by Moses Teggart, Springfield, Mass. U.S.A. 

The carts are comin' home from town,
The day in glory dies,
An' o'er the mosses bare an' brown
The pretty peewit flies.
The crested peewit flies to feed
In meadows where the cows
Wi' none to drive an' none to lead
All day in freedom browse,
But who is she who comes this way,
Light steppin' to the gate?
Hush! That's - the Birches boyos say -
The Belle of Clonmacate.


You cannot see her colour now,
But sure as this I sing,
The locks around her lily brow
Are like the raven's wing.
The rose that blossoms on her cheek,
If it e'er kissed has been,
Would tell us - if it could but speak,
Love's sweet at seventeen.
An' so it is, O so it is.
God knows it's so of late,
Yet where's the lad can call her his - 
The Belle of Clonmacate.
Light-hearted, too, she is the girl,
A maid who loves the moon,
A blue-eyed lass, a blushing pearl
Some lad will gather soon.
Yet rest from toil she seldom takes,
For even in July,
From early morn till night, she makes
The yellow shuttle fly.
She with her web on passin' day,
The dear, is never late,
She has no time to spend at play -
The Belle of Clonmacate.
The curleys grow, the roses blow,
Her mother's place is small,
The rent, too, must be paid, ye know,
But Mary's all in all.
An' though for higher things she years -
The desk, the scholar's pen,
'Tis on her linen loom she earns
The needed two pound ten.
Avaunt, avaunt, ye worldly cares!
She's leanin' o'er the gate,
And Love and Song have crowned her theirs -
The Belle of Clonmacate.



The Belle of Derryagh

The Belle of Derrykeevin

A Birches Boy

Bonnie Mary of Drumcree

Coney Island

Dead at The Birches

Down in Maghery


Lillian Martin

The Lily of Lough Neagh

The Turf Bummer

The Turf Cutter

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