 | Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill |  |
76
HER SISTER.
“Brigid is a Caution, sure!”—What's that ye say?
Is it my sister then, Brigid MacIlray?
Caution or no Caution, listen what I'm tellin' ye. . .
Childer, hould yer noise there, faix! there' no quellin' ye!. . .
Och, well, I've said it now this many a long day,
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
Is it my sister then, Brigid MacIlray?
Caution or no Caution, listen what I'm tellin' ye. . .
Childer, hould yer noise there, faix! there' no quellin' ye!. . .
Och, well, I've said it now this many a long day,
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
An' she that was the beauty, an' never married yet!
An' fifty years gone over her, but do ye think she'll fret?
Sorra one o' Brigid then, that's not the sort of her,
Ne'er a hate would she care though not a man had thought of her.
Heaps o' men she might 'a had. . . .Here, get out o' that,
Mick, ye rogue! desthroyin' o' the poor ould cat!
An' fifty years gone over her, but do ye think she'll fret?
77
Ne'er a hate would she care though not a man had thought of her.
Heaps o' men she might 'a had. . . .Here, get out o' that,
Mick, ye rogue! desthroyin' o' the poor ould cat!
Ah, no use o' talkin'! Sure a woman's born to wed,
An' not go wastin' all her life by waitin' till she's dead.
Haven't we the men to mind, that couldn't for the lives o' them
Keep their right end uppermost, only for the wives o' them?—
Stick to yer pipe, Tim, an' give me no talk now!
There's the door fore'nenst ye, man! out ye can walk now.
An' not go wastin' all her life by waitin' till she's dead.
Haven't we the men to mind, that couldn't for the lives o' them
Keep their right end uppermost, only for the wives o' them?—
Stick to yer pipe, Tim, an' give me no talk now!
There's the door fore'nenst ye, man! out ye can walk now.
78
Brigid, poor Brigid will never have a child,
An' she you'd think a mother born, so gentle an' so mild. . . .
Danny, is it puttin' little Biddy's eyes out ye're after,
Swishin' wid yer rod there, an' splittin' wid yer laughter?
Come along the whole o' yez, in out o' the wet,
Or may I never but ye'll soon see what ye'll get!
An' she you'd think a mother born, so gentle an' so mild. . . .
Danny, is it puttin' little Biddy's eyes out ye're after,
Swishin' wid yer rod there, an' splittin' wid yer laughter?
Come along the whole o' yez, in out o' the wet,
Or may I never but ye'll soon see what ye'll get!
She to have no man at all. . . .Musha, look at Tim!
Off an' up the road he is, an' wet enough to swim,
An' his tea sittin' waitin' on him, there he'll sthreel about now,—
Amn't I the heart-scalded woman out an' out now?
Here I've lived an' wrought for him all the ways I can,
But the Goodness grant me patience, for I'd need it wid that man!
Off an' up the road he is, an' wet enough to swim,
An' his tea sittin' waitin' on him, there he'll sthreel about now,—
Amn't I the heart-scalded woman out an' out now?
Here I've lived an' wrought for him all the ways I can,
But the Goodness grant me patience, for I'd need it wid that man!
79
What was I sayin' then? Brigid lives her lone,
Ne'er a one about the house, quiet as a stone. . . .
Lave a-go the pig's tail, boys, an' quet the squealin' now,
Mind! I've got a sally switch that only wants the peelin' now. . . .
Ah, just to think of her, 'deed an' well-a-day!
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
Ne'er a one about the house, quiet as a stone. . . .
Lave a-go the pig's tail, boys, an' quet the squealin' now,
Mind! I've got a sally switch that only wants the peelin' now. . . .
Ah, just to think of her, 'deed an' well-a-day!
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
| Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill | |