POETRY.
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TRIM THAT THRAVELS ON THEIR FEET.
IN blackberry time himself an' me
We do be np by break of day : An' " God go with us now," says he, "The time we're thravellin' on our way.
An' God go with us all the while We're thravellin' on from mile to mile."
'Tis up Glencullen way we are—
The berries there is fine and sweet; But kilt you'd be it is so far When you go thravellin' on your feet, Och I weary miles ere you'd come down From far Glencullen to the town. Up there at dawn 'tis quare and still And dew lies heavy on the ground; But berries for a basket's fill Grows on the bushes all around. And whiles well rest and eat a few That's sodden wid the heavy dew.
We trapis round from door to door, 'Tis weary in the noonday heat. May God have mercy on the poor That thravels round upon their feet! For sure you're moidhered in the town, The way the carts go up an' down.
But when we're quit of all our load, " Now God be praised for that," says he; And back we go the homeward road, Near bet we are himself and me.
Och I sure the thought of home is sweet To thim that thravels on their feet. W. M. Lerrs.
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