Chapter IX

Ah, but Norah, you’re perished an’ thrimblin’ wid could, sittin’ here in the win’;
Did you bring ne’er a wrap to rowl round you, machree, now the night’s closin’ in?
For there’s mists curlin’ white on the pools, and the air gits an edge whin they lift.
Ay, the moon’s up, just on’y a breath ’gin the blue, where the cloud comes adrift,
Sthreelin’ by like a haystack on fire, wid the flame blowin’ off be the way
In bright bundles and wisps, as if some wan ’ud harvest the light of the day.
’Tisn’t that fashion dark falls, out there in the aist. Wanst the sun goes on lave,
Ne’er a thrace of a glame bides to show where he passed, like the foam of a wave;
He’ll be blazin’ wan minit, and thin ’tis the same as if somebody shut
A black door on the blink of a hearth, or kicked over a lamp wid his fut.
So the rest of us rode thro’ a night blindin’ dark, till we’d half the plain crossed,
And the moon riz ice-clear, wid a shine lyin’ thick on the grass as hoar-frost,
You could gather up. And, troth, if our tongues had froze stiff, ’tis as much we’d ha’ said,
Wid Jack Connolly’s baste saddle-empty, and jerkin’ the reins as I led.
Sure poor Jack had a dale of good-nature; he’d fooled the ould mare all he could,
And the crathur went slow-fut and heavy; you might think that she understood.

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