Chapter IX

Howsomedever, afore very long, oft enough one ’ud say to oneself
’Twas belike better luck afther all that th’ ould master was laid on the shelf,
Than to have him about and around gettin’ plagued wid the quareness o’ things;
For the saisons that come bet the worsest of all the wet summers an’ springs
In the lenth o’ me life. Och bad cess to the could an’ the snow an’ the win’,
Wid the storms an’ the mists an’ the polthogues o’ rain the week out an’ week in,
An’ the oats bet to bruss wid the hail, an’ the bastes starved or dyin’ outright,
Until afther the thundher in June, all the praties were sthruck wid the blight,
As ye couldn’t misdoubt if ye wint thro’ the fields. But th’ ould master, ye see,
Keepin’ close in the house all that while, ’cause he said he’d the gout in his knee--
Tho’ ’twas liker the grief at his heart--he’d no notion what ruin was in’t;
An’ so, liefer than have him annoyed, it’s the greatest ould lies we’d invint.
For we tould him the harvest and all was as fine as a farmer could wish;
An’ o’ times when the most we could do was to sort him a sizeable dish
O’ sound praties to serve wid his dinner, we’d say that but seldom afore
Such a crop had been dug on the Inish; an’, certin, that lie was no more
Than the truth; for ’twas worse than the worst. But one mornin’ he tuk to declare
He was sure that the blight was about, for he’d noticed the scent on the air;
An’ we thought he’d find out on us thin; but we swore it was merely a heap
Of haulms rottin’; and afther that day we’d the sinse to be careful to keep
A big bonfire o’ rubbish alight, if the win’ was that way, close at hand,
So he’d smell on’y smoke; an’, the praise be to goodness, we chated him grand.
And ourselves would be boilin’ the weed, off the rocks, that’s the quare ugly thrash,
All the boilin’ in wather an’ fire’ll make no more than a bitter bad brash;
Just to keep o’ the sowl in your body, where every one keeps it that can,
Tho’ ’t might aisy lodge better outside, if we knew but the lie o’ the lan’.
Thin the summer dhreeped off into autumn, the same as a soaked sod o’ turf
Smoulders black ere it flickers a flame; an’ the storms came wid say-waves an’ surf
Ragin’ wild up the beach; an’ the nights long an’ dark, an’ the days cold and dhrear,
An’ we thinkin’ besides that th’ ould master ’ud scarcely last out the ould year.
Och, I never remimbered whin things on the Inish seemed lookin’ so black,
For ’twas ugly the winter ’ud be, wid a cruel hungry spring at its back.