And die soon after, this woful day.
A mournful Christmas is it for his wife,
Far from home and friends of her early life,
Her children ’round her, with their father dead,
’Though he left her plenty, to get them bread.
In this your birth-land, where dead you’re lying,
You’d leave no child, with the hunger crying,
Till your kitchen froze, and your fire got out,
And this fatal accident came about.
Daniel MacThomas! ’Tis my grief, you’re dead,