Soft Ways

by Arthur Stringer

Arthur Stringer


A LANNA , what a soft land the Ould Sod used to be;
The soft lush green o' hillsides, the soft encirclin' sea;
The still and purple moorlands, where the plovers call;
The soft and misty bog-land, the lough and purrin' fall;
The heather on the brake-side, the sleepy fields o' hay;
The Fairy-Thorn and Whin-Bush, the gold Gorse and the May;
The low wall and the roof thatch, so mild wid moss and mold;
The soft cries av the childer', the soft eyes av the ould;
And best and last, the Springtime, all muffled wid the rain:
But never wanst those soft ways for me and mine again!


This new land has no soft ways; 'tis mortial hard and stern;
'Tis work and fret your way out, 'tis moilin' iv'ry turn!
Alanna, all the soft things the throubled city sees
Is laughin' gerrls wid soft mouths still swarmin' thick as bees!
And me that's used to ould ways, with nothin' else to find,
I seek me out a soft mouth, and leave the rest behind;
I seek the only soft thing their frettin' streets can hold —
For women in the New World are kind as in the Ould!

Last updated September 07, 2017