by Arthur Stringer

Arthur Stringer

Of my ould loves, of their ould ways,
I sit an' think, these bitther days.

(I've kissed — 'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme —
More mouths than one in my mad time!)

Of their soft ways an' words I dream,
But far off now, in faith, they seem.

Wid betther lives, wid betther men,
They've all long taken up again!

For me an' mine they're past an' done —
Aye, all but one — yes, all but one!

Since I kissed her 'neath Tullagh Hill
That one gerrl stays close wid me still.

Och! up to mine her face still lifts,
An' round us still the white May drifts;

An' her soft arm, in some ould way,
Is here beside me, night an' day;

But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep,
Wid all that love she couldn't keep,

Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere,
This many a year — this many a year!

Last updated January 14, 2019