by Arthur Stringer
When Shamus made shift wid a turf-hut
He'd naught but a hound to his name;
And whither he went thrailed the ould friend,
Dog-faithful and iver the same!
And he'd gnaw thro' a rope in the night-time,
He'd eat thro' a wall or a door,
He'd shwim thro' a lough in the winther,
To be wid his master wanst more!
And the two, faith, would share their last bannock;
They'd share their last callop and bone;
And deep in the starin' ould sad eyes
Lean Shamus would stare wid his own!
And loose hung the flanks av the ould hound
When Shamus lay sick on his bed—
Ay, waitin' and watching wid sad eyes
Where he'd eat not av bone or av bread!
But Shamus be Spring-time grew betther,
And a throuble came into his mind;
And he'd take himself off to the village
And be leavin' his hound behind!
And deep was the whine av the ould dog
Wid a love that was deeper than life—
But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whispered
That Shamus was takin' a wife!
A wife and a fine house he got him;
In a shay he went drivin' around;
And I met him be chance at the Cross Roads
And I says to him: "How's the ould hound?"
"Me wife niver took to that ould dog,"
Says he wid a shrug av his slats,
"So we've got us a new dog from Galway,
And och, he's the divil for rats!"
Last updated September 07, 2017