Page:Poems Cook.djvu/306

But Dermot, dear Dermot—oh! woe is my breathing,
 Dermot has stricken the root of my joy;
For he passes me by with a flash in his eye,
 Saying "Norah's too rich for the Poor Irish Boy."

Oh! will I forget when he help'd me to carry
 The bucket of water and basket of peat;
When I left him alone, and yet found he would tarry
 To gaze on the dew-moisten'd prints of my feet?
Oh! will I forget his sad praying and weeping
 When the sickness of fever was wasting my cheek;
When he turn'd from his bread, and watch'd on without sleeping;
 With a sorrow too deep for his white lips to speak!
Oh! Dermot, dear Dermot, though gold oft bewitches,
 And the best of our soul it can often destroy;
Yet Norah's warm heart would soon break amid riches,
 Unless they were shared by the Poor Irish Boy.

Though the pledge in pure whiskey too often he's drinking;
 Though he idles his time, singing, "Cush la ma chree;"
Yet they cannot be mighty great faults—I am thinking,
 When the glass and the song are both sacred to me.
They tell me his face has no beauty about it;
 But beauty's a garb for a butterfly's wear:
I'm not sure but I love him the better without it,
 Yet how white are his teeth and how black is his hair!
Dermot, my own darling Dermot, oh! never
 Believe that I'll look on another with joy!
But just ask me once more if I'll have you for ever,
 And see if I'll tarn from the Floor Irish Boy.

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