POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2072, 14 October 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR. Whist, sir! would ye plaze to speak a;sy, An’ sit ye down there by the dure ? She sleaps, sir, so light an’ so restless She hears ivery step on the flure. What ails her ? God knows ! She’s bin weakly For months, an’ the heat dhrives her wild, The summer has wasted an’ worn her Till she’s only the ghost of a child. All T have ? Yes, she is ; an’, God help me ! I’d three little darlints beside. As purty as iver ye see, sir, But wan by wan they dhroopod like an’ died. What was it that tuk thim ? yer askin’. Why poverty, sbure, an’, no doubt, They perished for food an’ fresh air, sir, Like flowers dhried up in the drought.

It was dreadful to lose them ? Ah, was it! It seemed like my heartstrings would break ; But there’s days, what wid want an’ wid sorrow, I’m thankful they’re gone—for their sake 1 Their father ? Well, sir, saints forgive me ! It’s a foul tongue that lowers it own, But what wid the sthrikes an’ the liquor I’d botther bo sthrugglin.’ alone.

Do I want to keep this one ? The darlint. The last on’ dearest of all ! Shure yer niver a father yersolf, sir, Or ye wouldn’t be askin’ at all! What is that ? Milk an’ food for the baby ! A docthsr an’ medicine free! Ter huntin’ out all the sick childer An’ poor toilin’ mothers like me ! God bless you ! an’ thim as have sint ye ! A new life ye’ve given to me. Shure, sir, won’t you look in tho cradle At the colleen ye’ve saved ’fore you go ? Oh, Mother o’ Mercies have pity ! Oh, darlint, why couldn’t you wait ? Dead ! dead ! an’ the help in the dureway Too late ! Oh, my baby ! too late !