by Anonymous ‘Twas growing dark so terrible fasht Whin through a town up the mountain there pashed A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow As he walked, his shillelagh he swung to and fro Saying “It’s till the top I’m bound to go Be jabers!” He looked mortal sad, and his eyes was bright As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night And niver a w ord that he said could ye tell As he opened his mouth and let out a yell “It’s up to the top of the mountain I’ll go Unless covered up wid this bothersome shnow Be jabers!” Through the windows he saw as he travelled along The light of a candle and fires so warm But a big chunk of ice hung over his head With a snivel and groan, “By St Patrick,” he said “It’s up to the very tip-top I will rush And then if it falls it’s not meself it’ll crush, Be jabers!” “Whist a bit,” said an ould man whose head was white As the shnow that fell down on that miserable night, “Shure ye’ll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad For the night is so dark and the walkin’ is bad.” Bedad he’d not lisht to a word that was said But he’d go till the top, if he wint on his head Be jabers!” A bright buxom young girl, such as like to be kissed Axed him couldn’t he shtop and how could he resist? So snapping his fingers, and winking his eye While smiling upon her he made this reply “Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the top But as yer shwate self has axed me, I may as well shtop Be jabers!” He shtopped all night, and shtopped all day And yer mus’n’t be axin whin he did go away For wouldn’t he be a bastely gossoon To be lavin’ his darlint in the shwate honeymoon Whin the old man has praties enough and to spare Shure he might as well stay, if he’s comfortable there Be jabers!
The end