I
Betther nor thirty year sin' Barney M'Gurk
set up
Here by the ould cross-roads, and, begorra, there's
many a sup
I've tuk sittin' snug be the hearth in the corner
he calls me own,
For all it's a quare bad custhomer Barney'll ha'
found me, ochone,
This long while back, bringin' seldom or never the
pinny to spind;
But Barney M'Gurk isn't wan that 'ud disremem-
ber a frind.
So many's the warm I've had in the could o' the
winther's night,
For he keeps up the grandest o' fires; ye'll see
the glim of it bright
Away down the bog; it's the divil to pass be the
door in the dark,
Whin ye doubt if at home on the bit o' wet floor
ye'll find ever a spark.
And oft o' these summer evenin's I've watched
how the moon 'ill stale
O'er yonder black ridge o' Knockreagh like the
ghost of a little white sail,
Wid never a beam to her more than a ball o' the
thistle-down,
Till she'd drink every dhrop o' the light from the
breadths o' the air aroun',
An' shine like a bubble o' silver that swells an'
swells, an' thin
Float off thro' the thick o' the stars. But I'll
never watch her agin.