Grandeur

POOR 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 the 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 red

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 she earned her bread:

But I’m thinking she’s a right

To be aisy now she’s dead.

When other girls were 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;

She 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 be

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 be glad,

Though the angels make your bed,

Could you see the care we’ve had

To respect you—now you’re dead.

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