Written by John F. Quinn of Buffalo, New York. Although this is about his auntie it could be about any child.
In a distant cemetery
at the corner of the lot
Lies buried and forgotten,
a little Irish tot.
The site once had a marker
that told a name and date:
born nineteen eight.
Her father made a cross to show
his little girl his love,
Was Christan born and baptised,
Bless the living God above.
Her family was not well to do
they had no time to choose,
a proper site, she died so fast,
just barely in her twos.
The grave-yard people deemed
the homemade crosses crude,
They tore them down, left Isabel,
in lonely solitude.
It just seems awful tragic
That this little girl should be
away from all the folks she knew,
Her friends and family.
I know she isn't really there
It's just her little bones.
Her soul has traveled far up high
To God's almighty thrones.
And still sometimes I travel there,
Down a dusty road, rutted trail,
There's wild flowers growing around
Birds sing on the rail.
I have a special interest there,
in this story I tell,
For she's my private little Saint,
She's my "Auntie Isabel".