Chapter XV

An’ so that was the end of it all. An’ the sorrowful end tubbe sure,
Whin our luck was turned back into throuble no power in creation could cure.
There he lay, ’twixt the sod an’ the foam, wid the spray flingin’ sparkles in the sun,
For the storm had throoped off in a hurry, contint wid what mischief was done,
An’ the last o’ the day in the west from a chink o’ clear gold on the rim
Sent low rays slantin’ red o’er the fall o’ the say to the white face of him
That was still as the image asleep o’ the lad we’d remimbered so long;
Never oulder a day in those years. An’ ourselves standin’ round in a throng
Kep’ a clack like the gulls overhead that were flickerin’ the light wid their wings,
And as much wit in one as the other. Och! sure there’s no grief but it brings
Friends to thravel its road. For while yet we were feelin’ his hands stiff’nin’ could,
An’ were sayin’ the fine winsome lad, an’ the heart-break it was to behould,
Comes ould Peggy, the housekeeper, throttin’ to say that th’ ould master had woke,
And had sent her to thry was there news. News? It seemed like the Divil’s own joke.
An’ what ailed him to wake? He’d a right to ha’ slep’, wid that news at his door,
Till the world’s end. ‘Is’t news ye’d be afther?’ sez Mick. ‘Ay, there’s news here galore;
But it’s news that I wouldn’t be tellin’ while e’er I’ve a tongue in me head;
I’d as lief stick a knife in his heart, an’ he lyin’ asleep on his bed.’
An’ sez Gallaher: ‘Musha, what need to be tellin’ him yet? Better send
For his Riverence beyant that consoles ye whin throuble’s past hopin’ to mend.
An’ till thin there might some one step up an’ let on nothing’d happint below,
To contint him.’ An’ we all thought the same, an’ yet no one was wishful to go;
For we feared he might somehow get hould o’ the truth. Then me brother, sez he:
‘Sure here’s Pat, it’s colloguin’ a dale wid th’ ould master he is’--manin’ me--
‘He’s the man to be sendin’; forby he’ll tell lies be the dozen as fast
As a dog throts, will Pat.’ So they talked till they had me persuaded at last;
And I thrapesed off up to the House. God forgive me, each step that I wint,
I was schemin’ the quarest onthruths I could throuble me mind to invint.