I am Eve, great Adam's wife,

I that wrought my children's loss,

I that wronged Jesus of life,

Mine by right had been the cross.

I a kingly house forsook,

Ill my choice and my disgrace,

Ill the counsel that I took

Withering me and all my race.

I that brought winter in

And the windy glistening sky,

I that brought sorrow and sin,

Hell and pain and terror, I.

I dreamt last night of you, John-John,

And thought you called to me;

And when I woke this morning, John,

Yourself I hoped to see;

But I was all alone, John-John,

Though still I heard your call:

I put my boots and bonnet on,

And took my Sunday shawl,

And went, full sure to find you, John,

To Nenagh fair.

The fair was just the same as then,

Five years ago to-day,

When first you left the thimble men

And came with me away;

For there again were thimble men

And shooting galleries,

And card-trick men and Maggie men

Of all sorts and degrees, --

But not a sight of you, John-John,

Was anywhere.

I turned my face to home again,

And called myself a fool

To think you'd leave the thimble men

And live again by rule,

And go to mass and keep the fast

And till the little patch:

My wish to have you home was past

Before I raised the latch

And pushed the door and saw you, John,

Sitting down there.

How cool you came in here, begad,

As if you owned the place!

But rest yourself there now, my lad,

'Tis good to see your face;

My dream is out, and now by it

think I know my mind:

At six o'clock this house you'll quit,

And leave no grief behind; --

But until six o'clock, John-John,

My bit you'll share.

The neighbours' shame of me began

When first I brought you in;

To wed and keep a tinker man

They thought a kind of sin;

But now this three year since you're gone

'Tis pity me they do,

And that I'd rather have, John-John,

Than that they'd pity you.

Pity for me and you, John-John,

I could not bear.

Oh, you're my husband right enough,

But what's the good of that?

You know you never were the stuff

To be the cottage cat,

To watch the fire and hear me lock

The door and put out Shep --

But there now, it is six o'clock

And time for you to step.

God bless and keep you far, John-John!

And that's my prayer.

The yellow bittern

The yellow bittern that never broke out

In a drinking bout, might as well have drunk;

His bones are thrown on a naked stone

Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.

O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,

Though they say that a sot like myself is curst --

I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise

For I fear I should die in the end of thirst.

It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,

The black-bird, the corn-crake, or the crane,

But for the bittern that's shy and apart

And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.

Oh! if I had known you were near your death,

While my breath held out I'd have run to you,

Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird

Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.

My darling told me to drink no more

Or my life would be o'er in a little short while;

But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength

And will lengthen my road by many a mile.

You see how the bird of the long smooth neck

Could get his death from the thirst at last --

Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,

You'll get no sup when your life is past.

In a wintering island by Constantine's halls

A bittern calls from a wineless place,

And tells me that hither he cannot come

Till the summer is here and the sunny days.

When he crosses the stream there and wings o'er the sea

Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight --

Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,

And a dram won't stop our thirst this night.