And it seemed just made to order for whate’er ’twas wanted for;
It would cart the chaff to market, carry wood and hay in turn,
And the neighbours in rotation used to cadge the old concern.
But the Sundays we were due for Mass would cancel every loan,
For the Little Irish Mother then would claim it for her own.
She inspected it the day before (and criticized it, too),
And the ten of us were set to work to make it look like new.
There was one to every yellow wheel—ay, one to every spoke;
One to nail a piece of hardwood on the part “them Careys” broke:
Another from the floor of it the chips and straw would rake,