 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE
Oh! many and many a time
In the dim old days,
When the chapel's distant chime
Pealed the hour of evening praise,
I've bowed my head in prayer;
Then shouldered scythe or bill,
And travelled free of care
To my home across the hill;
Whilst the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waved my thousand welcomes home.
In the dim old days,
When the chapel's distant chime
Pealed the hour of evening praise,
I've bowed my head in prayer;
Then shouldered scythe or bill,
And travelled free of care
To my home across the hill;
Whilst the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waved my thousand welcomes home.
48
For oft and oft I've stood,
Delighted in the dew,
Looking down across the wood,
Where it stole into my view—
Sweet spirit of the sod,
Of our own Irish earth,
Going gently up to God
From the poor man's hearth.
O, the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing
My thousand welcomes home.
Delighted in the dew,
Looking down across the wood,
Where it stole into my view—
Sweet spirit of the sod,
Of our own Irish earth,
Going gently up to God
From the poor man's hearth.
O, the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing
My thousand welcomes home.
But I hurried swiftly on,
When Herself from the door
Came swimming like a swan
Beside the Shannon shore;
And after her in haste,
On pretty, pattering feet,
Our rosy cherubs raced
Their daddy dear to meet;
While the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waved my thousand welcomes home.
When Herself from the door
Came swimming like a swan
Beside the Shannon shore;
And after her in haste,
On pretty, pattering feet,
Our rosy cherubs raced
Their daddy dear to meet;
While the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waved my thousand welcomes home.
But the times are sorely changed
Since those dim old days,
And far, far I've ranged
From those dear old ways;
And my colleen's golden hair
To silver all has grown,
And our little cherub pair
Have cherubs of their own;
And the black, black smoke,
Like a heavy funeral plume,
Darkly wreathing,
Fearful breathing,
Crowns the city with its gloom.
Since those dim old days,
And far, far I've ranged
From those dear old ways;
49
To silver all has grown,
And our little cherub pair
Have cherubs of their own;
And the black, black smoke,
Like a heavy funeral plume,
Darkly wreathing,
Fearful breathing,
Crowns the city with its gloom.
But 'tis our comfort sweet,
Through the long toil of life,
That we'll turn with tired feet
From the noise and the strife,
And wander slowly back
In the soft western glow,
Hand in hand, by the track
That we trod long ago;
Till the blue, blue smoke
Of our cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waves our thousand welcomes home.
Through the long toil of life,
That we'll turn with tired feet
From the noise and the strife,
And wander slowly back
In the soft western glow,
Hand in hand, by the track
That we trod long ago;
Till the blue, blue smoke
Of our cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waves our thousand welcomes home.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |