Classic Poem

There's a " wake " for Jimmie Doherty in the Bunkhouse Saturday night.
The Protestants are coming — they knew that he was right.
We're going to keen him till the dawn — he came from County Clare —
And send the word across the sea to them that's over there.
He froze to death on Thursday night a-crossing through the snow
That drifted in on Newcomb Lake when the wind began to blow.
He'd been to Newcomb Corners a-drinking hard and fast,
And never thinking that the night might prove to be his last.
He made the fat bartender roar with some old Shanty lie,
And treated all around three times, the best that he could buy;
And packed a sup o' whiskey to bring us Shanty men,
And started out to cross the Lake; the clock had just struck ten.
He must 'a' took a drop too much; he never reached the shore;
He walked in circles till the Lake looked like a threshing floor.
Oh, cold it was, and bitter, the gale that blew that night;
There was no moon to guide him, nor stars to give their light.
We found him in the morning with the dawn-light on his brow;
His face was white as any saint's and drifted with the snow.
We found him kneeling peacefully, his hands upon his breast
As if he'd bowed to say a prayer, or get a breath and rest;
And the " wee drap " he carried to warm our Shanty joys
He'd never touched nor drawn the cork: he'd kept it for the " boys. "

We're " waking " Jimmie Doherty in the Bunkhouse Saturday night;
We're going to keen him till the sun swims up in broad daylight.
There'll be enough for everyone — the boys have been so free —
And Big Tim Cole is coming, and Michael Goggerty.
We'll wake him as a man should be who came from County Clare,
And raise a keen that maybe'll stir the auld sod over there.