TIPPERARY.
By JOHN B. KENNEDY.
(At the other end of the long, long road.)
Who is it stands at the full o' the door?
Mary O'Fay, Mother O'Fay.
An' what is she watching an' waiting for?
Och, none but her soul can say.
There's a list in the Post Office long an' black,
With tidings bad, and woeful sad;
The names of the boys who'll ne'er come back,
An' one is her darling lad.
We showed her the list; but she cannot read,
So we told her true, yes, we told her true.
Her old eyes stared till they'd almost bleed,
An' she swore that none of us knew.
She's waiting now for Father O'Toole,
Till he goes her way at the noon of day.
She's simperin' white—the poor old fool,
For she knows what the priest'll say.* * * * * * *
Who is it sprawls upon the sod
At the break o' day? It's Mickey O'Fay;
His eyes glare up to the walls of God,
And half of his head is blown away.
What is he doing in that strange place,
Torn and shred, and murdered dead?
He's singin' the psalm of the fighting race
As his soul soars wide o'erhead.
He killed three foemen before he fell
(Och, the toll he'd take and the skulls he'd break!)
And he shrieked like a soul escaped from Hell
As he died for the Sassenach's sake.
Who shall we blame for the awful thing—
For the blood that flows and the heart-wrung throes?
Kaiser or Czar; statesman or King?
Och, leave it to Him Who Knows!
Who is it stands at the full o' the door?
Mary O'Fay, Mother O'Fay.
An' what is she watching an' waiting for?
Och, none but her soul can say.
There's a list in the Post Office long an' black,
With tidings bad, and woeful sad;
The names of the boys who'll ne'er come back,
An' one is her darling lad.
We showed her the list; but she cannot read,
So we told her true, yes, we told her true.
Her old eyes stared till they'd almost bleed,
An' she swore that none of us knew.
She's waiting now for Father O'Toole,
Till he goes her way at the noon of day.
She's simperin' white—the poor old fool,
For she knows what the priest'll say.* * * * * * *
Who is it sprawls upon the sod
At the break o' day? It's Mickey O'Fay;
His eyes glare up to the walls of God,
And half of his head is blown away.
What is he doing in that strange place,
Torn and shred, and murdered dead?
He's singin' the psalm of the fighting race
As his soul soars wide o'erhead.
He killed three foemen before he fell
(Och, the toll he'd take and the skulls he'd break!)
And he shrieked like a soul escaped from Hell
As he died for the Sassenach's sake.
Who shall we blame for the awful thing—
For the blood that flows and the heart-wrung throes?
Kaiser or Czar; statesman or King?
Och, leave it to Him Who Knows!
Who is it stands at the full o' the door?
Mary O'Fay, Mother O'Fay.
An' what is she watching an' waiting for?
Och, none but her soul can say.
There's a list in the Post Office long an' black,
With tidings bad, and woeful sad;
The names of the boys who'll ne'er come back,
An' one is her darling lad.
We showed her the list; but she cannot read,
So we told her true, yes, we told her true.
Her old eyes stared till they'd almost bleed,
An' she swore that none of us knew.
She's waiting now for Father O'Toole,
Till he goes her way at the noon of day.
She's simperin' white—the poor old fool,
For she knows what the priest'll say.* * * * * * *
Who is it sprawls upon the sod
At the break o' day? It's Mickey O'Fay;
His eyes glare up to the walls of God,
And half of his head is blown away.
What is he doing in that strange place,
Torn and shred, and murdered dead?
He's singin' the psalm of the fighting race
As his soul soars wide o'erhead.
He killed three foemen before he fell
(Och, the toll he'd take and the skulls he'd break!)
And he shrieked like a soul escaped from Hell
As he died for the Sassenach's sake.
Who shall we blame for the awful thing—
For the blood that flows and the heart-wrung throes?
Kaiser or Czar; statesman or King?
Och, leave it to Him Who Knows!
Who is it stands at the full o' the door?
Mary O'Fay, Mother O'Fay.
An' what is she watching an' waiting for?
Och, none but her soul can say.
There's a list in the Post Office long an' black,
With tidings bad, and woeful sad;
The names of the boys who'll ne'er come back,
An' one is her darling lad.
We showed her the list; but she cannot read,
So we told her true, yes, we told her true.
Her old eyes stared till they'd almost bleed,
An' she swore that none of us knew.
She's waiting now for Father O'Toole,
Till he goes her way at the noon of day.
She's simperin' white—the poor old fool,
For she knows what the priest'll say.* * * * * * *
Who is it sprawls upon the sod
At the break o' day? It's Mickey O'Fay;
His eyes glare up to the walls of God,
And half of his head is blown away.
What is he doing in that strange place,
Torn and shred, and murdered dead?
He's singin' the psalm of the fighting race
As his soul soars wide o'erhead.
He killed three foemen before he fell
(Och, the toll he'd take and the skulls he'd break!)
And he shrieked like a soul escaped from Hell
As he died for the Sassenach's sake.
Who shall we blame for the awful thing—
For the blood that flows and the heart-wrung throes?
Kaiser or Czar; statesman or King?
Och, leave it to Him Who Knows!
Who is it stands at the full o' the door?
Mary O'Fay, Mother O'Fay.
An' what is she watching an' waiting for?
Och, none but her soul can say.
There's a list in the Post Office long an' black,
With tidings bad, and woeful sad;
The names of the boys who'll ne'er come back,
An' one is her darling lad.
We showed her the list; but she cannot read,
So we told her true, yes, we told her true.
Her old eyes stared till they'd almost bleed,
An' she swore that none of us knew.
She's waiting now for Father O'Toole,
Till he goes her way at the noon of day.
She's simperin' white—the poor old fool,
For she knows what the priest'll say.* * * * * * *
Who is it sprawls upon the sod
At the break o' day? It's Mickey O'Fay;
His eyes glare up to the walls of God,
And half of his head is blown away.
What is he doing in that strange place,
Torn and shred, and murdered dead?
He's singin' the psalm of the fighting race
As his soul soars wide o'erhead.
He killed three foemen before he fell
(Och, the toll he'd take and the skulls he'd break!)
And he shrieked like a soul escaped from Hell
As he died for the Sassenach's sake.
Who shall we blame for the awful thing—
For the blood that flows and the heart-wrung throes?
Kaiser or Czar; statesman or King?
Och, leave it to Him Who Knows!