TOMORROW.
95
She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an whishper, an' say
'Tomorra, Tomorra!' an' Father Molowny he tuk her in han',
'Molly, you're manin',' he says, 'me dear, av I undherstan',
That ye'll meet your paärints agin an' yer Danny O'Roon afore God
Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints;' an' she gev him a frindly nod,
'Tomorra, Tomorra,' she says, an' she didn't intind to desave,
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white as the snow an a grave.
'Tomorra, Tomorra!' an' Father Molowny he tuk her in han',
'Molly, you're manin',' he says, 'me dear, av I undherstan',
That ye'll meet your paärints agin an' yer Danny O'Roon afore God
Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints;' an' she gev him a frindly nod,
'Tomorra, Tomorra,' she says, an' she didn't intind to desave,
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white as the snow an a grave.
VIII.
Arrah now, here last month they wor diggin' the bog, an' they foun'
Arrah now, here last month they wor diggin' the bog, an' they foun'
