The Weaver’s Saturday Night.

THE WEAVER’S SATURDAY-NIGHT.

TO M. P.

THE week’s long hours at length are past!
Its labors all are done.
With grateful hearts let us rejoice,
The morrow is our own!

The bell shall not disturb our rest
Upon that blessed morn;
The livelong day is all our own;
Its pleasures who would scorn?

Our board is filled with wholesome food,
The cloth is smooth and white,
The watchful dame, so kind and good,
The stranger would not slight.

Permit me, then, with you to join
In gratitude and praise,
To Him who ruleth everywhere,
And thus our voices raise.

We ‘ll sing the songs your fathers sung
A hundred yours ago,
For in this land of liberty
Our hearts with joy may flow.

And while good cheer around is spread,
Naught shall our comfort jar,
Nor will we e’er forget the dead,
In “Erin” (dear) “go bragh! “

We ‘ll take the harp from Tara’s hall,
Despite what Moore has sung,
And make it tell the tales of old,
That once its strings outrung.

Thus welcome in the summer eve,
Its starlight and its moon,
While join our hearts and voices strong,
In some old favorite tune.