 | Irish Poems |  |
40
THE PHILOSOPHER
To John O'Mahony
When I came back to Ireland from a foreign shore,
The stress of money-gettin' had made me sick and sore.
Och, foolishness of people, when no man needs to have,
And be he lord or peasant, but at last a grave.
The stress of money-gettin' had made me sick and sore.
Och, foolishness of people, when no man needs to have,
And be he lord or peasant, but at last a grave.
Their land was thick with churches: aye, many spires on spires.
The people, lookin' sorry, in cities and in shires,
Were readin' of their Bibles: one text they missed, be sure:
“The poor are always with you!” Ah, God help the poor!
The people, lookin' sorry, in cities and in shires,
Were readin' of their Bibles: one text they missed, be sure:
“The poor are always with you!” Ah, God help the poor!
They haven't too much honour over there, I find.
The country where small money is is better to my mind.
They don't be dramin' money and a man has got the time
To look at seas and mountains and to turn a rhyme.
The country where small money is is better to my mind.
They don't be dramin' money and a man has got the time
To look at seas and mountains and to turn a rhyme.
They're neighbourly in Ireland, and if they've little store
They'd share it with a neighbour and there's still the open door.
For him that turns the poor away may turn away unfed
The very Son of God Himself as He begs for bread.
They'd share it with a neighbour and there's still the open door.
41
The very Son of God Himself as He begs for bread.
They won't be makin' money of the water and the land.
Plase God they'll learn no stintin', but keep the open hand,
And what they lose they're savin' and what they give they hold.
Ah, God help the foolish people with the yellow gold!
Plase God they'll learn no stintin', but keep the open hand,
And what they lose they're savin' and what they give they hold.
Ah, God help the foolish people with the yellow gold!
There's never any hurry here: there's always time to say
“God save you kindly!” as we go, and pass the time of day;
To smoke a pipe beside the fire, or may be in the sun,
And be holdin' kind discourses of the friends that's gone.
“God save you kindly!” as we go, and pass the time of day;
To smoke a pipe beside the fire, or may be in the sun,
And be holdin' kind discourses of the friends that's gone.
The sun upon your shoulders will warm you through and through;
And souls are more than bodies in the place we're travellin' to.
Och, take a sate, my travelled man, the sunny side the ditch,
And be lavin' money-makin' to the foolish rich!
And souls are more than bodies in the place we're travellin' to.
Och, take a sate, my travelled man, the sunny side the ditch,
And be lavin' money-makin' to the foolish rich!
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