Brew from Old Leaves

Lynn C. Doyle

Oul' Biddy Keenan, down the road,
Was wee an'frail an' poor,
Her bite of meat was scant enough,
An' never very sure;
But still she'd raise a cheery smile
To pass the time of day,
An' when her troubles came too throng
She'd wet a drop of tay.

I never heard her lift her voice,
Or wish a creature ill;
No matter how vexation riz
She had her comfort still.
The goat might eat her Sunday hat,
The hens might lay away,
But Biddy only shook her head,
An' wet a drop of tay.

The day the lightnin' struck her cow
An' burned her little byre
Myself an' two oul' gosterers
Were talkin' round her fire.
Oul' Jane sat on the floor an' screeched,
An' Bess flopped down to pray,
But Biddy put the kettle on
An' wet a drop of tay.

An' when she lost her kindly man-
An' her left lief alone-
Although we knew her heart was broke
She never made no moan.
She watched the coffin round the bend,
An' then she turned away.
"Aw, well," sez she, "We be to thole,"
And wet a drop of tay.

An' so ran on her simple life
In cheerful decent pride -
An' then she took her kettle off
An' laid her cups aside.
But when great Gabriel's trumpet speaks
Upon the Judgment day
She'll jump to reach the tea-pot down
An' wet a drop of tay.

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