An' cover up da leetla pot

Of — w'at-you-call ? — forgat-me-not.
All night da leetla hand I hold

Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold!

Da spreeng ees com' ; but oh, da joy

Eet ees too late!
He was so cold, my leetla boy,

He no could wait.
H I B E R N I C E



THE MELTIN' O' THE SNOW

'''^TMS cold th'-day," said John McCann,

-*• Upon the road to Mass.
The sorra word said Mary Ann,

But stopped to let him pass;
Fur, shure, he was the bold young man

An' she the modest lass.
Twas not himself that would be balked

So aisily, an' so
He timed his steps wid hers an' walked

Beside her, through the snow.
But, oh, she passed upon her way,

So modest an' so prim,
'Twas little he could think to say,

An' less she said to him.
But this he said when they were nigh

The little chapel door:

**A colder land, a colder sky,

I have not seen before,

83



84 CARMINA

Than this, for all its store of gold,

For all it is so grand.
I never knew the feel o' cold

At home, in Ireland;
But here, in these forsaken parts,

The snows, the bitter storm.
Creep even into Irish hearts

That should be kind and warm.
Oh, kind the maidens, Mary Ann,

Who tread the Irish grass.
This blessid day!" said John McCann,

Upon the road to Mass.
Small heed is where the heart is not,

An' so, 'tis safe to say,
'Twas Uttle that the pastor got

From Mary Ann that day;
No ears had she fur anny word

But jisht that bold young man's.
