  My name is Patrick Sheehan, My years are thirty-four, Tipperary is my native place, Not far from Galtymore; I came of honest parents, But now they're lying low; And many a pleasant day I spent In the Glen of Aherlow. My father died; I closed his eyes The landlord and the sheriff too Were there the day before! And then my loving mother, And sisters three also, Were forced to go with broken hearts From the Glen of Aherlow. For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near; I went then to the poor-house, For to see my mother dear; The news I heard nigh broke my heart; But still, in all my woe, I blessed the friends who made their graves In the Glen of Aherlow. Bereft of home and kith and kin, With plenty all around, I starved within my cabin, And slept upon the ground; But cruel as my lot was, I ne'er did hardship know 'Till I joined the English army, 'Rouse up, there,' says the Corporal, 'You lazy Hirish hound; Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog, The call "to arms" sound?' Alas, I had been dreaming Of days long, long ago; I woke before Sebastopol, And not in Aherlow. I groped to find my musket— How dark I thought the night! O blessed God, it was not dark, It was the broad daylight! And when I found that I was blind, My tears began to flow; I longed for even a pauper's grave In the Glen of Aherlow. O blessed Virgin Mary, Mine is a mournful tale; A poor blind prisoner here I am, In Dublin's dreary gaol; Struck blind within the trenches, And now I'll never see again My own sweet Aherlow. A poor neglected mendicant, I wandered through the street; My nine months' pension now being out, I beg from all I meet: As I joined my country's tyrants, My face I'll never show Among the kind old neighbours In the Glen of Aherlow. Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen, Take heed of what I say; For if you join the English ranks, You'll surely rue the day; And whenever you are tempted A-soldiering to go, Remember poor blind Sheehan Of the Glen of Aherlow. Charles J. Kickham |
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