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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But the misthress saw it—like a weather-glass
Is these wakely women; not a speck'll pass
But they'll have it there-aw, I don't know the wake
Or the what—it's lek the delicake,
And the hung that fine—but let that be—
They'll see what nobody else will see.
Aye, but there's more—there's more though still,
And so I'll confess it, aw, 'deed I will.
Do you know—ah dear! it's an ould song—
What it is to be right, and yet to be wrong?
Not her fault—no, no!—but look!
Swore upon the Holy Book—
Swore—d'ye see? Aw, it's no use denyin'—
Swore—and still, if the woman was dyin',
What could she do? She hadn' gorr it—
Love! what love? the only thing for it
Was death, not love: death, death's the cry!
Sell love? sham love? no, die, die, die!
Is these wakely women; not a speck'll pass
But they'll have it there-aw, I don't know the wake
Or the what—it's lek the delicake,
And the hung that fine—but let that be—
They'll see what nobody else will see.
Aye, but there's more—there's more though still,
And so I'll confess it, aw, 'deed I will.
Do you know—ah dear! it's an ould song—
What it is to be right, and yet to be wrong?
Not her fault—no, no!—but look!
Swore upon the Holy Book—
Swore—d'ye see? Aw, it's no use denyin'—
Swore—and still, if the woman was dyin',
What could she do? She hadn' gorr it—
Love! what love? the only thing for it
Was death, not love: death, death's the cry!
Sell love? sham love? no, die, die, die!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |