But I would have her smile ripe for me then,
Swift treasure of a moment--so I laid
Between her palms a little simple thing,
A golden heart, grav'd with my name alone,
And round it, twining close, small shamrocks link'd
Of gold, mere gold: no jewels made it rich,
Until twin di'monds shatter'd from her eyes
And made the red gold rare. "True Knight," she said,
"Your English heart with Irish shamrocks bound!"
"A golden prophet of eternal truth,"
I said, and kissed the roses of her palms,
And then the shy, bright roses of her lips,
And all the jealous jewels shone forgot
In necklace and tiara, as I clasp'd
The gold heart and its shamrocks round her neck.
My fair, pure soul! My noble Irish love!
A HUNGRY DAY.
I mind him well, he was a quare ould chap,
Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod,
He hired me wanst to help his harvest in;
The crops was fine that summer, prais'd be God!
He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself,
Just landed in the emigration shed,
Meself was tyin' on there bits of clothes,
Their mother (rest her tender sowl!) was dead.
It's not meself can say of what she died;
But t'was the year the praties felt the rain,
And rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw
The breath of life was one long hungry pain.
If we were haythens in a furrin' land,
Not in a country grand in Christian pride,
Faith, then a man might have the face to say
'Twas of stharvation my poor Shylie died.
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