Chapter VII

Sure, ’tis waitin’ an’ hopin’ that keep ye tormented. It’s aisy to say:
‘Och, I’ll put the thoughts out o’ me head; I’ll not hope it no more from this day’;
But next minute, the same as a spark that ye think ye’ve throd under your heel,
It flares up, an’ flares out, an’, begorrah, it laves you a desolit feel.
I remember one day we made sure there was news, for the boat we espied
Wid the boys rowin’ mad, fit to reave the ould thole-pins clear out of her side,
An’ Long Mick, the big fool, lettin’ bawls in the bows, and a-wavin’ the bag,
’Cause a velopy’d come wid a sthrange-coloured stamp, an’ they’d settled to brag
’Twas from ’Sthralia. An’, there, when th’ ould master had tore it wid his hands all a-shake,
It was merely some blathers in print o’ the fortins a body could make
On the railroads in France; an’ that mornin’ there wasn’t a word of abuse
That we didn’t be givin’ the omadhaun Mick--but, sure, where was the use?
So the years slipt away an’ away, an’ no news to be had good or ill;
But it’s more than the years, I’ll go bail, did be dhrivin’ th’ ould master down-hill;
’Twas the wond’rin’, an’ wishin’, an’ frettin’ that whitened the hair on his head,
When ’twas black as a crow, an’ that stooped him, when sthraight as a soldier he’d tread.