Classic Poem

Whin Shamus O'Regen was sellin' me hay,
And as sheuch-rank as iver was mowed,
He'd seat his gerrl Moira, for such was his way,
On the top av his thimble-rig load.

And he'd bring me his scrapin's av thistle and whin,
And I'd take thim wid niver a word;
But I'd hold for a breath, as the cart jolted in,
Moira's hand, that was soft as a bird.

For Moira was wishtful and white as the May,
And her eyes they would throuble your heart
Till any ould bramble seemed special fine hay
Wid her face at the top av the cart.

Yet me horse and me cattle wint lean as a kite,
Wid their feedin' on Shamus's hay,
And I'd figure me loss to a rick over-night —
But, in faith, I had nothin' to say.

For, Moira and me, we secretly met
At the end av ould Ballybree Wall,
And she gave me the word that soon made me forget
I'd iver been cheated at all!