Ghost-bereft :: :: University of Virginia Library

So the next time the storm takes to rise an outrageous loud whillaballoo,
I can tell well enough anyway what poor Norah 'll be safe to go do;
Ay, she wouldn't bide aisy, the win'll turn her home, as it drives in a wave,
Tho' she's come where the highest you could name are the people she's bound to ax lave.
Our Lady herself it might be, wid heaven's blue in the folds of her gown,
And a glimmerin' of stars flown together, and lit on her head in a crown,

And poor Norah's her screed of red skirt, and her mother's ould little black shawl,
Goin' barefut—no matter for that, she'll make bold and spake up to them all,
And be thankin' them kindly, no fear but she will, she's a mannerly child,
And she'll tell them she's wanted at home now the saison's got stormy and wild—
Ah, since ever you left us, acushla, we're wantin' the sight of your face—
And she'll say there's not one but herself to be doin' a turn in our place,
For her mother's complainin' this long while, and her father's gone failed like and ould,
And she's 'fraid of her life they'll be gettin' their death in the wet and the could;
But if aught went agin them, and she far away, sure the heart of her'd break.

Then the rest of the childer'd be sayin': ‘True for her,’ each word that she'd spake;
And the sorra a Saint 'll bid them lave us all desolit here and forlorn—
Ay, the storm's our best chance in this world, and it's comin' as sure as we're born.