The Stay-At-Home

A poem by Theodosia Garrison

Comin' or goin' still they spread the news,
About America how grand it is,
The wonders that are waitin' you to choose
And gold that common that like sand it is.
"And here you stick," says they. "Like some old tree
Stuck in the bog belaboured by all seasons.
What's ailin' ye?" says they. Well, leave them be,
I have me reasons.

There's Cormac's Hugh come back with all his talk,
Spreadin' and spendin' like a king he is.
The people flockin' down the way he'll walk,
Till in the middle of a ring he is.
But where's that one whose face was like a rose
The day he went, betwixt her tears and teasin's?
Married these five years--gone where no man knows,
Faith, I've me reasons.

"A likely lad," they say. "What's ailin' you,
The gold and riches over there it is."
Sure, I'm not doubtin' what they say is true
They have me leave to hurry where it is.
'Tis I will hold the treasure that endures,
The while I'm listenin' to their talks and treasons.
Oh, Sheila girl, those two blue eyes of yours,
Faith, I've me reasons.

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