Ghost-bereft :: :: University of Virginia Library

That's the raison I'll watch a while yet, for the haze might be gatherin' to-night,
If 'twas only a breath, it's a grand sign for win': or a cloud trailin' white
On the dark of the ridge, caught and tore into flakes like sheep's wool on a wall—
Then we'd have a good chance. But some folk do keep hopin' wid no chance at all,
Like Rose Byrne, that goes callin' her sons to come back, mopin' round on the shore,

And herself there, that has me annoyed hearin' steps runnin' up to the door.
Och, it's cross wid the crathur I be, and she ailin' and wantin' the wit;
Howane'er, when we've Norah agin, every trouble in our lives we'll forgit.
And it won't be so long now, plase God, till a change 'll be comin'. Some day
The sun's self 'ill be lost o'er our heads afore ever he drops in the say,
And the moanin' away on the wather 'll come near till it roars and it raves,
For the win' 'll grip the lan' and get swirlin' it round in the clouds and the waves,
And the storm 'ill lep out on us, ragin' and wild, thro' the mists and the foam,
Blindin', and deafenin', and takin' our breath—and bringin' the childer home.