Chapter XI

I’d ne’er ha’ thought Patsy’d say that; an’ he didn’t belike--I dunno--
But it’s on’y the truth if he did. A burthen? Bedad, I’m so.
An’ Pat, that’s a rale good son, and has been all the days of his life,
It’s the quare thanks I’m givin’ him now, to be starvin’ the childher and wife.
For I often considher a sayin’ we have: ‘Whin it’s little ye’ve got,
It’s the hunger ye’ll find at the botthom, if many dip spoons in your pot.’
But if wanst they were shut o’ meself, an’ the Agint ’ud wait for a bit,
They might weather the worst o’ the throuble, an’ keep the ould roof o’er thim yit.
But suppose they’re put out afther all, an’ packed off to the divil knows where,
An’ I up away in the House, I might never so happin to hear;
An’ I’d liefer not know it for certin. Och! to think the ould place was a roon,
Wid nought left save the rims o’ four walls, that the weeds ’ud be coverin’ soon;
An’ the bastes o’ the field walkin’ in; an’ the hole where the hearth was filled
Wid the briers; an’ no thrace o’ the shed that I helped me poor father to build,
An’ I but a slip of a lad, an’ that plased to be handlin’ the tools,
I ’most hammered the head off each nail that I dhruv. Och, it’s boys that are fools.

XII

’Tis sevin mile good into Westport; I never could thramp it so far,
But Tim Daly dhrives there of a Friday; he’ll loan me a sate on his car.
An’ Friday’s to-morra, ochone! so I’m near now to seein’ me last
O’ Barney, an’ Pat, an’ the childher, an’ all the ould times seem past.
I remimber the House goin’ by it. It stands on a bit of a rise,
Stone-black, lookin’ over the lan’, wid its windows all starin’ like eyes;
And it’s lonesome an’ sthrange I’ll be feelin’, wid ne’er a frind’s face to behould;
An’ the days ’ill go dhreary an’ slow. But I’m ould, plase God, I’m ould.

BY THE BOG-HOLE

‘_Non omni somno securius exstat?_’

BY THE BOG-HOLE