Mary Jacqueline Simon Moo

Jacqueline S. Moore] (1926-2002 / Hannibal, Missouri,

The Irish Heart

Some people think the Irish mind
Is rough, and coarse, and unrefined,
And cunning too- as I'll admit-
And luminous with native wit;
This may be true, at least in part,
Yet O! give me an Irish heart.

The mind may show the teacher's skill,
And yet the heart be dark and chill;
The face may wear an artful smile,
And yet the heart be grieved the while;
But joy unknown to studied art,
O'erflows the lightsome Irish heart.

See that light-hearted Irish boy!
He whistles and he sings for joy;
And see that smiling Colleen Bawn,
Blithe as the lark at early dawn;
Naught seems their happiness to thwart,
For each has got an Irish heart.

A heart where guilt has left its gall
Is not an Irish heart at all;
The good old Irish heart is true,
And chaste and honest through and through,
Affliction's rod may cause its smart,
But hope soon heals the Irish heart.

The Irish heart has tenderness,
And feels for others in distress;
And when it cannot give relief,
It shows a sympathetic grief;
For sorrow's tale makes tear drops start-
There's feeling in the Irish heart.

The Irish girls have glancing eyes,
Which often cause their lovers sighs;
And then, like to the gentle dove,
They kiss, and coo, and talk of love;
And wed, of course- for Cupid's dart
Won't fester in an Irish heart.

And tho' an Irishman be poor,
He never shuts his cabin door,
Against the homeless ones who call,
But shares his little with them all;
And gives, when more he can't impart,
The blessings of an Irish heart.

Some leave their Irish hearts at home,
And seek for others when they roam;
They find them too, deceitful, cold.
Proud, haughty hearts, which lust for gold;
But some retain, and never part
With the old, loving Irish heart.

You may have got an Irish name,
And secrecy may hide your shame;
And you may have a lengthy purse,
While on you rests a longer curse;
And you may walk life's busy mart-
But where is now your Irish heart?

Loved Erin, tho' I view thee now
With Ichabod upon thy brow;
I hope to see the joyful morn,
When all thy glory shall return-
When God shall light and truth impart,
To gladden every Irish heart.
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