ありがとう、junさん・・・
Mrs. Malone Lived hard by a woodAll on her lonesomeAs nobody should. With her crust on a plateAnd her pot on the coalAnd none but herselfTo converse with, poor soul.In a shawl and a hood She got sticks out-o’-door,On a bit of old sackingShe slept on the floor,And nobody, nobodyAsked how she fared Or knew how she managed,For nobody cared. Why make a pother About an old crone? What for should they bother With Mrs. Malone? One Monday in winterWith snow on the groundSo thick that a footstepFell without sound,She heard a faint frostbittenPeck on the paneAnd went to the windowTo listen again.There sat a ****-sparrowBedraggled and weak,With half-open eyelidAnd ice on his beak.She threw up the sashAnd she took the bird in,And numbled and fumbled itUnder her chin. 'Ye’re all of a smother, Ye’re fair overblown! I’ve room fer another,' Said Mrs. Malone. Come Tuesday while eatingHer dry morning sliceWith the sparrow a-picking('Ain’t company nice!')She heard on her doorpostA curious scratch,And there was a catWith its claw on the latch.It was hungry and thirstyAnd thin as a lath,It mewed and it mowedOn the slithery path.She threw the door openAnd warmed up some pap,And huddled and cuddled itIn her old lap. 'There, there, little brother, Ye poor skin-an’-bone, There’s room fer another,' Said Mrs. Malone. Come Wednesday while all of themCrouched on the matWith a crumb for the sparrow,A sip for the cat,There was wailing and whiningOutside in the wood,And there sat a vixenWith six of her brood.She was haggard and raggedAnd worn to shred,And her half-dozen babiesWere only half-fed, But Mrs. Malone, crying'My! ain’t they sweet!'Happed them and lapped themAnd gave them to eat. 'You warm yerself, mother, Ye’re cold as a stone! There’s room fer another,' Said Mrs. Malone. Come Thursday a donkeyStepped in off the roadWith sores on his withersFrom bearing a load.Come Friday when iciclesPierced the white airDown from the mountainsideLumbered a bear.For each she had something,If little, to give?'Lord knows, the poor crittersMust all of ’em live.' She gave them her sacking,Her hood and her shawl,Her loaf and her teapot?She gave them her all. 'What with one thing and t’other Me fambily’s grown, And there’s room fer another,' Said Mrs. Malone. Come Saturday evening When time was to supMrs. MaloneHad forgot to sit up.The cat said meeow,And the sparrow said peep,The vixen, she’s sleeping,The bear, let her sleep.On the back of the donkeyThey bore her away,Through trees and up mountainsBeyond night and day, Till come Sunday morningThey brought her in stateThrough the last cloudbankAs far as the Gate. 'Who is it,' asked Peter, 'You have with you there?' And donkey and sparrow, Cat, vixen and bearExclaimed, 'Do you tell usUp here she’s unknown?It’s our mother, God bless us!It’s Mrs. MaloneWhose havings were fewAnd whose holding was smallAnd whose heart was so bigIt had room for us all.'Then Mrs. MaloneOf a sudden awoke,She rubbed her two eyeballsAnd anxiously spoke:'Where am I, to goodness,And what do I see?My dears, let’s turn back,This ain’t no place fer me!' But Peter said, 'Mother Go in to the Throne. There’s room for another One, Mrs. Malone.'