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| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
John Gentry | 2/16/2010 3:39:57 PM
8/25/2010 3:33:00 PM | 79 |
Mother's Milk
The Mother Superior of Ireland
Very low on her sick bed lay.
The grim Death Angel hovering near,
To bear her soul away.
The Sisters of her convent wept
Around her on their knees,
Fingering solemn Catholic prayers
Upon their rosaries.
“O, Reverend Mother, be a takin’ this milk,”
A tear-streaked Sister said,
And raised a cup to her pale lips,
But the old nun shook her head.
The Sister, Mary Katherine O’Toole,
Came away with the cup, then thought,
T’would surely soothe the Mother Superior
If the milk were spiked and hot.
So she went to a cupboard in the scullery,
Where a bottle was hidden away
Of aged and mellow Irish whiskey
From a still on Galway Bay.
And she laced the milk, warmed over the stove,
With the Irish whiskey blend,
And brought it again to the Mother before
Her life came to its end.
“Dear Sainted Mother,” Mary Katherine said,
“T’was scarcely an hour ago
That I milked the cow of the milk that now
I’ve warmed in the fire’s glow.
“Milk that’s blessed, I’ll have ye know,
With a touch of Ireland.
Now won’t you be havin’ a wee taste while
I’m a holdin’ on to your hand?”
The ailing Mother, so pale and wan,
Then took a tiny sip,
And then one more, and then a swallow
And licked her upper lip.
And as she drained the vessel dry,
The Sisters cried, “Pray tell,
What be your final words before
The ringing of your knell?”
Said the Mother, “There be no wiser words,
Than these I leave you now:
By all the Saints in Ireland,
Don’t you ever sell that cow!”
By: John Gentry
Author's Comments
So help me, St. Paddy, it's a true story, dontcha know.
| Library Home | |
| Author | Date Entered/Modified | Views |
John Gentry | 2/16/2010 3:39:57 PM
8/25/2010 3:33:00 PM | 79 |
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