Part 5

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.

IX

But, indeed, for that matther, the Lord, who’d enough to contind wid those times, Might ha’ some sort o’ notion himself how the poor people’s tempted to crimes, Whin they’re watchin’ their own folk a-starvin’, an’ no help for it, strive as they may. For himself set a dale by his mother, accordin’ as I’ve heard say, An’ remembered her last thing of all in the thick of his throuble, an’ thought To make sure she’d ha’ some wan to care her an’ heed that she wanted for nought, An’ be keepin’ the roof o’er her head while she lived, all the same as her son-- But, ye see, he’d a frind he could trust to, an’ Micky, the crathur, had none. An’ that same would be vexin’ his heart while he lay dyin’ there on the road; For the sorra a sowl would be left in the world to purtect us, he knowed; An’ I mind when the fever he had, an’ was wandh’rin’ a bit in his head, He kep’ ravin’ continyal as how ’twas desthroyed we’d be wanst he was dead. An’ poor Mick was that kind in his heart, he’d be put past his patience outright Whin th’ ould mother an’ childher was frettin’ wid hunger from mornin’ till night; An’ it’s that was the raison he done it--nought else. So, belike, if above They’d considher the hardships he met, till it s’ desprit, bedad, he was dhruv, An’ no hope o’ relief for the crathurs at home, mind you, barrin’ he wint An’ let on a bit now an’ agin--they’d believe ’twas no harm that he mint; An’ that wan sin he done, an’ he starvin’, they ’d maybe forgive an’ forget-- Och, Sisther Frances, me honey, would ye say there’s a chance for him yet?

MISS HONOR’S WEDDING

Οἷόν μ’ἀκούσαντ’ ἀρτίως ἔχει, γύναι, Ψυχῆς πλάνημα κἀνακίνησις φρενῶν

MISS HONOR’S WEDDING

I

Ould Sir Maurice’s youngest daughther, do I mind her, Sir, did ye say? Miss Honor is it? Och, sure the same as I’d seen her but yistherday; And her weddin’--Ay, Sir, her weddin’ I said. How long since? Well, I dunnό, But a matter o’ ten year back belike; anyway ’tis wan while ago.

II

We thought little enough o’ the match here below in the town; people said Miss Honor’d a right to ha’ looked at home, if so be she’d a mind to wed. There was plinty o’ betther than he did be afther her thin, ye’ll be bound, An’ she reckoned the greatest beauty in the sevin counties around. Yet she needs must take up wid a sthranger; I believe ’twas from Scotland he came. No, Sir, I ne’er chanced to behould him, and I disremember his name-- A big man, I’ve heard tell, as yourself’s, Sir, an’ pleasant o’ speech, but a bit Conthráry some whiles in his temper, an’ come of a quare wild set. Not aquil no ways to Miss Honor: sure, whin she’d be ridin’ the road, As many’s the time I’ve seen her, be the look of her no wan’d ha’ knowed Whether ’twas to the Earl, or the Countess, or ould Andy the fiddler she bowed; A rale lady, tho’, mind ye, some Quality thought her proud.

III

Howsomever, a sthranger or no, ould Sir Maurice was plased an’ content, An’ they settled to have a great weddin’ down here at the endin’ o’ Lent; An’ I mind the white sloe-flower was meltin’ from off the black hedges like hail In the sunshine, whin back to the Castle the family came wid a dale O’ grand company, frinds an’ relations; the house was as full as a fair. But, a couple o’ days to the weddin’, Kate Doyle, that’s in service up there, She run in wid a message to say they’d a kitchen-maid tuk to her bed Wid the awfulest toothache at all, an’ her cheek swelled the size of her head; An’ they wanted a girl be the week, an’ she’d spoke to the misthress for me-- So I slipped up that night afther supper, as proud o’ me luck as could be.

IV

Thin next day, whin they’d gone to the dinner, Kate showed me the grandeur they’d got Settled out in the library; all of her presents, a terrible lot. Sure, I couldn’t be tellin’ ye half, let alone nigh the whole o’ the things. There was wan o’ the tables was covered wid bracelets an’ brooches, an’ rings; An’ the big silver plates did be shinin’ like so many moons thro’ the mist; An’ the jugs wid their insides pure gold, an’ the taypots, an’ urns, an’ the rist. But the iligant chiney--och saints! the wee cups wid their handles all gilt, An’ their paintin’s o’ flower-wrathes an’ birds--if ye’d break wan, bedad, ye’d be kilt. An’ the jewels, och, the jewels was that purty, I’d ha’ sted there star-gazin’ all night; There was diaminds like raindhrops that each had a fire-sparkle somehow alight, An’ the pearls like as if they’d been stringin’ the bits o’ round hailstones for beads, An’ the red wans an’ green, if a rainbow was sowin’ ye’d take thim for seeds; An’ the grand little boxes to hold thim, all lined wid smooth satin below-- ‘Sure, it’s well to be her, Kate,’ sez I, an’ sez she, ‘Och, begorra, that’s so.’

