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 IRELAND, MOTHER OF PRIESTS

The fishwife sits by the side Of her childing bed, Her fire is deserted and sad, Her beads are long said; Her tears ebb and flow with the sea, Her grief on the years, But little she looks to the tide, And little she hears: For children in springtime play round Her sorrowing heart, To win them their feeding she loves To hunger apart; Her children in summer she counts Awhile for her own; But winter is ever the same, The loved ones are flown. Far over the sea they are gone, Far out of her ken They travel the furthest of seas As fishers of men. Yet never a word to her sons To keep them at home, And never a motherly cry Goes over the foam; She sits with her head in her hands, Her eyes on the flame, And thinks of the others that played, Yet left her the same,