Oh, I’m thankful that we parted with the Rosary on your lips.
It has ever been my refuge; it has been my hope and stay,
Been my hymn of sweet thanksgivin’ for what good there came my way.
It has been my only comfort when the heart was sick and sore,
When the bad days past the countin’ flung their troubles round my door.
I was taught it by my mother; ay, and when we crossed the sea
For to seek the gold we never found—the old man there and me
(Sure he stood six feet and higher then, and coal-black was his hair—
Och, you’d never know ’twas him at all, that bent old man in there)—
We have said it in the slab hut, strong and clear in flood and drought,