While The Billy BoilsSearchThey have brought the news, Alannah, that I’ve waited for so long;Faith, ’twas little news they brought me; every story, every song,That I’ve heard since you enlisted seemed to have but one refrain,Till the whole world used to tell me that you’d not come home again;They’ve been cruel times, me darlin’, since you left us for the fight;Pott’rin’, dazed-like, through the day-time; thinkin’, thinkin’, through the night.Yerra, what’s the use complainin’ when the world is all amiss,When the hopin’ and the strivin’ ever come to dust like this.’Twas the green months when you left us; now the brown, bare months are here;Yellow grasses in the paddocks, yellow hill-sides standin’ clear;There’ll be flowers again in plenty, and a carpet o’er the plain,But it’s hard you won’t be comin’ when the green months come again.
Still I’m thankful—yes, I’m thankful—for one golden memory,’Tis the last time spent together, was to say the Rosary;Don’t you mind it, boy, we said it in my own room there beyond,Where I have the little altar where your early prayers you conned,Be the statue that I cherish of the Blessed Mother fair,With the blue cloak round her shoulders, and her white hands crossed in prayer.They were singin’ in the parlour—them that came to say good-bye—And they sang their gay songs to me; och, I knew the reason why!They were always kind in trouble in this big, warm-hearted land;Ah, but their way isn’t my way, and they mightn’t understand;So I lit the little candles, and I beckoned you away,And you came—God bless you for it, boy—the partin’ prayer to say.
Yes! we said it with the music drummin’ ragtime songs without—Just our two selves there together, answ’rin’ t’other turn about.Aye, the partin’ Ros’ry, darlin’; I can see you kneelin’ there,With your big, broad shoulders bendin’, and your hands joined on the chair,And your man’s voice like an organ rollin’ out its soul apart—Och, to-night, boy, in me dreamin’, it is dronin’ in me heart.
’Tis a quare, quare world, me bouchal, when the storm can work its stressOn the strong limb while the withered leaf is left in loneliness;“Lay your treasures up in heaven,” for there’s nothing here below—Och, we Irish mothers learnt it in the old land long ago:Short life’s spring-time with the blossom, and it comes not back again,Only haggard trees in winter, stretchin’ naked arms in pain.
I am thankin’ God, alannah, though the achin’s in me breast.’Twas He took you from me, darlin’, and He knoweth what is best:And His Holy Mother, Mary, with her Baby on her knee—Sure, she lost Him in His manhood, for He died at thirty-three,There’s a numbness round me heart, boy; like a hard, cold hand it grips;Oh, I’m thankful that we parted with the Ros’ry on your lips:It has been me comfort ever; it has been me hope and stay;Been me hymn of sweet thanksgivin’ for what good there came me way;It has been me only refuge when the heart was sick and sore—When the bad days past the countin’ flung their troubles round me door.
I was taught it be me mother; aye, and when we crossed the sea,For to seek the gold we never found—the old man there and me—(Sure, he stood six feet and higher then, and coal-black was his hair;Och, you’d never know ’twas him at all—that bent old man in there).We have said it in the new home, strong and clear, in flood and drought,Takin’ turn and turn together, “answ’rin’ up” and “givin’ out;”We have said it be the cradle; we have said it be the cot—When the babes the angels brought us made us happy in our lot;When the house was full of childer, and the joy of life complete;Och, we said it till the neighbours used to hear us in the street.But ye’ve gone and left me lonely! One be one, me doves, ye flew—One be one the circle’s dwindled till the Ros’ry’s said be two—Said be two old husky voices, slow, and weak, and wearin’ out,Risin’, fallin’, like the night breeze—answ’rin’ t’other turn about.
Sure, it can’t be long, alannah, till the troubled sea is calm;Till the beads drop from me fingers, and they wind them round me arm.You used to tease me with the “trimmin’s” in the old days that are dead;There’s another trimmin’ now, boy, ev’ry time the Ros’ry’s said.But there won’t be many Ros’ries, for the singin’s in me ears,And the Holy Mother’s beck’nin’—I can see her through me tears;These old feet have done their journey—better leave them restin’, then—They will bring me to the hillside ere the green months come again;Then they’ll enter with the blessed, where the soul is free from harm;—And you’ll know ’tis me, alannah, be the Ros’ry on me arm.