I thought I would walk me an Irish Mile--
An Irish Mile was my morning desire,
So I took a gray road past a bog and a byre.
There was many a stone and many a stile,
But I would be going an Irish Mile.
There were turf fires burning by benches, rough-hewn,
There was laughter, and the lilt of an old Irish tune.
By sheep-cot and pen and low, winding wall
I met an old grand’m with shillelagh and shawl;
I greeted a driver of donkey and cart,
To a blue-eyed colleen, sure, I near lost my heart.
And each spoke me cheery and gave me a smile,
And bade me to tea and to rest for a while.
I heard barley sickles and smelled the ripe grain--
But never came I to the end of that lane.
Foot-weary at last and the sun going down
I came to a cottage close by to a town,
And said to a herder as I rested awhile,
“Sure, ‘tis long, friend, and long to the end of this mile.”
He tipped his pipe ashes with a wave of his hand,
And replied, “Aye, it is that--but you understand,
An Irish mile, darlin’ is a mile and a bit--
And the bit, sure, is ever the most part of it…”
Oh, I can’t be forgetting that slow Irish mile,
Where there’s time for a chat and time for a smile;
Though on smooth roads and white roads I journey meanwhile
I fain would be going a far Irish Mile--
A way-faring, gay-faring, sweet Irish Mile.
Maude Ludington Cain
No comments:
Post a Comment