The Poetry Corner

Tomorrow

By Alfred Lord Tennyson

I. HER, that yer Honour was spakin to? Whin, yer Honour? last year Standin here be the bridge, when last yer Honour was here? An yer Honour ye gev her the top of the mornin, Tomorra says she. What did they call her, yer Honour? They calld her Molly Magee. An yer Honours the thrue ould blood that always manes to be kind, But theres rason in all things, yer Honour, for Molly was out of her mind. II. Shure, an meself remimbers wan night comin down be the sthrame, An it seems to me now like a bit of yisther-day in a dhrame Here where yer Honour seen herthere was but a slip of a moon, But I hard thimMolly Magee wid her batchelor, Danny ORoon Youve been takin a dhrop o the crathur an Danny says Troth, an I been Dhrinkin yer health wid Shamus OShea at Kattys shebeen;1 But I must be lavin ye soon. Ochone are ye goin away? Goin to cut the Sassenach whate he says over the say An whin will ye meet me agin? an I hard him Molly asthore, Ill meet you agin tomorra, says he, be the chapel-door. An whin arc ye goin to lave me? O Monday mornin says he; An shore thin yell meet me tomorra? Tomorra, tomorra, Machree! Thin Mollys ould mother, yer Honour, that had no likin for Dan, Calld from her cabin an tould her to come away from the man, An Molly Magee kern flyin acrass me, as light as a lark, Au Dan stood there for a minute, an thin wint into the dark. But wirrah! the storm that nightthe tundher, an rain that fell, An the sthrames runnin down at the back o the glin ud a dhrownded Hell. III. But airth was at pace nixt mornin, an Hiven in its glory smiled, As the Holy Mother o Glory that smiles at her sleepin child Ethenshe stept an the chapel-green, an she turnd herself roun Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for Danny was not to be foun, An manys the time that I watchd her at mass lettin down the tear, For the Divil a Danny was there, yet Honour, for forty year. IV. Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o the rose an the white o the May, An yer hair as black as the night, an yer eyes as bright as the day Achora, yer laste little whishper was sweet as the lilt of a bird! Acushla, ye set me heart batin to music wid ivery word! An sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in sich an illigant han, An the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as snow an the lan, An the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt in the shtreet, An Shamus OShea was yer shadda, an laid himself undher yer feet, An I loved ye meself wid a heart and a half, me darlin, and he Ud a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss of ye, Molly Magee. V. But shure we wor betther frinds whin I crackd his skull for her sake. An he ped me back wid the best he could give at ould Donovans wake For the boys wor about her agin whin Dan didnt come to the fore, An Shamus along wid the rest, but she put thim all to the door. An, afther, I thried her meself av the bird ud come to me call, But Molly, begorrah, ud listhen to naither at all, at all. VI. An her nabours an frinds ud consowl an condowl wid her, airly and late, Your Danny, they says, niver crasst over say to the Sassenach whate; Hes gone to the States, aroon, an hes married another wife, An yell niver set eyes an the face of the thraithur agin in life An to dhrame of a married man, death alive, is a mortial sin. But Molly says Id his hand-promise, an shure hell meet me agin. VII. An afther her parints had interd glory, an both in wan day, She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an whishper, an say Tomorra, Tomorra! an Father Molowny he tuk her in han, Molly, youre manin, he says, me dear, av I undherstan, That yell meet your parints agin an yer Danny ORoon afore God Wid his blessed Marthyrs an Saints; an she gev him a frindly nod, Tomorra, Tomorra, she says, an she didnt 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 Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp lyin undher groun. IX. Yer Honours own agint, he says to me wanst, at Kattys shebeen, The Divil take all the black lan, for a blessin ud come wid the green! An where ud the poor man, thin, cut his bit o turf for the fire? But och! bad scran to the bogs whin they swallies the man intire! An sorra the bog thats in Hiven wid all the light an the glow, An theres hate enough, shure, widout thim in the Divils kitchen below. X. Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I hard his Riverence say, Could keep their haithen kings in the flesh for the Jidgemint day, An, faix, be the piper o Moses, they kep the cat an the dog, But it ud a been aisier work av they lived be an Irish bog. XI. How-an-iver they laid this body they foun an the grass Be the chapel-door, an the people ud see it that wint in to mass But a frish gineration had riz, an most of the ould was few, An I didnt know him meself, an none of the parish knew. XII. But Molly kem limpin up wid her stick, she was lamed iv a knee, Thin a slip of a gossoon calld, Div ye know him, Molly Magee? An she stood up strait as the Queen of the worldshe lifted her head He said he would meet me tomorra! an dhropt down dead an the dead. XIII. Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start back agin into life, Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yet wake like husban an wife. Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the frinds that was gone! Sorra the silent throat but we hard it cryin Ochone! An Shamus OShea that has now ten childer, hansome an tall, Him an his childer wor keenin as if he had lost thim all. XIV. Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave be the dead boor-tree,2 The young man Danny ORoon wid his ould woman, Molly Magee. XV. May all the flowers o Jeroosilim blossom an spring from the grass, Imbrashin an kissin aich otheras ye didover yer Crass! An the lark fly out o the flowers wid his song to the Sun an the Moon, An tell thin in Hiven about Molly Magee an her Danny ORoon, Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays an opens the gate! An shure, be the Crass, thats betther nor cuttin the Sassenach whate To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an Saints an Marthyrs galore, An singin yer Aves an Pathers for iver an ivermore. XVI. Au now that I tould yer Honour what-iver I hard an seen, Yer Honour ill give me a thrifle to dhrink yer health in potheen.