the good" money, On a Californy farm. , , iuj Six -pounds it was, or slvln, f He "sent last quarter day, '? But it's lonely lonely livin' , When the childher is away. God is good no better - And the Divil might be worse. Each month there come a letter Bringing somethin' for the purse. And the old man's heart rejoices n Whin I read they're dofn' fine, t But it's oh! to .hear their voices. ,. ' - And to feel their hands in mine. To see the cattle driven, ,n And the young ones makin' hay, j. 'Tis the lonely land to live in, Whin the childher are away. Whin the shaddas do be falliii' j On the ould man there an' me, ,...' "lis ,haid to keep from callin, " "Come In, childher, to yer tea."" I I can almost see them comin' - I Mary Kate, an' little Con, j Oclv! but I'm the toolish woman Sure they're all grown up an gone. j That our sins may be forglvln' , Afn' ,not wan go asthray I doubt I'd stay in Hivin, . If them chil Uier was away. ' The Weavers. |
