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That matters not. Let come what will; at last the end is sure,

And every heart that loves with truth is equal to endure.

TO-MORROW

Tennyson's one poem in Irish brogue; founded on a story told him by Aubrey de Vere.

I

HER, that yer Honor was spakin' to? Whin, yer Honor? last year

Standin' here be the bridge, when last yer Honor was here ?

An' yer Honor ye gev her the top of the mornin', 'To-morra,' says she. What did they call her, yer Honor? They call'd her Molly Magee.

An' yer Honor's the thrue ould blood that always manes to be kind,

But there's rason in all things, yer Honor, for Molly was out of her mind.

II

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Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose

comin' down be the sthrame,

An' it seems to me now like a bit of yisther

day in a dhrame

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10

But I hard thim-Molly Magee wid her bachelor, Danny O'Roon 'You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur,' an' Danny says, 'Troth, an' I been Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's shebeen; 1

But I must be lavin' ye soon.' 'Ochone, are ye goin' away?'

'Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate,' he says, 'over the say'

An' whin will ye meet me agin?' an' I hard him, Molly asthore,

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I'll meet you agin to-morra,' says he, 'be the chapel-door.'

'An' whin are ye goin' to lave me?' 'O' Monday mornin',' says he;

An' shure thin ye 'll meet me to-morra ?' 'To-morra, to-morra, machree !' Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honor, that had no likin' for Dan,

1 Grog-shop.

an' the white o' the may,

An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as bright as the day!

Achora. yer laste little whishper was sweet as the lilt of a bird!

Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery word !

An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in sich an illigant han',

An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as snow an the lan',

An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt in the shtreet,

An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid himself undher yer feet,

An' I loved ye meself wid a heart an' a half, me darlin', and he

'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss of ye, Molly Magee.

V

40

But shure we wor betther frinds whin I crack'd his skull for her sake, An' he ped me back wid the best he could give at ould Donovan's wakeFor the boys wor about her agin whin Dan did n't come to the fore,

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An' afther her paärints had inter'd glory, an' both in wan day,

She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an' whishper, an' say,

'To-morra, to-morra!' an' Father Molowny he tuk her in han', 'Molly, you're manin',' he says, 'me dear, av I undherstan',

That ye'll meet your paärints agin an' yer Danny O'Roon afore God

Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints;' an' she gev him a frindly nod, 'To-morra, to-morra,' she says, an' she did n't intind to desave,

But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white as the snow an a grave.

VIII

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Arrah now, here last month they wor diggin' the bog, an' they foun' Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp lyin' undher groun'.

IX

Yer Honor's own agint, he says to me wanst, at Katty's shebeen,

The divil take all the black lan', for a blessin' 'ud come wid the green!'

An' where 'ud the poor man, thin, cut his bit o' turf for the fire?

But och bad scran to the bogs whin they swallies the man intire !

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But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick, she was lamed iv a knee,

Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, 'Div ye know him, Molly Magee?'

An' she stood up strait as the queen of the world she lifted her head

'He said he would meet me to-morra!' an' dhropt down dead an the dead. 8

XIII

Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start back agin into life, Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yer wake like husban' an' wife.

Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the frinds that was gone!

Sorra the silent throat but we hard it cryin', 'Ochone !'

An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten childer, hansome an' tall,

Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if he had lost thim all.

XIV

Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave be the dead boor-tree,1 The young man Danny O'Roon wid his ould woman, Molly Magee.

1 Elder-tree.

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D' ya mind the murnin' when we was a-walkin' togither, an' stood

By the claay'd-oop pond, that the foalk be sa scared at, i' Gigglesby wood, Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, black Sal, es 'ed been disgraäced? An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur a-creeäpin' about my waäist; An' me es wur allus afear'd of a man's gittin' ower fond,

I sidled awaäy an' awaäy till I plumpt foot fust i' the pond;

And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa well, as I did that daäy,

Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha hoickt my feet wi' a flop fro' the claay. 30

Sweet-arts! Molly belike may 'a lighted Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop thy

to-night upo' one.

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taail, tha may gie ma a kiss,

Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam an' wur niver sa nigh saayin' Yis.

But wa boath was i' sich a clat we was shaämed to cross Gigglesby Greeän, Fur a cat may looök at a king, thou knaws, but the cat mun be clean.

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