Katy on the doorstep sat,
While her dimpled fingers fat
Moved industrious to and fro
O’er the gay pink calico;
For an apron she was making,
All herself, with much painstaking.
Pretty picture made she there,
Humming a quaint Celtic air,
Blue eyes on the work intent,
Cheek where tan and roses blent,
Brown hair smoothly brushed and braided,
Tied at ends with ribbon faded.
Such a happy little maid,
Sitting in the porch’s shade,
Tempted me to questioning,
Till she fell a-gossiping,
All about her country telling
And the peasant’s mode of dwelling;
How she came from “ferninst Corrk
Tin miles,” how she used to walk
There and back without a rest,
Only, by the way confessed,
That the miles “beyant” “air shorrter”
Than they are this side the water;
How the houses are of clay,
And the roofs are green alway—
Thatched with turf; how very sweet
The odor of the burning peat,
Which warms in winter-time the cottage
And cooks the oatmeal or the pottage;
How now and then a troop passed by,
Fox-hunting, riding gallantly—
Fair ladies and fine gentlemen,
Who dashed through field, and wood, and glen—
Nor hedge, nor fence, nor stream could stay
Their fiery steeds upon the way;
How on a hill-side near her home
There stands a ruin, ivy-grown,
Which long, and long, and long gone by
Was a grand castle, strong and high;
And now by night the people passing
Make haste, for fear a ghost be chasing.
Thus and so did Katy chat,
As in the shaded porch she sat.
The little maiden twelve years old
With ready tongue her story told,
Better than all the books relate it
Or half the travelers can state it.