THE IRISH CABIN.
Should poverty, modest and clean,
E’er please, when presented to view,
Should cabin on brown heath, or green,
Disclose aught engaging to you,
Should Erin’s wild harp soothe the ear
When touched by such fingers as mine,
Then kindly attentive draw near,
And candidly ponder each line.
One day, when December’s keen breath
Arrested the sweet running rill,
And Nature seemed frozen in death,
I thoughtfully strolled o’er the hill:
The mustering clouds wore a frown,
The mountains were covered with snow,
And Winter his mantle of brown
Had spread o’er the landscape below.
Thick rattling the footsteps were heard
Of peasants far down in the vale;
From lakes, bogs, and marshes debarred,
The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale,
Loud gabbling and screaming were borne,
Whilst thundering guns hailed the day,
And hares sought the thicket forlorn,
Or, wounded, ran over the way.
No music was heard in the grove,
The blackbird and linnet and thrush,
And goldfinch and sweet cooing dove,
Sat pensively mute in the bush:
The leaves that once wove a green shade
Lay withered in heaps on the ground:
Chill Winter through grove, wood, and glade
Spread sad desolation around.
But now the keen north wind ’gan whistle,
And gusty, swept over the sky;
Each hair, frozen, stood like a bristle,
And night thickened fast on the eye.
In swift-wheeling eddies the snow
Fell, mingling and drifting amain,
And soon all distinction laid low,
As whitening it covered the plain.
A light its pale ray faintly shot
(The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn),
It came from a neighbouring cot,
Some called it the Cabin of Mourne: [{221}]
A neat Irish Cabin, snow-proof,
Well thatched, had a good earthen floor,
One chimney in midst of the roof,
One window, and one latched door.
Escaped from the pitiless storm,
I entered the humble retreat;
Compact was the building, and warm,
Its furniture simple and neat.
And now, gentle reader, approve
The ardour that glowed in each breast,
As kindly our cottagers strove
To cherish and welcome their guest.
The dame nimbly rose from her wheel,
And brushed off the powdery snow:
Her daughter, forsaking the reel,
Ran briskly the cinders to blow:
The children, who sat on the hearth,
Leaped up without murmur or frown,
An oaken stool quickly brought forth,
And smilingly bade me sit down.