Читать книгу An Irish Crazy-Quilt - Arthur M. Forrester - Страница 7

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ONLY a cabin, thatched and gray,

Only a rose-twined door,

Only a barefooted child at play

On only an earthern floor.

Only a little brain—not wise

For even a head so small,

And that is the reason he bitterly cries

For leaving his home—that’s all.

Only the thought of her girlhood there,

And her happier days as wife,

In the shelter poor of its walls so bare,

Have endeared them to her for life;

What is the weeping woman’s cause?

Why are her accents gall?

What does she know of our intricate laws?

It was only a hut—that’s all.

He’s only a peasant in blood and birth,

That man with the eyelids dim,

And there’s room enough on the wide, wide earth

For sinewy serfs like him.

Why had this pitiful, narrow farm,

For his heart such a wondrous thrall?

Why each tree and flower such a mystic charm?

He was born in the place—that’s all.

. . . . . . .

The years have gone, and the worn-out pair

Sleep under the stranger’s clay,

And the weeping child with the curly hair

Is a brave, strong man to-day;

Yet still he thinks of the olden land,

And prays for her tyrant’s fall,

And longs to be one of some chosen band,

With only a chance—that’s all.