And we made a deal from time to time, and got “that bit of land”;
And Dad did sell the cattle well; and little John, her pride,
Was he who said the Mass in black the morning that she died;
So her gentle spirit triumphed—for ’twas this, without a doubt,
Was the very special trimmin’ that she kept so dark about.
* * * * *
But the years have crowded past us, and the fledglings all have flown,
And the nest beneath The Sugarloaf no longer is their own;
For a hand has written “finis” and the book is closed for good—
There’s a stately red-tiled mansion where the old slab dwelling stood;