DON'T BURN THE CABIN DOWN.
Copyright 1894, by Frank Harding-
Words and Music by Tom Maguire.
My story's a strange one, a story of woe.
It happened in Ireland not long ago;
The day was a dark one, the snow it fell fast,
The breeze from the ocean blew a keen blast.
A fisherman's cabin stood on the shore,
Surrounded by sheriffs-I counted a score,
With a troop of arm'd lancers, with bailiff and kit,
And Crowley, the agent, with notice to quit.
A poor wretched woman was stricken with fear,
With six little children, to her each was dear;
Sweet Molly, her eldest, then sprang from her side
And rushed up to Crowley, and pleadingly cried:
"Don't burn the cabin down, mother is willing to pay,
Father is out on the ocean, fishing for us far away,
Remember it is Christmas Eve, and snow is falling, tooDon't burn the cabin down, and I will pray for you."
But Crowley, the agent, with heart like a stone.
He knew no pity for sob or moan,
"Take it easy, my darling, you must pay or go,
If you rend the scripture you'll find it so.
Now then, you fellows, bring the oil-can,
And make yourselves useful, d'ye hear, to a man.
Have you turned chicken-hearted? why stammer and stare?
Let them go the workhouse, they'll be all right there."
"No, no," cried the woman, with heart-piercing shriek,
"My husband may come soon; oh, grant us a week;"
And golden-haired Molly, with eyes to the sky,
Still knelt in the snow, and continued to cry;- Chorus.
The notice was read, and destruction began.
When up rode a stranger, 'twas a young man,
A sturdy young curate, in seedy attire,
With, "Halt. I command you; put out that fire.
It's well for the lambs that the shepherd is near,
Or wolves would destroy them, that is quite clear.
I'll stop this eviction, your rent is all right,
For Barney, her husband, comes home to-night.
The Lord of all landlords looks down from His throne,
Rejoice, my poor woman, your home is your own.
And your invaders may beat a retreat,
And I hope that poor Molly may never repeat:- Chorus.