POETRY
THE LITTLE WHITE CAT
(After the Gaelic.) As the grey cat reached the old well-head, Of a sudden she fell a-crying, For down in the water, cold and dead, Her snow-white son was lying.
O Pusheen Bawn,* Bawn, Bawn, You're gone from me—Och ! Orro O Pusheen Bawn, Bawn, Bawn, You're drownded—Oh, my sorrow !
Then she rose upright, poor lonesome one, And to Brideen's bed she bore him, And there she laid down her one little son, • And lifted her keen up before hint. O Pusheen Bawn, etc. . . .
You had soft brown eyes and smooth white fur, And a queer little hump on your shoulder, The prettiest walk and the pleasantest purr, Yet none with the rats was bolder.
O Pusheen Bawn, etc. . . .
It was you that every bolt and lock In the whole of the house respected ; You never made free with the cow's butter-crock, And even the beetles corrected.
O Pusheen Bawn, etc. . . .
It's Walter's Martin we'll have around To be carving your deeshy coffin, And to dig your wee grave in the daisy mound Where Brideen made sport with you often.
O Pusheen Bawn, Bawn, Bawn, You're gone from me—Och ! Orro !
O PUsheen Bawn, Bawn, Bawn, You're drowinled—Oh, my sorrow ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
• " I usheer. "—Irish for MC° White Cat. .
Previous page
