God help the one who dared complain in front of Josephine!
The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, I hear;
They even called her “parish-priest”—in disrespect, I fear.
They told me that she’d “roon” the church—too long with me she’d been;
But only death could give the sack to faithful Josephine.
Ah, soft and sweet be sleep to her who friendless trod her track
Along the beaten road of life that knows no turning back.
I marked the splendid Irish faith that met the closing scene,
And heard the beat of angels’ wings that came for Josephine.
She’s in her lonely grave to-night beneath the Murray pines,