And the beads drop from my fingers, and they bind them on my arm.
You would tease me with the “trimmin’s” in the dear days that are dead,
There’s another trimmin’ now, boy, every time the Rosary’s said.
But there won’t be many Rosaries, for the singin’s in my ears
And the Holy Mother’s beckonin’—I can see her through my tears.
These old feet have done their journey, better leave them restin’, then;
They will bring me to the hill-side ere the green months come again.
Sure I’ll tread the House of Glory, where the soul is free from harm,
And you’ll know ’tis me, alannah, by the Rosary on my arm.
| [11] | Boy; also spelt bouchal. |