But the dhrame I dhreamt that night was as sthrange as sthrange, for thin
I thought I had come to a place whose aquil I never was in,
An’ nobody’d tould me ’twas out o’ this world, yet as soon as I came
Just o’ meself I knew it, as people will in a dhrame.
An’ it looked an iligant counthry, an’ all in a glimmerin’ green,
The colour o’ leaves in the spring, wid a thrimble o’ mist between;
An’ the smell o’ the spring was in it, but the light that sthramed over all
Was liker the shine of a sunset whin leaves are beginnin’ to fall.
X
An’ two were talkin’ together, that must ha’ been standin’ near,
Tho’ out o’ me sight they kep’; an’ their voices were pleasant to hear.
An’ wan o’ them sez to the other: ‘It’s this I don’t undherstand,
The sinse o’ this wall built yonder around an’ about the land’--
An’, sure, as he spoke I saw where it glimpsed thro’ the boughs close by--
‘For,’ sez he, ‘it hides our world, as the thruth is hid be a lie,
From every sowl that’s alive on the weary earth below,
Till ne’er such a place there might be at all, for aught they can know.
But grand it ’ud be some mornin’ to make it melt off like the haze,
An’ lave thim a sight o’ this land that they’re comin’ to wan o’ these days.
For look ye at Ireland, now, where they’re just in a desperit state,
Wid the people sleepin’ on mud, an’ wantin’ the morsel to ait;
If they knew there was betther in store, I dunno what harm could be in ’t,
Or what it ’ud do but hearten thim up, an’ keep thim a bit contint.’