We have a foine tinement, close be the bridge, Wid three pairs of stairs and a farm. The farm’s on the roof, but it’s ilegant just For to kape the small childer from harm. The railin’ is high. Shure it’s tired they get From playin’ “puss corner” an’ “peep,” An’ ’twould do your heart good in the twilight to see Ould McGue put the baby to sleep.
McGue is my man, an’ a daisy he is, For after the gas-house shuts down He comes wid his pail (faith, the coal on his face Gives the shake to the boys of the town). Then he sits down wid me, an’ his poipe, an’ his chair, Comfortable, cosey, an’ deep, Wid the kid in his arms; it would break you to see Ould McGue put the baby to sleep.
He sings him the chune of “The Old Phwiskey Jug,” An’ juggles him up on his knee As light as the mist from ould Erin’s green turf That floats from the bog to the sea. Then the gossoon lies back like a king on his couch, An’ the shadows across his eyes creep; I’ll lay you a bet, it’s a beautiful sight, When McGue puts the baby to sleep.
Then the ould man says “Phwist!” as the first darling snore He hears from the swate, sleeping child; An’ he steps to the cradle, as aisy as mud, An’ the drop of a pin makes him wild. “The Virgin take care of that baby!” his prayer Comes out of the heart low and deep; It would kill the ould man if the kid should refuse John McGue for to put him to sleep.
JEM’S LAST RIDE.
High o’er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night, And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right, Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape, While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape.
Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground; And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim, Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem.
’Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero’s gauge. From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage; And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his side, I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day’s weary ride.
Jem’s faithful steeds had served him long, of mettle true and tried: One sought in vain for trace of blows upon their glossy hide; And to each low command he spoke, the leader’s nervous ear Bent eager, as a lover waits his mistress’ voice to hear.