Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“But, when does the weasel help itself,
And where keeps it all this ill-gotten pelf?—”
“Why, just at the gray of the morning, sir,
That sound sleeping hour when no one's astir.
Ay, then may the weasel be seen on the hearth,
A perfect wonder of playful mirth,

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Dancing around and dancing around
A bright gold coin it has stolen or found.
But, ere the red streaks light up the gray,
It nips up its guinea and scampers away,
Without e'en the faintest patter or noise,
And up through the walls to the place of its choice;
Or down through the floor to its crannied store,
Somewhere about the foundation-stone,
And drops its guinea among many more,
To lie unknown, long, long unknown,
Till all the folks are dead or away
To the Irishman's home in Amerikay;
When the poor old cabin is pull'd to the ground,
And the long hidden wealth of the weasel found,
As much as had kept them here at home
For generations and years to come.