A light its pale ray faintly shot
   (The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn),
It came from a neighbouring cot,
   Some called it the Cabin of Mourne:  {221}
A neat Irish Cabin, snow-proof,
   Well thatched, had a good earthen floor,
One chimney in midst of the roof,
   One window, and one latched door.

Escaped from the pitiless storm,
   I entered the humble retreat;
Compact was the building, and warm,
   Its furniture simple and neat. 
And now, gentle reader, approve
   The ardour that glowed in each breast,
As kindly our cottagers strove
   To cherish and welcome their guest.

The dame nimbly rose from her wheel,
   And brushed off the powdery snow: 
Her daughter, forsaking the reel,
   Ran briskly the cinders to blow: 
The children, who sat on the hearth,
   Leaped up without murmur or frown,
An oaken stool quickly brought forth,
   And smilingly bade me sit down.

Whilst grateful sensations of joy
   O’er all my fond bosom were poured,
Resumed was each former employ,
   And gay thrifty order restored: 
The blaze flickered up to the crook,
   The reel clicked again by the door,
The dame turned her wheel in the nook,
   And frisked the sweet babes round the floor.

Released from the toils of the barn,
   His thrifty, blithe wife hailed the sire,
And hanging his flail by her yarn,
   He drew up his stool to the fire;
Then smoothing his brow with his hand,
   As if he would sweep away sorrow,
He says, “Let us keep God’s command,
   And never take thought for the morrow.”

Brisk turning him round with a smile,
   And freedom unblended by art,
And affable manners and style,
   Though simple, that reached to my heart,
He said (whilst with ardour he glowed),
   “Kind sir, we are poor, yet we’re blest: 
We’re all in the steep, narrow road
   That leads to the city of rest.

“’Tis true, I must toil all the day,
   And oft suffer cold through the night,
Though silvered all over with grey,
   And dimly declining my sight: 
And sometimes our raiment and food
   Are scanty—­ah! scanty indeed: 
But all work together for good,
   So in my blest Bible I read.

“I also have seen in that Book
   (Perhaps you can tell me the place?)
How God on poor sinners does look
   In pity, and gives them His grace—­
Yea, gives them His grace in vast store,
   Sufficient to help them quite through,
Though troubles should whelm them all o’er;
   And sure this sweet promise is true!

“Yes, true as the snow blows without,
   And winds whistle keen through the air,
His grace can remove every doubt,
   And chase the black gloom of despair: 
It often supports my weak mind,
   And wipes the salt tear from my eye,
It tells me that Jesus is kind,
   And died for such sinners as I.