Classic Poem

By Father Prout.

While round the churn, 'mid sleet and rain,
It blew a perfect hurricane,
Wrapt in slight garment to protect her,
Methought I saw my mother's spectre.
Who took her infant to her breast—
Me, the small tenant of that chest—
While thus she lulled her babe: “How cruel
Have been the Fates to thee, my jewel!
But, caring naught for foe or scoffer,
Thou sleepest in this milky coffer,
Cooper'd with brass hoops weather-tight,
Impervious to the dim moonlight.
The shower cannot get in to soak
Thy hair or little purple cloak;
Heedless of gloom, in dark sojourn,
Thy face illuminates the churn!
Small is thine ear, wee babe, for hearing,
But grant my prayer, ye gods of Erin!
And may folks find that this young fellow
Does credit to his mother Stella .”