Classic Poem

A full house when he came
But black with his going!
Tongue of mine gave him name,
My eyes saw him growing!
Not to Mary I'll pray!
Not hers my sorrow.
Can it draw from the spade-deep clay,
My one who is taken away
And rouse him the morrow?

After the girls, the lad!
The nights he stayed out!
But the dear white body he had
When he was laid out—
And the last dress he wore
On the cold bed lying,
Under the candles four.
And all of them crying,

Norah, Unah and Breed,
Plump girls and hearty—
Didn't they love him indeed!
And me in the party
With not one tear in my eye
For the poor white sleeper.
Ah! there's blessed ease in a cry,
But my blow struck deeper.

Rootless the young heart's need,
For all their crying—
Norah, Unah and Breed
With strong men lying!
And not to Mary I'll pray!
Not hers my sorrow.
Can it draw from the spade-deep clay,
My one who is taken away
And rouse him the morrow?