Classic Poem

Mary Moriarty, she met me at the door;
“Troubles are like the crows,” she said,
“They travel by the score.
I wonder does the Man Above have patience with the poor,
Plucking at His sleeve all day,
Begging Him for more.”

“I was in God's pocket all the night,” said she,
“All the day I'm moidered with my care,
Rarin' childer, feedin' fowl, what way would I be,
But they fall asleep at last and I have time to spare
For telling God the way I am with my long family.”