“In Irish Rain”
Leave a commentSeptember 25, 2016 by Nicole Drapeau Gillen
| The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet, And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat. And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin; The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft! They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue, But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do! And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way. There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more, But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain. |
-Martha Haskell Clark
Irish Rain 