Classic Poem

He was born in Ballytearim, where there' little work to do,
An' the longer he was livin' there the poorer still he grew;
Says he till all belongin' him, “Now happy may ye be!
But I'm off to find me fortune,” sure he says, says he.

“All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin;
All the crows in Ballytearim has a way o' gettin' thin.”
So the people did be praisin' him the year he wint away,—
“Troth, I'll hould ye can do it,” sure they says, says they.

Och, the boy 'ud still be thinkin' long, an' he across the foam,
An' the two ould hearts be thinkin' long that waited for him home:
But a girl that sat her lone an' whiles, her head upon her knee,
Would be sighin' low for sorra, not a word says she.

He won home to Ballytearim, an' the two were livin' yet,
When he heard where she was lyin' now the eyes of him were wet;
“Faith, here's me two fists full o' gold, an' little good to me
When I'll never meet an'kiss her,” sure he says, says he.

Then the boy from Ballytearim set his face another road,
An' whatever luck has followed him was never rightly knowed:
But still it's truth I'm tellin' ye—or may I never sin!—
All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin.