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238 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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But Allen's bog outstretchin' like the level, blindin'
main, And ne'er burst o' sunshine for the fallin' o' the rain.
A plague upon the landlord crew, they're everywhere
the same : If Ireland's deep in poverty, we know to whom the
blame; Black greed is in their grasping hearts, they'd rob us
root and grain, Just judgment fall upon 'em with the fallin' o' the
rain.
The lads are tall and hearty here, their faces good to
see, And God will sure reward 'em all their kindness
unto me, But when I feigned their merry dance, and heard the
pipers play My heart nigh burst with longin' for the faces 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 hills 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
Knockbrocken's side And see a silver-shining stream across the valleys
glide; |
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