WHERE is your home, woman dear? The hills are grey and lone; The fields are full of stone; There's hardly space for summer flowers to bloom; There's nothing 'live in view, Except myself and you, And your donkey with the cleaves full of turf. What waits you in your cabin, woman dear? For comfort is but spare On these stony hills of Clare, When your lonely way has come unto an end. Is there any one to greet you, Is there any one to meet you, And the donkey with the cleaves full of turf. What's in your heart, woman dear? 'A dream of little faces That soon will take their places In the crackle of the fire's red glow; And so I cheer my day, On my long and windy way, With my donkey and the cleaves full of turf.' |