IN IRISH RAINThe great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast,They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best;But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back againTo little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fillsThe little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills;That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet,And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in,Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin;The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft,The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue,But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!And never one but had a joy to pass the time of dayWith little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before,But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more,But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years againTo little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.MARTHA HASKELL CLARK
The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast,They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best;But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back againTo little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fillsThe little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills;That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet,And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in,Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin;The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft,The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue,But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do!And never one but had a joy to pass the time of dayWith little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before,But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more,But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years againTo little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.
MARTHA HASKELL CLARK