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434 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves. As the great sun sets in glory furled,
Faith, it's grand to think, as I watch his face, As he never sets on the English world, He never, lad, sets on the Irish race.
In the West, in the South, new Irelands still Grow up in his light. Come, work with a will;— Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand
Through the native mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland.
But look !—the round moon, yellow as corn,
Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm; It scarcely seems a day since morn;—
Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am ! God bless the moon ! for many a night,
As I restless lay on a troubled bed, When rent was due, her quietest light
Has flattered with dreams my poor old head. But see—the basket remains to fill: Come, girls, be alive;—boys, dig with a will;— Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand
Through the moonlit mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. |
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