But I would have her smile ripe for me then,
Swift treasure of a moment—so I laid
Between her palms a little simple thing,
A golden heart, grav'd with my name alone,
And round it, twining close, small shamrocks link'd
Of gold, mere gold: no jewels made it rich,
Until twin di'monds shatter'd from her eyes
And made the red gold rare. "True Knight," she said,
"Your English heart with Irish shamrocks bound!"
"A golden prophet of eternal truth,"
I said, and kissed the roses of her palms,
And then the shy, bright roses of her lips,
And all the jealous jewels shone forgot
In necklace and tiara, as I clasp'd
The gold heart and its shamrocks round her neck.
My fair, pure soul! My noble Irish love!
A HUNGRY DAY.
I mind him well, he was a quare ould chap,
Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod,
He hired me wanst to help his harvest in;
The crops was fine that summer, prais'd be God!
He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself,
Just landed in the emigration shed,
Meself was tyin' on there bits of clothes,
Their mother (rest her tender sowl!) was dead.
It's not meself can say of what she died;
But t'was the year the praties felt the rain,
And rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw
The breath of life was one long hungry pain.
If we were haythens in a furrin' land,
Not in a country grand in Christian pride,
Faith, then a man might have the face to say
'Twas of stharvation my poor Shylie died.
But whin the parish docthor come at last,
Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes,
(They looked straight into heaven) an her ears
Wor deaf to the poor childer's hungry cries;
He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw;
"She's gone!" he says, and drew a solemn frown;
"I fear, my man, she's dead." "Of what?" says I.
He coughed, and says, "She's let her system down!"
"An' that's God's truth!" says I, an' felt about
To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark,
An' in my hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin' heart,
I felt the kindlin' of a burning spark.
"O, by me sowl, that is the holy truth!
There's Rosie's cheek has kept a dimple still,
An' Mickie's eyes are bright—the craythur there
Died that the weeny ones might eat there fill."
An' whin they spread the daisies thick and white,
Above her head that wanst lay on my breast,
I had no tears, but took the childhers' hands,
An' says, "We'll lave the mother to her rest,"
An' och! the sod was green that summers day;
An' rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an' fair;
But black an' foul the blighted furrows stretched,
An' sent their cruel poison through the air.
An' all was quiet—on the sunny sides
Of hedge an' ditch the stharvin' craythurs lay,
An' thim as lack'd the rint from empty walls
Of little cabins, wapin' turned away.
God's curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod,
An' whin upon her increase His right hand
Fell with'ringly, there samed no bit of blue
For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land.
No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky,
No mines yawn'd on the hills so full an' rich;
A man whose praties failed had nought to do,
But fold his hands an' die down in a ditch!
A flame rose up widin me feeble heart,
Whin passin' through me cabin's hingeless dure,
I saw the mark of Shylie's coffin in
The grey dust on the empty earthen flure.
I lifted Rosie's face betwixt me hands;
Says I, 'Me girleen, you an' Mick an' me,
Must lave the green ould sod, an' look for food
In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.'
An' so it chanced, when landed on the streets,
Ould Dolan, rowlin' a quare ould shay,
Came there to hire a roan to save his whate,
An' hired meself and Mickie by the day.