The Road

"Now where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl
An' cotton umbrella an' basket an' all?
Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine,
Wid that iligant instep befittin' a queen?
Oh, you wid the wind-soft grey eye wid a wile in it,
You wid the lip wid the troublesome smile in it,
Sure, the road's wet, ivery rain-muddied mile in it—"
"Ah, the Saints'll be kapin' me petticoats clean!"

"But," ses I, "would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull,
Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul?
An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows,
An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close,
They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye,
The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye,
'T would be long, if they did, ere ye lifted the latch o' ye—"
"What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes!"

"Ah, where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl,
An' the grey eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all?
The road by the mountain's a long one, depend
Ye'll be done for, alannah, ere reachin' the end;
Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it,
Wet wid the puddles and lamed wid the grit on it,
Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on it—"
"Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend?"
That's stepped wid a friend?
Who did Bridgy intend?
Still 'twas me that went wid her right on to the end!