“A little child shall lead them”
I’ll be afther lying down, mother,
Upon me little bed,
And darlint place yer hand awhile
Beneath me achin head.
And if we’ve done yer work, mother,
I wish ye’d sing to me
About the counthry up above
Where Tim and Nellie be.
‘Tis fairer than ould Ireland dear,
And all a glorious day;
I’m going to the dear Lord now,
He’ll never say me nay.
I’ve lov’d the fair airth, mother dear,
And all the flowers that grow,
But when I gaze upon His face
His deeper love I’ll know.
Poor father shure he’ll fret for me,
But spake ye kindly thin,
Maybe, when I am gone above
Ye may poor father win.
Tell him to come to God, and me,
And dhrink and curse no more;
And then the throuble will not come,
But peace for ivermore.
Don’t fret ye much for me, mother,
For shure ‘tis betther there,
And flowers that niver niver fade,
The fields of glory bear.
And don’t forget me when I die.
And when yer work is done,
And the dear Lord shall give the word,
Then ye’ll be coming home.
And I’ll be there to welcome ye,
And lead ye to the throne;
And all the angels will be glad
When you and father come.
But hark!―I hear the blessed song,
The dear Lord’s there I see,
And shure the room is wondrous bright!
Hark! hark! He’s calling me.
And von are Tim and Nellie too,
See! angels fill the room.
I come—I come—kiss father dear,
Good-bye-aroon-aroon.
Heyman Wreford.