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432 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Not alone, not alone, will we labor and roam: VVhere your memories linger we still have a home, And shall still tread, in fancy, the paths you have
trod, Until death leads us up to our dear ones and God.
THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG
C
OME, Connal, acushla, turn the clay, , And show the lumpers the light, gossoon ! For we must toil this autumn day, With Heaven's help, till rise of the moon. Our corn is stacked, our hay secure,
Thank God ! and nothing, my boy, remains, But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure, Before the coming November rains. The peasant's mine is his harvest still; So now, my lads, let's work with a will;— Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand
Through the crumbly mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland.
Och ! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear
Were singing beside us this soft day; Of course they're far better off than here:
But whether they're happier who can say? I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night
With them on the far Australian shore;— Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright, • |
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