"An' bring the girleen, Pat," he says, an' looked
At Rosie lanin' up agin me knee;
"The wife will be right plaised to see the child,
The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea.
We've got a tidy place, the saints be praised!
As nice a farm as ever brogan trod,
A hundred acres—us as never owned
Land big enough to make a lark a sod!"
"Bedad," sez I, "I heerd them over there
Tell how the goold was lyin' in the sthreet,
An' guineas in the very mud that sthuck
To the ould brogans on a poor man's feet!"
"Begorra, Pat," says Dolan, "may ould Nick
Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues,
An' sind thim thrampin' purgatory's flure,
Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!"
"Och, thin," says I, "meself agrees to that!"
Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an' grey;
Says he. "Kape up yer heart—I never knew
Since I come out a single hungry day!"
"But thin I left the crowded city sthreets,
There men galore to toil in thim an' die,
Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home
In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky.
"I did that same: an' God be prais'd this day!
Plenty sits smilin' by me own dear dure:
An' in them years I never wanst have seen
A famished child creep tremblin' on me flure!"
I listened to ould Dolan's honest words,
That's twenty years ago this very spring,
An' Mick is married—an' me Rosie wears
A swateheart's little, shinin' goulden ring.
'Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look
At the green fields upon me own big farm;
An' God be prais'd! all men may have the same
That owns an axe! an' has a strong right arm!