Ay, a field av goold corn jist ferenst a wee green, An' a lonesome red rosy-bush bloomin' between; An' up yonder tall reapers is mountin' the brae, Och! but sorra a child on the green for to play! Sure 'tis sheafs av ripe corn 'ill be gathered the day! Ay, a field av goold corn jist fernenst a wee green, But no childer to pluck thon red rosies between; An' I'm thinkin' there's daisies bewhiles in the grass, Does be liftin' their heads for to see a child pass, Och! that's wearin' wee chains av pink daisies to Mass! An' 'tis lonesome enough is thon room in the night, Ay, an' silent in troth in the shine av sunlight! Och! wee clocks in the green blew the hours av the day, An' 'twas cheatin' the years sure they wor wid their play— For wee childer's all ris up an' reapin' the day! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DIM DOORWAY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA AND PEOPLING WESTERN COUNTRY by PHILIP FRENEAU ON EXPLORATION by JAMES GALVIN FOR LOVE'S SAKE, KISS ME ONCE AGAIN! by BEN JONSON |