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Poem	Oh I have worn my mourning out, And on her grave the green grass grows; So I will hang each sorry clout High in the corn to scare the crows. And I will buy a peacock tie, And coat of cloth of Donegal; Then to the Farmer's Fair I'll hie And peek in at the Barley Ball. But though the fiddlers saw a jig I used to foot when I was wed, I'll walk me home and feed the pig, And go a lonesome man to bed. So I will wait another year, As any decent chap would do, Till I can think without a tear Of her whose eyes were cornflower blue. Then to the Harvest Ball I'll hie, And I will wear a flower-sprigged vest; For Maggie has a nut-brown eyes, And we will foot it with the best. And if kind-minded she should be To wife me - 'tis the will if God . . . But Oh the broken heart f me For her who lies below the sod!
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