Classic Poem

Hay in the haggard, and cows in the byre,
A turf stack is filled with its store for the fire.
What way am I wanting my heart's deep desire?

Linen new woven and meal in the chest,
A cloak of red frieze that I bought in the west:
But sorra a babe I can rock on my breast.

Money laid by and a parcel of land,
A boat in the harbour, the house where I stand —
But God! for a child that would clutch at my hand.

Milk and fresh butter and flour to spare,
The chuckins, the goats, an' the turkeys to rare:
But never a little wee child I can care.

The beggar goes by, a babe in her shawl,
A wee one streels after and runs at her call.
'Tis I am the beggar, and she that has all.

God send me a child with the sorrow and pain,
Let him waken the quiet and squander the gain,
For I'm counting my riches and plenty in vain.

A child that will know to spoil and to tear,
What matter the trouble and moidher and care,
So I'm hearing the fall of his feet on the stair?

A beggar I am — shall I not be blessed
With a baby come home that will sleep on my breast?
Let me be a mother, O Christ, with the rest!