My man was a poor fisher With shore lines in the say; My work was saltin’ herrings The whole of the long day.
And sometimes from the saltin’ shed, I scarce could drag my feet Under the blessed moonlight, Along the pebbly street.
I’d always been but weakly, And my baby was just born; A neighbour minded her by day, I minded her till morn.
I lay upon my baby; Ye little childer dear, I looked on my cold baby When the morn grew frosty and clear.
A weary woman sleeps so hard! My man grew red and pale, And gave me money, and bade me go To my own place, Kinsale.
He drove me out and shut the door, And gave his curse to me; I went away in silence, No neighbour could I see.
The windows and the doors were shut, One star shone faint and green; The little straws were turnin’ round Across the bare boreen.
I went away in silence: Beyond old Martin’s byre I saw a kindly neighbour Blowin’ her mornin’ fire.
She drew from me my story— My money’s all used up, And still, with pityin’, scornin’ eye, She gives me bite and sup.
She says my man will surely come, And fetch me home agin; But always, as I’m movin’ round, Without doors or within,
Pilin’ the wood or pilin’ the turf, Or goin’ to the well, I’m thinkin’ of my baby And keenin’ to mysel’.
And sometimes I am sure she knows When, openin’ wide His door, God lights the stars, His candles, And looks upon the poor.
So now, ye little childer, Ye won’t fling stones at me; But gather with your shinin’ looks And pity Moll Magee.
‘NOW lay me in a cushioned chair And carry me, you four, With cushions here and cushions there, To see the world once more.
‘And some one from the stables bring My Dermot dear and brown, And lead him gently in a ring, And gently up and down.
‘Now leave the chair upon the grass: Bring hound and huntsman here, And I on this strange road will pass, Filled full of ancient cheer.’
His eyelids droop, his head falls low, His old eyes cloud with dreams; The sun upon all things that grow Pours round in sleepy streams.
Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn, And to the armchair goes, And now the old man’s dreams are gone, He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue Upon his wasted hands, For leading aged hounds and young The huntsman near him stands.