The Poet's Corner.

Dunstan Times, Issue 997, 27 May 1881, Page 2

The Poet's Corner.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR. Whist, sir, would ye plaise speak aisy, An’ sit ye dawn there by the dure ? She sleeps, sir, sn light an’so restless, She hears iviry step on the flare. What ails her ? God knows! She’s bin weakly For months, an' the heatdhrives her wild The summer has wasted an’ worn her, Till she’s only the ghost of a child.

All I have? Yes, she is ; an’ God help me, I’d three b'ltle darlints beside, As party as iver ye see, sir, But wan by wan they dhrooped like an’ died. What was it that tuk him ? ye’re askin, Why, poverty, shure, an’, no doubt, They perished for food and fresh air. sir, Like flowers dhried up in the drought. It was dreadful to lose thim ? Ah, was it ! It seemed like my heart strings would break ; But there’s days, what wid want an’ sorrow, I’m thankful they’re goue—for their sake.

Their father? Well, sir, saints forgive me. It’s a foul tongue that lowers its own, But what wid the sthrikes an’ the liquor I’d betther be sthmggling alone Do I want to keep this one ? The darlint, ] The last an’ dearest of all ! Shure ycr nivera father yerself, sir, Or ye woubl’nt be askin’ at all ! What is that ! Milk an’ for the baby ! A doctor an’ no divine free ! Yer limitin’ out all the sick chillier An' poor toilin’ mothers like me !

God idess you ! and thim as have sent ye ; A new life ye’ve given to me. Shore, sir, won’t you look in the cradle At the collem ye’ve save 'foreyer go? Oh, Mother o’Mersies’have pity I Oh, darlint, whycoubi’nt yer wait.? Dead I dead ! an’ the help in the du eway, Too late ! Oh. my bal>y ! too late !