Chapter I

It mayn’t be so much of a place whin ye reckon by land--Inish Fay--
Just a thrifle o’ fields and a bog like; but if ye considher the say,
Sure we’ve lashins an’ lavins o’ that, spreadin’ out and away like a floor
To Ratheen at the end of our bay, that’s as far as ye’ll look from your door,
An’ that far ye’d scarce look in a week to the west, where there isn’t, I’m tould,
One dhry step ’twixt yer fut an’ the States; sartin ’tis the long waves do come rowled
Same as if they’d set out from the back o’ beyant an’ was thryin’ how each
Could swell up to the sizeablest bigness afore it lapt o’er on the beach.
Ay, we’ve plenty enough o’ the say, an’ good luck to’t; I don’t understand
How the folk keep continted at all that be settled far up on the land,
Out o’ reach o’ the tides; ’tis like livin’ wid never a chance to be spied,
And what use is one’s life widout chances? Ye’ve always a chance wid the tide;
For ye never can tell what ’twill take in its head to sthrew round on the shore;
Maybe dhrift-wood, or grand bits o’ boards, that comes handy for splicin’ an oar;
Or a crab skytin’ back o’er the shine o’ the wet-- sure, whatever ye’ve found,
It’s a sort o’ diversion thim whiles when ye’re starvin’ an’ sthreelin’ around.

II

I’d be noways denyin’ the say’s done ill turns on us now and agin;
But our bit of an Inish, begorrah, I’ll stan’ by thro’ thick an’ thro’ thin,
For the pleasant ould times we’ve had on it is more than I’ll ever forget,
And except for th’ ould master’s misfortins, belike we’d be havin’ thim yet.
There was none lived continteder; he in the Big House that’s screened from the wind
Up the hollow, an’ ourselves by the shore wid the bank lanin’ over behind,
An’ the say washin’ up to the doors, an’ the sod runnin’ down to our boats,
Where along o’ the weed-dhrifts an’ shells there’d be grazin’ most whiles for the goats;
And our pratie-dhrills yonder--ochone, not the heart-scalds they’ve been to us since,
For it’s bare-fut th’ ould master’d ha’ walked ere he’d ask for a poor body’s pince,
If so happen--an’ ready enough ’tis to happen--a bad saison came.
He was _that_ sort, and young Misther Denis, God rest of his soul, was the same.