POETRY.
GRANDEUR.
Poen Mary Byrne is dead, An' all the world may see Where she lies upon her bed Just as fine as quality.
She lies there still and white With candles either hand That'll guard her through tho night.
Sure she never was so grand !
She holds her rosary, Her hands clasped on her breast, Just as dacint as can be In the habit she's been dressed.
In life her hands were rod With every sort of toil, But they're white now she is dead, An' they've sorra mark of soil.
The neighbours come and go, They kneel to say a prayer. I wish herself could know Of the way she's lyin' there.
It was work from morn till night, And hard sho earned her bread; But I'm thinking she's a right To be aisy now she's dead. When other girls wore gay At wedding or at Fair She'd be toiling all the day, Not a minyit could she spare.
An' no one missed her face, Or sought her in a crowd, But to-day they throng the place Just to see her in her shroud.
The creature in her life Drew trouble with each breath ; Sho was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife "- But she's lovely in her death.
I wish the dead could see The splendour of a wake, For it's proud herself would bo Of the keening that they make.
Och! little Mary Byrne, You welcome every guest. Is it now you take your turn To be merry with the rest?
I'm thinking you'd bo glad, Though the angels make your bed, Could you see the care we've had To respect you—now you're dead.
W. M. LETTS.
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