The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1880-02-26
THE IRISH GRANDMOTHER.

Paddy, agra, run down to the bog, for my
limbs are beginnin' to tire.
An see if there's ever a sod at all that's dry
enough for the fire;
God be praised it's terrible tunes, an granny
is weak and ole,
An the praties black as the winters face, and
the night so dark and cold!
It's many day since l seen the ike, but dld
once, Pat astore,
An prayed to God ON my Bonded knees 1
never might sec it more;
Twas the year before the Rls1n," OF Smith
OBrien, you know
Thirty two years ago, Paddy-thirty two years
ago.
Your grandfather--Godr rest his soul-went out
with the boys to fight,
For the bailffs came with the crowbars, an
the sickness came with the blight;
An he said it was better to die like a man,
though he held but rusty pike,
Than StaTve on the roadside, Deggln tor tOOd,
an be thrown like dog III the dyke.
Och, honei och. bonei it's sorrowful tale,
but listen afore you CO.,
For Tim he never came back to me, but I'll see
him soon, know.
Tim Ryan, he held a dacent farm in the glen
o. Cahrmore,
An he titled the lands the Ryans owned two
hundred years before;
And it's many a time, by the blazin' fire, l
heard from the priest, Father John,
(lIe was my husbands cousin, agra, and he
lived to be ninety One,)
That the Ryans were chiefs OF the country
round till Cromwell, the villain, came,
An battered the walls of the castle, and set all
the houses afiame,
He came an he stabbed his horses in the Abbey
of st. Columkill,
AM the mark of his murderin cannon you
may see in the old wall still;
An he planted common trooper where the
Ryans were chieftains of yore-
An that was the first of the breed of him that's
now Lord Cahirmore!
Old Father john he was ninety one, it was he
that could tel5 you the story,
An every name of his kith and kin--may their
souls now rest in glory!
His father was shot in '9S, as he stood at the
chapel door;
His grandfather was the strongest man in the
An then there was Donough, Donald More,
and Turlougb ON the roll,
An Khan, boy, that lost the lands because he'd
save his soul.
Och, hone, machree! but the night is cold, an
the hunger in your face;
Hard times are comm again, avic! God help
with His grace!
Three years before the famine came the agent
raised the rent,
But then there was many helpin' hand, and
we struggled on content.
Och, hone! och, hone! we're lonely now-now
that our need is sore
For there's none but good Father Mahoney
that ever comes inside our door;
God bless him for the food he brings, and the
blankets that keep us warm!
God bless him fo- his holy words that shelter
us from harm!
This is the month an the day, Paddy, that my
own colleen went;
She died on the high road side, Paddy, when
we were drove out for the rent;
An it's well that remember how she turned
to me an cried,
There's never pain that mayn't be gain, an
crossed herself an died.
For the Soupers were there with shelter an
food, if we'd only tell the lie,
But they fled like the wicked things they were
when they saw poor Kathleen die.
She's prayin' for all of us now, Paddy-her
blessin' know she's giveni
An they that have little here below have
much ashore in heaven!
Dublin Nation