 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
34
BLACKBERRYING
When I was but a weeshy boy,
My mother's pride, my father's joy,
My mouth and hands had full employ,
When blackberries grew ripe;
And oft my mammy she should squeeze
The thorns from out my arms and knees,
And my good dad, to give me ease,
Put by his favourite pipe.
And even since I've become a man,
And dressed on quite a different plan,
I've still gone carrying the can,
When blackberries grew sweet.
Yes! trampling through the bramble brakes,
I'd court the keenest pains and aches
For two or three fair colleens' sakes,
Whose names I'll not repeat.
My mother's pride, my father's joy,
My mouth and hands had full employ,
When blackberries grew ripe;
And oft my mammy she should squeeze
The thorns from out my arms and knees,
And my good dad, to give me ease,
Put by his favourite pipe.
And even since I've become a man,
And dressed on quite a different plan,
I've still gone carrying the can,
When blackberries grew sweet.
Yes! trampling through the bramble brakes,
I'd court the keenest pains and aches
For two or three fair colleens' sakes,
Whose names I'll not repeat.
Till Norah of the amber hair,
Who'd been my partner here and there,
Around about and everywhere,
When blackberries came in;
As I just tried with too much haste
The richer, rarer fruit to taste,
That on her lips was goin' to waste,
She tosses up her chin,
And marches by me night and morn,
Her grey eyes only glancing scorn,
Regardless of the bitter thorn
That in my heart she's rooting!
Yet, somehow, something in my mind
Keeps murmuring, when she's most unkind,
“Have patience! she'll make friends, you'll find,
Ere blackberries finish fruiting!”
Who'd been my partner here and there,
Around about and everywhere,
When blackberries came in;
As I just tried with too much haste
The richer, rarer fruit to taste,
That on her lips was goin' to waste,
She tosses up her chin,
And marches by me night and morn,
Her grey eyes only glancing scorn,
Regardless of the bitter thorn
That in my heart she's rooting!
35
Keeps murmuring, when she's most unkind,
“Have patience! she'll make friends, you'll find,
Ere blackberries finish fruiting!”
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |