Part 3
Betther nor thirty year sin’ Barney M‘Gurk set up Here by the ould cross-roads, and, begorra, there’s many a sup I’ve tuk sittin’ snug be the hearth in the corner he calls me own, For all it’s a quare bad custhomer Barney’ll ha’ found me, ochone, This long while back, bringin’ seldom or never the pinny to spind; But Barney M‘Gurk isn’t wan that ’ud disremember a frind. So many’s the warm I’ve had in the could o’ the winther’s night, For he keeps up the grandest o’ fires; ye’ll see the glim of it bright Away down the bog; it’s the divil to pass be the door in the dark, Whin ye doubt if at home on the bit o’ wet floor ye’ll find ever a spark. And oft o’ these summer evenin’s I’ve watched how the moon ’ill stale O’er yonder black ridge o’ Knockreagh like the ghost of a little white sail, Wid never a beam to her more than a ball o’ the thistle-down, Till she’d drink every dhrop o’ the light from the breadths o’ the air aroun’, An’ shine like a bubble o’ silver that swells an’ swells, an’ thin Float off thro’ the thick o’ the stars. But I’ll never watch her agin.
II
Barney, he’d always the luck from the time we were on’y gossoons. Look at our Band now: I always was terrible fond o’ the tunes, Yet if ever I thried at a note, it’s each finger I had seemed a thumb, While Barney, just git me the lad that ’ud bate him at batin’ the dhrum, Th’ ould sargint, who’d soldiered in Agypt an’ Injy, he swore be his sowl There wasn’t the rigimint marchin’ but he’d aquil it rowlin’ the rowl. Och! it’s thim was the great times entirely for Barney, an’ me, an’ the boys, An’ we kep’ the neighbours alive wid the capers we had an’ the noise, For there’d scarce be a moonshiny night but we’d thramp as far afther our Band As afther the plough in the field whin ye’re trenchin’ an acre o’ land. Bangin’ away, wid the bits o’ spalpeens all throt-throttin’ beside, An’ wishin’ their legs were the lenth to keep step, an’ the doors flyin’ wide Wid the girls lookin’ out; an’ the moonbeams so still on the fields till we come, Ye might think all the sounds in the earth had run into each boom of our dhrum.
III
But, throth, I remember the mornin’ we started for Ballynagraile To fetch home ould Andy O’Rourke, who’d a twelvemonth in Limerick jail For fright’nin’ the bailiffs--divil mend thim--that dhruv off his mare for the tithe, And Andy he bid thim begone, or he’d shorten their legs wid his scythe. So we all were assembled to meet him; ye never beheld such a throng, Down the lenth o’ the sthreet, wid folk standin’ to see us come marchin’ along; ’Twas as pleasant a mornin’ in April as ever shone out o’ the sky, An’ the brass of our insthruments gleamin’ was fit to ha’ dazzled your eye; But the pólis looked cross as the dogs, ’cause they couldn’t be rights interfere To hinder our lads o’ their playin’; bedad! an’ ye felt, whin ye’d hear How they wint like the thundher an’ lightnin’, that afther the dhrum an’ the fife Ye could step to the end o’ the world, wid all the pleasure in life. An’ close where I waited, I mind, there came hobblin’ outside of his door An ould ancient man, I can’t tell ye his name--I’d ne’er seen him before-- All doubled in two, wid a beard like a fleece, an’ scarce able to stand, For he shook like a bough in the win’, tho’ he laned on a stick in each hand. But to notice the glint of his eye, whin they sthruck up _Saint Pathrick_; bedad, If he’d had thim same eyes in his feet, it’s a jig he’d ha’ danced there like mad; On’y just the wan minute; for thin he stared round, seemin’ sthrange to the place, Till he turned away back to his door wid a quare sort o’ look on his face, As if he was layin’ his hand off o’ somethin’ he liefer ’ud hould, An’ soft to himself I heard him: ‘Sure I’m ould,’ sez he, ‘sure I’m ould.’
IV
There’s some things that run on in your mind like a thread that’s onevenly spun Down your coat-sleeve; for, afther these years, I ’most see him stand clear in the sun; But now, be worse luck, I can tell what I couldn’t ha’ tould that day-- The notion he had in his head, whin he said it an’ turned away. To be ould--sure, considh’rin’ the time ye’ll be growin’ so before your own eyes, It’s quare how whinever ye think o’t it seems like a sort o’ surprise; My belief’s that if people were sevinty the very first day they were born, They’d never git used to it rightly, and if, be odd chance, some fine morn The ouldest ould man in the counthry would find whin he wakened that he Was a slip of a lad, he’d just feel it the nathur’lest thing that could be. So it’s noways too sthrange if wan’s sometimes forgittin’ awhile how things stand, Like the ould chap at Ballynagraile, whin his mind was tuk up wid our Band.
V
But the marchin’ around, an’ the tunes, an’ the thricks that the young fellows play, ’Tisn’t thim ye think badly o’ missin’, at laste on’y wanst in a way; For, as far as I know be experience, ye’ll mostly be plased nigh as well If the childher ’ve their bit o’ divarsion the same as ye had yoursel’; An’ your legs get so stiff of an evenin’, that afther your day’s work is done Ye’re contint wid the full o’ your pipe at the door, and a sight o’ the fun. It’s your work, your day’s work; that’s the mischief. It’s little enough I knew, Whin the sun had me scorched to the bone, or the win’ maybe perished right thro’, In the field or the bog, as might chance, an’ I’d think to meself I could wish Nought betther than never agin to be loadin’ a cart or a kish-- It’s little I knew; for, sure, now, whin I couldn’t to save o’ me soul So much just as carry a creel to our heap from the next bog-hole, The two eyes I’d give out o’ me head to be peltin’ away at it still, Mowin’ a meadow, or cuttin’ the turf, ay, or ploughin’ up hill. For I hate to be hearin’ the lads turnin’ out whin the dawn blinks in, And I lyin’ there like a log wid the sorra a job to begin, Barrin’ helpin’ to ait up the praties, an’ they none too plenty perhaps; Sure, the pig’s worther keepin’, poor baste, for it’s fatter he gits on his scraps. So at home be the hearth-stone I stick, or I creep up an’ down be the wall, An’ the day feels as long as a week, an’ there seems no sinse in it all.
VI
And in throth I’ve no call to be laid on the shelf yet, as ould as I be: There’s Thady O’Neill up above, that’s a year or so senior to me, An’ passin’ his meadow just now, I seen it was mowin’, and bedad, There’s himself in it stoopin’ away as limber an’ soople as a lad. An’ the Widdy Maclean, that was married afore I was three fut high, She’ll thramp her three mile to the town every market day that comes by. ’Twas the fever, last Lent was a twelvemonth, disthroyed me; I’m fit for nought since. The way of it was: Our ould cow had sthrayed off thro’ the gap in the fence, An’ Long Daly he met me an’ tould me. Sez he: ‘An’ ye’ll need to make haste, If it’s dhry-fut ye’d find her this night.’ For away o’er the hills to the aist The hail-showers were slantin’ in sthrakes; an’ thin wanst clane across wid a swipe Wint the lightnin’. An’: ‘Look-a,’ sez he, ‘there’s Saint Pether a-kindlin’ his pipe; That ’ill take a good sup to put out.’ An’, thrue for him, he’d scarce turned his back, Whin it settled to polther an’ pour, an’ the sky overhead grew as black As the botthomless pit; not a stim could I see, nor a sight o’ the baste, But, sthravadin’ about in the bog, I slipped into a hole to me waist, An’ was never so nigh dhrownin’ dead, forby bein’ dhrenched to the skin; So I groped me way home thro’ the dark in the teeth of a freezin’ win’. An’ next mornin’ I couldn’t move finger nor fut, all me limbs were that sore, And I lay there a-ravin’ like wild in me bed for a month an’ more; For me head was on fire, an’ the pains was like gimlits an’ knives in me bones, Till the neighbours a-goin’ the road ’ud be hearin’ me groans an’ me moans. An’ thin, whin I’d over’d the worst, as the Docther’d not looked for at all, Sure, the strenth was gone out o’ me clane, an’ I scarcely was able to crawl, An’ that stooped, any rapin’-hook’s sthraighter than me, an’ the jints o’ me stift, An’ me fingers as crookt as the claws of a kite, wid no use in thim lift; An’ whin first I got on me ould brogues, I stuck fast like a wheel in a rut, I seemed raisin’ the weight o’ the world every time that I lifted me fut.
VII
So I sat in the door not long afther, whin Judy O’Neill comes by, An’: ‘Bedad, Mick Flynn, ye’re an ould man grown,’ sez she; an’: ‘Git out!’ sez I. But as soon as she’d passed I stepped round to the field that the lads were in, For I thought I’d been idlin’ enough, an’ ’twas time I set to it agin. They were diggin’ the first of the praties; I smelt thim ’fore ever I came, An’ I dunno a pleasanter scent in the world than the smell o’ thim same, Whin ye thrust down your spade or your fork, an’ ye turn thim up hangin’ in clumps, Wid the skins o’ thim yeller an’ smooth, an’ the clay shakin’ off thim in lumps. They’d a creel on the bank be the gate, an’ Pat called from his end o’ the dhrill To be bringin’ it up where he was, for he wanted another to fill; And I thought to ha’ lifted it light, but I’d betther ha’ let it alone, Tho’ ’twas hardly three-parts full, an’ ’ud hould but a couple o’ stone; For I hadn’t the strenth to hoist it, and over it wint wid a pitch, An’ there like a sthookaun I stood, an’ the praties rowled in the ditch. But Pat, whin he seen I was vexed, up he come an’ laid hould o’ me arm, An’ he bid me never to mind, for there wasn’t a ha’porth o’ harm. An’ sez I: ‘I’m not able for aught.’ An’ sez he: ‘Dad, ye’ve worked in your day Like a Trojin, an’ now ye’ve a right to your rest, while we’ll wrastle away. Sure it’s many a creel ye’ve loaded afore I’d the strenth or the wit; And ye needn’t be throublin’ your head, for there’s plinty of help I’ll git; Here’s Larry an’ Tim grown sizeable lads, an’ Joe’ll soon be lendin’ a hand-- So ye’ll just sit quite in your corner, an’ see that we’ll git on grand.’ And he said it as kind as could be, yet me heart felt as heavy as lead, And I wint to the door, and I sat in the sun, but I wished I was dead.
VIII
He’s been always a good son, Pat, an’ the wife, there’s no fau’t in his wife, Sure she’s doin’ her best to keep house sin’ me ould woman lost her life; But the throuble she’s had--och! the crathur, small blame to her now if she’d think It was time they were quit of a wan fit for nought save to ait an’ to dhrink. For whiles, whin she’s washin’ the praties, or cuttin’ the childher’s bread, I know be the look of her face she’s rememb’rin’ the child that’s dead; The littlest, that died in last winther, and often afore it died Did be askin’ its mammy for bread, an’ thin, ’cause she’d none, it cried; An’ the Docther he said ’twas the hunger had kilt it; an’ that was the case: Ye could see thro’ its wee bits of hands, an’ its eyes were as big as its face. An’ whiles whin I’m aitin’ me crust, _I’ll_ be thinkin’ to hear it cry-- But _she_, that’s the mother who bore it--who’d blame her? In throth not I. Och! but that was the terrible winther, an’ like to ha’ starved us outright; Ne’er a hungrier saison I mind since the first o’ the pratie blight; An’ whine’er wan’s no call to be hungry, it’s three times as hungry wan feels, An’ so I that worked never a sthroke, I did always be great at me meals. Yet I spared thim the most that I could, for o’ nights whin I noticed our heap O’ praties looked small in the pot, I’d let on I was fast asleep; So Molly she’d spake to the childher, an’ bid thim to whisht an’ be quite, For if gran’daddy sted on asleep, he’d be wantin’ no supper that night; Thin, the crathurs, as cautious an’ cute as the mice they’d all keep whin they heard, An’ to think that the little childher’d sit watchin’, not darin’ a word, But hush-hushin’ wan to the other, for fear I might happin to wake And ait up their morsel o’ food--sure me heart ’ud be ready to break.
