Chapter XVII

So I’d sorra a hand in the matter meself, I may truly declare.
’Twas th’ Almighty’s own notion that night to decaive him, if decaivin’ it were.
So whatever misfortins th’ ould master experienced, I hould in a way
He’d the bettermost sort o’ bad luck--an’ that’s somethin’--because ye may say
His worst throuble as good as ne’er chanced him; ne’er come to his hearin’ or sight,
And a hurt that ye feel unbeknownst, as the sayin’ is, is apt to be light.
An’ bedad he’s well out of it all; it’s ourselves have the raison to grieve
While the say meets the shore for what happint this Inish that black Holy Eve.
But I’ll whisht; for I’m thinkin’ when things have determined to run to the bad,
There’s no use in discoorsin’ an’ frettin’ save on’y to dhrive yourself mad;
Since the storms, or the blight, or the rint comes agin one wherever one goes,
Till one takes the last turnin’. An’ thin if it’s true, as some people suppose,
Better luck follows thim that are lavin’ than thim that are bidin’ behind--
Sure it’s off ye’ll slip one o’ these days, an’ what need to be throublin’ your mind?

WALLED OUT OR, ESCHATOLOGY IN A BOG

Οὐκ ὄναρ ἀλλ’ ὕπαρ ἐσθλὸν ὅ τοι τετελεσμένον ἔσται;

WALLED OUT OR, ESCHATOLOGY IN A BOG

I

In last September it was, whin the weather’ll be mostly grand,
Wid the sunshine turnin’ the colour o’ corn all over the land,
An’ the two young gintlemen came to shoot wid their guns an’ their dogs,
A-thrampin’ just for divarsion about the hills an’ the bogs.
And I thramped afther thim, tho’ it’s little divarsion I had,
Carryin’ the baskits an’ all; but sure it’s meself was glad
To earn the shillin’s at sunset, an’ iligant loonch be the way;
Mate, an’ bread, an’ a dhrop to dhrink--ye needed no more that day.
For, tho’ ’twas thick o’ the harvest, down here the bogs an’ the hills
Lave on’y narrow slips o’ fields for the furrows an’ pratie dhrills;
Terrible quick they’re raped an’ dug; but what should the farmer do?
If there’s on’y work for wan, he can’t find wages for two.