Classic Poem

There was a widow and her son.
They lived, the two, in Inishmell—
Her son was bad, and when he died,
St. Peter packed him off to hell.

And in her cabin night and night
When darkness fell and lights were dim
The widow thought upon her son
And wept through all the night for him.

“A mother's love can draw,” she said,
“Her children from the deepest sea
But it will never bring my son,
My erring son again to me.”

And saying thus, she wept at dusk,
And saying thus, she wept at dawn,
And then she died. Her uncle grabbed
Her farm. His name was Connel Bawn.

She went to Heaven. There a crowd
Was standing waiting by the gate.
“Now, Widow Bawn.” St. Peter said,
“You've caused the crowd, so you must wait.”

“I've caused the crowd!” said Widow Bawn
“I do not know what you're about!”
“Your tears on earth,” St. Peter said,
“Have put the Devil's furnace out,

“So we've to house all sinners here
Until the flames of Hell are lit,
For what's the good of souls in Hell
Without a flame to warm the Pit.

“So now it rests with you, Good Soul,
To have the fire relit or drawn.”
“Then light it up,” the Widow said,
“And keep it hot for Connel Bawn.”