Peggy

An' so poor Peggy is dead a'most, an' she goin' on eighty-one,
The light of heaven to her poor sowl, an' all that is dead and gone.
An' if she doesn't see glory bright, God pity the likes o' me,
For she seemed like one that lived in thought in a saintly company.

Her voice it was always mild and low, it was loudest when she'd pray,
An' she never put the weighty word on the one that went astray.
She'd share the bit and the sup she'd get, an' often she made me weep
For my poor sowl when I hear her sayin' her prayers and she fast asleep.

But many's the cross came on her since the day she was made a bride,
An' little we thought that pleasant morn she'd beg before she died.
For she had a share of money in bank, an' he had the snug warm place :
A likely bouchal oge he was, an' 'twas she had the purty face.

Sure, very well I remember her when I was a small colleen,
There wasn't a lighter heart or step to dance a jig on the green.
But, mavrone, the years brought trouble an' death, sweet praise be to God,
Her man an' her children one by one were hidden beneath the sod.

A.n' then the land was taken away, for her hope and help was gone —
To see her quenchin' her own firelight would move the heart of a stone.
You'd never hear a grumble from her, she'd spin and she'd knit the sock ;
She always tried to help herself, for she came of a decent stock.

An' the neighbours then were kind to her as she went from door to door,
They used to think a saint came in when she stood on the kitchen floor.
You'd never hear sad words from her, she'd neither lament nor moan,
"The Lord is always good," she'd say, "an' He only took His own."

Soon she'll stand by the Lord herself on the shores of eternity,
An' if she doesn't see glory bright, God pity the likes o' me.