Poems by "Cushag"/Kate Cowle
KATE COWLE.
Grip me savadge, Miss Geargie,
An' heis me up in bed,
An' you can be radin' them texes
The while I reddy me head.
Can ye see me hanksher, Miss Geargie?
In the bed it's like it's los'.
Aw well! the couth of the winter!
Me legs is like sticks of fros'.
An' the rots is scraerpin', scraerpin'!
Aw, it's time poor Kate was took—
No, no, I'll not have no firin'
For I cannot suffer the smook.
An' well—Are ye theer, Miss Geargie?
I was dhramin' a dhrame in the night,
When the win's took rest from their noisin'
An' the say was middlin' quite.
An' the Lord Himself come down
An' stud beside the bed,
An' with thremblin' fear I heard Him speak:
"Come urrov theer," He said.
"Come urrov theer, Kate Cowle," He said.
"An' go you up on high,
For such as you that's oul' and blind
There's mansions in the sky."
An' through the roof an' through the clouds
Like sthrailin' through a ford,
An' singin' Glo—ry, Glo—ry, while
The waves around us roared.
An' Glo—ry, Glo—ry, still we sang
Up to the great White Throne—
When suddently the Light went out
An' I was here alone!
Are ye plentiful in pins, Miss Geargie,
Them laps for me head is tore;
Well, good everin'—You'll be rewahded;
An' plaze pull to the door.
An' Glo—ry for ever Glo—ry
An' a Light for the blind to see—
An' a lil bit of pudden, Miss Geargie,
If Mayry will spare it for me."