Classic Poem

" NOW where are ye goin', " ses I, " wid the shawl
An' cotton umbrella an' basket an' all?
Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine,
Wid that iligant instep befittin' a queen?
— Oh, you wid the wind-soft gray eye wid a wile in it,
— You wid the lip wid the troublesome smile in it,
— Sure the road's wet, ivery rain-muddied mile in it — "
" Ah, the Saints'll be kapin' me petticoats clean! "

" But, " ses I, " would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull,
Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul?
An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows,
An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close,
— They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye,
— The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye,
— 'Twould be long, if they did, ere ye lifted the latch o' ye — "
" What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes! "

" Ah, where are ye goin', " ses I, " wid the shawl,
An' the gray eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all?
The road by the mountain's a long one, depend
Ye'll be done for, alannah, ere reachin' the end;
— Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it,
— Wet wid the puddles and lamed wid the grit on it, —
— Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on it — "
" Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend? "
That's stepped wid a friend?
Who did Bridgy intend?
Still 'twas me that went wid her right on to the end!