IX
Thin I’d think: ‘There’s the House; ay, an thin they’d be fewer to starve an’ to stint’; Yet I hated the thought, an’ kep’ hopin’ I’d maybe be dead ere I wint. But I’m just afther hearin’ this day what has settled me plans in me mind, Like as if I had turned round me face; and I won’t go a-lookin’ behind. I’d been sthreelin’ about in the slip at the back, whin I thought I’d creep down An’ see what was up at M‘Gurk’s, for it’s weeks since I’ve been in the town; So round to the front I was come, an’ the first thing that ever I seen Was two gintlemen close to our door, an’ a car standin’ down the boreen. And the wan o’ the two was a sthranger, a stout little man, wid each square O’ the checks on his coateen the size of our own bit o’ field over there; Divil much to be lookin’ at aither, tho’ here the lads tould me as how ’Twas no less than our Landlord himself, that we’d never set eyes on till now. For away off in England he lives, where they say he’s an iligant place Wid big walls round it sevin mile long, and owns dozens of horses to race, That costs him a fortin to keep; so whin all of his money is spint, He sends word over here to the Agint; an’ bids him make haste wid the rint. An’ the other’s the Agint, I know him; worse luck, I’ve known many a wan, An’ it’s sorra much good o’ thim all. I remember the carryin’s on We’d have in the ould times at home, whin we heard he was comin’ his round: For, suppose we’d a calf or a heifer, we’d dhrive her off into the pound, Or if we’d a firkin of butther, we’d hide it away in the thatch. Ay, bedad, if we’d even so much as an old hin a-sittin’ to hatch, We’d clap her in under the bed, out o’ sight, for, mind you, we knew right well He’d be raisin’ the rint on us sthraight, if he spied that we’d aught to sell. I’ve heard tell there’s a change in the law, an’ the rint takes three Judges to fix, So it isn’t as aisy these times for an Agint to play thim bad thricks; I dunno the rights of it clear, but all’s wan, for he would if he could; And as soon as I seen him this day, I was sure he’d come afther no good. But I slipped the wrong side o’ the bank ere they heard me, an’ there I sat still, An’ they came an’ stood nigh it to wait, while their car crep’ along up the hill.
X
And Turner, the Agint, looked back to the house: ‘Well, yer Lordship,’ he sez, ‘That’s a case for eviction; we’ll scarce see a pinny while wan o’ thim stez. Why, they haven’t a goose or a hin, let alone e’er a baste on the land, So where we’re to look for our money is more nor I understand. But in coorse the man’s axin’ for time.’ An’ sez t’ other, ‘Confound him! in coorse-- ’Tis their thrade to be axin’ for that, if ye’re axin’ a pound for your purse. They may have their damned time, sure, an’ welcome, as long as they plase, on’y first They’ll pay up or clear out.’ An’ the Agint he laughed till ye’d think he’d ha’ burst. An’ sez he, ‘Thin “clear out” ’ll be the word, and my notion’s we’ll find that it pays, If we pull down thim ould sticks o’ cabins, an’ put in the cattle to graze; Faith, I’d liefer see sheep on the land than the likes o’ that breed any day,’ Sez he, pointin’ his hand to the dyke, where the childher, poor sowls, were at play. An’ the Lord sez, ‘It’s on’y a pity we can’t git the lap of a wave Just for wanst, o’er the whole o’ the counthry; no end to the throuble ’twould save, And lave the place _clane_.’ An’ the Agint laughed hearty; sez he: ‘Our best start, Since we can’t git thim under the wather, is sendin’ thim over it smart. An’ these Flynns here we’d imigraph aisy; they’veseveral lads nearly grown; The on’y dhrawback’s the ould father, we’ll just have to let him alone, For the son sez he’s sheer past his work, an’ that niver ’ud do in the States; It’s a burthen he’s been on their hands for this great while--he’ll go on the rates. Sure, the Union’s the place for the likes of him, so long as he bides above.’ But be this time their car had come by, an’ up wid thim, an’ off they dhruv.
