 | Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill |  |
87
NEVER LET ON!
When I was just a youngster an' the whole of us was young,
An' childer will be still tormentin' other,
I larned a thrick to watch it out an' still to hould me tongue,
An' sure enough it saved a heap o' bother.
I mind the time that Micky had his sister by the hair,
That day she took an' broke his rod, an' Pat was skelpin' Mick,
An' Jane had hould o' Patsy by the legs, an' Tim was there,
Says I, “I think I see me Da,”—that saved us all the stick.
An' childer will be still tormentin' other,
I larned a thrick to watch it out an' still to hould me tongue,
An' sure enough it saved a heap o' bother.
I mind the time that Micky had his sister by the hair,
That day she took an' broke his rod, an' Pat was skelpin' Mick,
An' Jane had hould o' Patsy by the legs, an' Tim was there,
Says I, “I think I see me Da,”—that saved us all the stick.
88
'Tis the only way o' doin', just till not be lettin' on!
Were ye ever at a fair in Cushendall?
'Twas there I nearly lost me life, an' sure I'd only gone
For to buy a likely heifer in the fall.
Well, I bought her, then I sould her, an' I done a thriflin' deal
Wi' poor ould John MacGonnell o' Rafoam;
But the bruiser Big MacDonnell knocked the head off John MacGonnell,
So at the latter end of all I dhruv the heifer home.
Were ye ever at a fair in Cushendall?
'Twas there I nearly lost me life, an' sure I'd only gone
For to buy a likely heifer in the fall.
Well, I bought her, then I sould her, an' I done a thriflin' deal
Wi' poor ould John MacGonnell o' Rafoam;
But the bruiser Big MacDonnell knocked the head off John MacGonnell,
So at the latter end of all I dhruv the heifer home.
I was lookin' after Nancy, but of course I'd not let on,
An' she was lettin' on she didn't care;
The women think theirselves as 'cute, an' faith, they're never done
Wi' their simple sort o' schamin' in the air.
Well, that's a tale I'll tell to none, but now we're man an' wife,
An' she quarely likes to manage an' to rule;
I'm not the man to cross her, so we lead a quiet life,
For he isn't all a wise man that wouldn't play the fool.
An' she was lettin' on she didn't care;
The women think theirselves as 'cute, an' faith, they're never done
Wi' their simple sort o' schamin' in the air.
89
An' she quarely likes to manage an' to rule;
I'm not the man to cross her, so we lead a quiet life,
For he isn't all a wise man that wouldn't play the fool.
Ah, where's the use o' talkin'? Ye should never draw the sod,
Ye should never stop a beggar in his dhrink,
Ye should see an' lift your own load an' put your trust in God:
'Tis He will make the ship to sail or sink.
But och! the world is full o' fools that won't be said or led,
Now may I never live to rear a son
If I would not insense him ere he'd be to earn his bread,
Till “keep a quiet sough, me boy, an' never you let on!”
Ye should never stop a beggar in his dhrink,
Ye should see an' lift your own load an' put your trust in God:
'Tis He will make the ship to sail or sink.
But och! the world is full o' fools that won't be said or led,
Now may I never live to rear a son
If I would not insense him ere he'd be to earn his bread,
Till “keep a quiet sough, me boy, an' never you let on!”
| Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill | |