AN IRISH LASS

By Clinton Scollard

My love has kissed me on the lips an’ sailed beyond the sea,

An’, sooth, that was a sorry day for Terrence an’ for me,

An’ yet I whispered him “God speed” his fortune for to win,

For there‘ s little gold in Ireland save that upon the whin!

Like weary feet the days drag by; the heart o’ me is sad;

The keenin’ o’ the wind at night, it nearly drives me mad;

The cries o’ children in the street, they quaver lorn an’ thin,

For there‘ s little gold in Ireland save that upon the whin!

But when my own lad comes again, ah, colleen,‘ t will be sweet;

There‘ ll be the peal o’ weddin’ bells across the fields o’ peat;

Faith, I can hear him sayin’ it, with his shy sort o’ grin,

“There‘ s more gold now in Ireland than that upon the whin!”