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
I
Ay, her people an’ mine we lived next door at the end o’ the long boreen, Afore it runs out on the breadth o’ the bog where the black land bates the green; An’ Nelly’s mother ’ud always give me a pleasant word passin’ thim by, As I dhruv out our cow of a mornin’, an’ meself scarce her showlder high. An’ Nelly she’d crawl up the step, an’ stump afther me into the lane, An’ she’d throt, callin’: ‘’Top, Dimmy, ’top!’ for she couldn’t run sthraight, or spake plain; And her mother’d say, ‘Jimmy, me lad, if I trust her along wid ye, thin, Keep your eye on her; mind the big hole; for your life don’t be lettin’ her in.’ So it’s many a day I’d be keepin’ me eye on the child an’ the baste, That had mostly a mind to be goin’ wherever ye wanted thim laste; An’ th’ ould cow’d sthray away thro’ the bog, if she couldn’t find mischief to do Thramplin’ fences an’ fields; but it’s Nelly herself was the worst o’ the two. For ere ever ye’d know, there she’d be like a scut of a rabbit a-creep-- She’d creep faster thim whiles than she’d walk--down the bank where the hole’s lyin’ deep; An’ it’s thin I’d the work o’ the world to be catchin’ her an’ coaxin’ her back, Such a fancy she’d tuk to the place, an’ it lookin’ so ugly an’ black, Wid its sides cut wall-sthraight wid the spade, an’ the wather like midnight below, Lyin’ far out o’ reach; overhead all the storm-winds may blusther an’ blow, But ’tis still as a floor o’ stone flags, an’ its depth ye can’t measure noways; Sure if Nelly had crep’ o’er the edge, she’d ha’ crep’ to the end of her days.
II
But the years wint till Nelly’d more wit than to dhrown of herself in a hole, An’ meself was a size to git work in the fields; yit, fair weather or foul, Whin a holiday come we’d be out rovin’ round on the bog, she an’ me, For we always kep’ frinds; and it’s lonesome was Nell, since the mother, ye see, Tuk an’ died wan hard winter, worse luck--a bad job for the little colleen-- And her brothers had gone to the States, and her father was fond o’ potheen, And ’ud bide dhrinkin’ dhrops down at Byrne’s till he hadn’t a thought in his head; So that, barrin’ ould Granny an’ me, all her company’d quit or was dead.
III
There’s a bit of a hill rises up, right fornint the big hole--the same sort As ye’ll count be the dozen in bogs, wid the grass on’t fine-bladed an’ short, An’ the furzes an’ broom in a ruffle a-top, an’ flat stones peepin’ out, Where it’s pleasant to sit in the sun and be lookin’ around and about, Whin the bog wid its stacks and its pools spreads away to the rim o’ the blue That lanes over as clear as a glass, on’y somehow wan ne’er can see thro’. An’ there’s plenty to mind, sure, if on’y ye look to the grass at your feet, For ’tis thick wid the tussocks of heather, an’ blossoms and herbs that smell sweet If ye tread thim; an’ maybe the white o’ the bog-cotton waved in the win’, Like the wool ye might shear off a night-moth, an’ set an ould fairy to spin; Or wee frauns, each wan stuck ’twixt two leaves on a grand little stem of its own, Lettin’ on ’twas a plum on a tree; an’ the briers thrailed o’er many a stone Dhroppin’ dewberries, black-ripe and soft, fit to melt into juice in your hould; An’ the bare stones thimselves ’ill be dusted wid circles o’ silver an’ gould-- Nelly called thim the moon an’ the sun--an’ grey patches like moss that’s got froze, Wid white cups in’t that take a red rim by the time we’ve the sheaves up in rows; I’d be vexed whin they turned, for a sign that the summer was slippin’ away, But poor Nelly was pleased wid the little bright sthrakes growin’ broader each day.
IV
So wan evenin’--I know if I think, ’twas whin last they were cuttin’ the oats, Maybe four months from now, whin outside past the bars there’s an odd snow-flake floats, But it seems to me feelin’ a world’s breadth away, and a life’s lenth ago-- Well, the two of us sat on the hill, an’ the sun was about gettin’ low, An’ there wasn’t a ray on the lan’, for the dhrift o’ dark cloud overhead Sthretched away like a roof, till just rimmin’ the west ran the light in a thread, Same as if ’twas a lid liftin’ up on bright hinges; an’ sorra a breath Thro’ the leaves or the grass, for the win’ never stirred, an’ ’twas stiller than death. An’ so Nelly’d a poppy-bud pulled, wid the red all crased up in the green, An’ sat smoothin’ its leaves on her lap, till ye saw its black heart in between; An’ her hair curlin’ over the shine of her eyes, an’ a smile on her mouth, As I knew by the dint in her cheek turned aside from me. Sure ’twas the truth, But I dunno for why of a suddint the notion come into me mind That in all o’ that bog-land it’s Nell was the purtiest thing ye could find; An’ thinks I: ‘Sure the slip of a lass, whin the days o’ me life ’ill be dark, Is the same as yon glame in the west that widout it has sorra a spark.’
V