’Tis sevin mile good into Westport; I never could thramp it so far,
But Tim Daly dhrives there of a Friday; he’ll loan me a sate on his car.
An’ Friday’s to-morra, ochone! so I’m near now to seein’ me last
O’ Barney, an’ Pat, an’ the childher, an’ all the ould times seem past.
I remimber the House goin’ by it. It stands on a bit of a rise,
Stone-black, lookin’ over the lan’, wid its windows all starin’ like eyes;
And it’s lonesome an’ sthrange I’ll be feelin’, wid ne’er a frind’s face to behould;
An’ the days ’ill go dhreary an’ slow. But I’m ould, plase God, I’m ould.