  She lived beside the Anner, At the foot of Sliev-na-mon, A gentle peasant girl, With mild eyes like the dawn; Her lips were dewy rosebuds; Her teeth of pearls rare; And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough Her neck and nut-brown hair. How pleasant 'twas to meet her On Sunday, when the bell Was filling with its mellow tones Lone wood and grassy dell! And when at eve young maidens Strayed the river-bank along, The widow's brown-haired daughter Was loveliest of the throng. O brave, brave Irish girls— We well may call you brave!— Sure the least of all your perils When you leave our quiet valleys, And cross the Atlantic's foam, To hoard your hard-won earnings For the helpless ones at home. 'Write word to my own dear mother— Say, we'll meet with God above; And tell my little brothers I send them all my love; May the angels ever guard them, Is their dying sister's prayer'— And folded in the letter Was a braid of nut-brown hair. Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous, This weary heart has grown For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland, And for sorrows of my own; Yet a tear my eye will moisten When by Anner's side I stray, For the lily of the mountain foot That withered far away. Charles J. Kickham |
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