Chapter VII

For the boys comin’ up from the Mass down at Moyna, a while later on,
Found him dhropped of a hape be the path past Kilogue wid the life of him gone;
An’ th’ ould male-bag gripped close in his hand, that he thought to ha’ carried us home.
Och, I mind it, the place where he lay, ’tis the lonesomest road ye can roam,
Wid the bog black an’ dhreary around ye, an’ sorra a wall or a hedge,
Sthretchin’ out till the hill-top lifts up like a fearful great face o’er the edge;
An’ the breadths o’ the big empty sky, wid no end, look as far as ye will,
Seem just dhrawin’ an’ dhrainin’ your life out, if weak-like ye’re feelin’ an’ ill;
An’ it’s that way poor Mick was. Och, Sisther, there’s scarcely a day’s gone by
In the years ever since, but I’m thinkin’ how desolit he happint to die,
And I dhrame it o’ nights--be himself, starin’ lonesome an’ lost ’nathe thim skies,
Wid the could creepin’ into his heart, an’ the cloud comin’ over his eyes,
An’ that sin on his sowl--would ye say there’s a chance for him? Look, now, at me,
Wid a bed to die aisy on here in the House, betther off, sure, than he,
An’ me fau’t just as bad. Cock me up! to lie here where I’ve help widin call,
An’ poor Mick out o’ rache on the road--where’s the manin’ or sinse in ’t at all?

VIII

Ay, in troth, ’twas no thing to go do; ay, a scandal it was and a sin;
But mayhap they’d scarce judge him so hard if they knew all the sthraits we were in.
There’s the Mother o’ Mercy, sez I to meself, sure, it’s childher she’s had--
May they ne’er want the bite or the sup, if she’ll spake a good word for me lad.
Och, me head’s gittin’ doitered an’ quare, or I’d know they’ve tuk off out o’ this,
And is settled in glory above, where there’s nought can befall them amiss.
But suppose she remembers her time down below, if she even lived where
The ould blight never come on their praties an’ dhruv the whole land to despair,
Yet I’m thinkin’ there’s always been plenty o’ throuble about on this earth,
An’ for sure ’twill ha’ happint her whiles to ha’ never a sod on the hearth,
Or a scrap for the pot, an’ the childher around her all famished an’ white,
An’ they cryin’, an’ she nothin’ to give them, save bid them to whisht an’ be quite.