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156 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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By the winter fire we'll laugh to scorn The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
IV
An' whin the turfs in the haggard piled,
We'll come, plase God ! with our spades and loys; It's busy ye'll be, then, Brigid, my child,
Fillin' the baskets behind the boys. So shtick thim deep in Ould Ireland's clay —
It's nearly dusk, an' there's work galore; It's time enough in the winter to play,
When the crop is safe on our cabin floor.
As long as the cows have milk to churn, With plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter hearth we'll laugh to scorn The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow. |
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