The Van Buren Press

The Widow to Her Son,
The following touching verses from the Dublin Freeman--wonderfully pathetic in their simple fidelity to one of the noblest relations and emotions in human nature--represent an Irish mother's message to her emigrant son in America, by another emigrant just about to sail, and will find appreciative echo in all kind hearts:
THE WIDOW TO HER SON.
Remember, Denis, all I bade you say:
Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord:
But of our troubles since he went away
You'll mind, avick, and never say a word,
Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share.
The finest summer isn't always fair.
Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May;
She died, poor thing; but that you needn't mind.
Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay:
But tell him God to us was ever kind.
And when the fever spread the country o'er
His mercy kept the sickness from our door.
Be sure you tell him how the neighbors came
And cut the corn and stored it in the barn:
'Twould be as well to mention them by name--
Pat Murphy, Ned McCabe, and Shamus Carr,
And big Tim Daly from behind the hill:
And say, agra! oh, say, I miss him still.
They came with ready hands our toil to share:
'Twas then I missed him most--my own right hand;
I felt, although kind hearts were round me there,
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.
Strong hand! brave heart!--one severed far from me
By many a weary league of shore and sea.
And tell him she was with us--he'll know who:
Mavourneen, hasn't she the winsome eyes?
The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue
I ever saw, except in summer skies;
And such black hair!--it is the blackest hair
That ever rippled over neck so fair.
Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day,
And moped, poor dog! 'twas well he didn't die.
Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way,
And sniffed the travelers as they passed him by--
Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure 'twas all the same.
He listened for the foot that never came.
Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold,
The fire itself seems robbed of half its light;
But may be 'tis my eyes are growing old,
And things look dim before my failing sight.
For all that, tell him 'twas myself that spun
The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one.
Give him my blessing: morning, noon and night.
Tell him my prayers are offered for his good,
That he may keep his Maker in his sight,
And firmly stand as his brave father stood--
True to his name, his country, and his God.
Faithful to home, and steadfast still abroad.