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54 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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She darkened my path like a troubled dream,
In that solitude far and drear ; I spoke to my child, but she did not seem
To hearken with human ear.
She only looked with a dead, dead eye, And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow.
I knew her Fetch; she was called to die, And she died upon the morrow. |
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THE IRISH MOTHER IN THE PENAL DAYS
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OW welcome, welcome, baby-boy, unto a mother's fears, The pleasure of her sufferings, the rainbow of her tears, The object of your father's hope, in all he hopes
to do, A future man of his own land, to live him o'er anew !
How fondly on thy little brow a mother's eye would
trace, And in thy little limbs, and in each feature of thy face, His beauty, worth, and manliness, and everything
that's his, Except, my boy, the answering mark of where the
fetter is !
Oh ! many a weary hundred years his sires that fetter
wore, And he has worn it since the day that him his mother
bore; |
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