It was right in the worst o’ the famine, the first years the praties wint black--
Tho’ ye’re scarce of an age, Sisther Frances, to remember o’ things so far back;
But in coorse ye’ve heard tell o’ thim times, whin the people was dyin’ be the score,
Ay, be hundrids an’ thousinds, the like was ne’er seen in the counthry before.
An’ what else should the crathurs ha’ done, wid the food o’ thim rotted to dirt?
Och, to see thim--ye’d meet ne’er a man but his face was as white as his shirt.
And ourselves had been starved all the winther, the childher, an’ Micky, an’ me,
An’ poor Micky’s ould mother, till, comin’ on spring, not a chance could we see;
For there wasn’t a house far or near where they’d give ye the black o’ your eye,
And our Praste he was down wid the fever, an’ clane ruinated forby.