THE WIDOW’S LAMENT.

Ochone, acushla mavourneen! ah, why thus did ye die? (I won’t keep ye waitin’ a minit: just wait till I wipe my eye); And is it gone ye are, darlint,—the kindest, the fondest, the best? (Don’t forget the half-crown for the clerk—ye’ll find it below in the chest). And to leave me alone in the world—O whirra, ochone, ochone! (Is that Misther Moore in the car?—I thought I was goin’ alone); Why am I alive this minit? why don’t I die on the floore? (I’ll take your hand up the step, an’ thank ye, Misther Moore!) An’ are ye gone at last from your weepin’, desolate wife? (Not a dhrop, Misther Moore, I thank ye—well, the laste little dhrop in life!) ’Twas ye had the generous heart, an’ ’twas ye had the noble mind, (Good mornin’, Mrs. O’Flanagan! Is Tim in the car behind?) Oh, that I lived till this minit, such bitther sorrow to taste, (I’m not goin’ to fall, Misther Moore! take your arm from around my waist). ’Twas the like of you there wasn’t in Ballaghaslatthery town, (There’s Mary Mullaly, the hussy, an’ she wearin’ her laylock gown!) I’ll throw meself into the river; I’ll never come back no more; (’Twon’t be takin’ ye out of the way to lave me at home, Misther Moore?) It’s me should have gone that could bear it, now that I’m young and sthrong, (He was sixty-nine come Christmas: I wondhered he lasted so long!) Oh, what’s the world at all when him that I love isn’t in it? (If ’twas any one else but yourself, I’d lave the car this minit!) There’s nothin’ but sorrow foreninst me, wheresoever I roam, (Musha, why d’ye talk like that—can’t ye wait till we’re goin’ home?) Anonymous.