Little Kathleen, when I was ill,
Offered the mass for me;
And burned a holy candle, too
As white as wax could be.
Little Kathleen, I think of her,—
It may be once a year,—
When houses sweeten with the fir
And bells ring out good cheer!
Hejà! But it is good to live
And walk brown earth once more;
And good to hear your fingers knock
At some familiar door.—
And O, to see them all again,
To see them,—though they say,
‘And did you take a journey, then?
And were you long away?’
O, did you take a journey, then?
And were you long away?