Oh, it’s hard you won’t be comin’ when the green months come again!
Still, I’m thankful, oh, I’m thankful for one golden memory,
That the last time spent together was to say The Rosary.
Don’t you mind it, boy? we said it in my own room there beyond,
Where I have the little altar where your early prayers you conned,
By the statue that I cherish of the Holy Mother fair,
With the blue cloak round her shoulders, and her white hands crossed in prayer.
They were singin’ in the parlour, them that came to say good-bye;
And they sang their gay songs to me—och, I knew the reason why!
They are always land in trouble in this big warm-hearted land;