V

Well, the morn, be the best o’ good luck, Kate an’ I got the chance to slip out, An’ away wid us off to the church, where the folk was all standin’ about, Tho’ it wanted an hour to the time; an’ we squeezed to a sate at the door, That was thrailed round most tasty wid wrathes that they’d put up the evenin’ before. An’ it’s there we’d the greatest divarsion beholdin’, for afther a while, All the guests was arrivin’ an’ roostlin’ in velvets an’ silks up the aisle, Every wan lookin’ finer than t’other, wid sthramers an’ feathers an’ lace-- But the sorra a sign o’ the bridegroom was seen comin’ nigh to the place. That was sthrange now; an’ folk did be sayin’ they wondhered what kep’ him, an’ thin It seemed Quality’s selves got onaisy, for ye’d see the grand bonnits begin Niddle-noddin’ together to whisper; an’ wan o’ the gintlemen’d quit, Slippin’ out be the little side door, an’ look down the sthraight road for a bit, An’ come back, blinkin’ out o’ the sun, wid a head-shake, for nothin’ he’d spied; Till at last, in the heighth o’ their throuble, in landed Miss Honor--the bride.

VI

Och, an’ she was a bride! Not a sowl but was wishin’ good luck to her groom. All in white, like a branch o’ wild pear, when ye scarce see the stem for the bloom, An’ her dark hair just glintin’ wid glames, like the bird’s wing that sthrakes off the dew-- Och, a beauty complate, from the crown of her head to the point of her shoe. Wid her hand on Sir Maurice’s arm, an’ he lookin’ as proud as ye plase, An’ eight iligant bridesmaids behind her, each pair dhressed as like as two pase, Wid their booquees o’ flowers like big stars in a thrimble o’ fern laves; ye’d say Be the scint they’d dhropped straight out of Heaven; I remember the smell to this day.

VII

But, next minute, in afther thim stepped a sthrange gintleman none of us knew, In a terrible takin’, an’ pantin’ as if ’twas a bellers he blew; Wid a yallerish slip in his hand o’ the sort they’ve for messages tuk Off the tiligrumph wires, an’ he ups to where Quality stared at him, sthruck Of a heap like; and somethin’ he sez, that I couldn’t exactually hear, But a somethin’ the others weren’t wishful Miss Honor should guess, that was clear, For they all wint hush-hushin’; however, I’m thinkin’ she heard what he said, And I saw her take hold o’ the paper, an’ whatever was in it she read.

VIII

I misdoubt what’s the thruth o’ the story. Some said all the while he’d a wife In the States unbeknownst, that was somehow found out, so he’d run for his life; An’ some said he was coortin’ a Marquis’s daughther in England instead; But some said it was nought on’y just a fantigue he’d tuk into his head. But whatever the raison might be, an’ whatever had happint amiss, The end of it was, he was never set eyes on from that day to this.

IX

Sure now, Quality’s quare in their ways; when me cousin ran off to inlist, Troth, the bawls of his mother an’ sisthers were fit to ha’ frighted the best; An’ last winther whin Norah Macabe had heard tell that her sweetheart was dhrowned, It’s her scrames ’ud ha’ terrified nations--ye’d hear thim a good mile o’ ground. But Miss Honor, as still and as quiet she turned back be the way that she came, Down the aisle, past the pews wid the people set starin’ in rows just the same; An’ right out to the shine o’ the sun, that should never ha’ lit on her head Till she walked wid a ring on her hand, an’ the girls sthrewin’ flowers where she’d thread. So she passed thro’ the yard, where the folk all kep’ whisht as the dead in their graves, Not a sound in the world save the flutther o’ win’ thro’ the ever-green laves, An’ a lark somewhere singin’ like wild up above in the high light alone; Till the carriage dhruv off from the gate, an’ we heard the wheels grate on the stone. Thin ould Molly O’Rourke, that stood by wid her head in her raggety cloak: ‘Now, the Saints may purtect her,’ sez she, ‘for the heart of the crathur is broke.’

X

An’ sure maybe ould Molly was right; I dunno, for they tuk her away, To disthract of her mind, so they said, to some counthries far over the say; Some most curious onnathural place, where I’m tould the sun’s scorchin’ an’ hot All the year, an’ the people is mostly ould naygurs as black as the pot, An’ a sthrame thro’ it full o’ thim bastes o’ great reptiles that swally ye whole, Wid the desolit deserts around, where ye’ll see ne’er the sight of a soul; Worser land than the blackest o’ bogs, just as bare as the palm o’ your hand, Savin’ whiles barbarocious big imiges stuck in the midst o’ the sand, An’ gazabos o’ stones stuffed wid bones of the hayjus ould haythins inside-- Ay, in Aygypt--belike that’s the name. But, at all evints, there she died.

XI

Yis, she died, sir; an’ there she was buried, she never set fut here agin; An’ it’s nought but the truth that her like I’ve not looked on afore her or sin’. An’ bad luck, thin, to thim that ’ud harm her. A pity--a pity, bedad, If ye come to considher the pleasure in life she’d a right to ha’ had. ’Tis the same as a rose-bud that’s torn whin its red’s just the brightest to see; Or a linnet shot dead twitterin’ soft be its bit of a nest in the tree-- So, in spring, whin the hedges is greenin’, an’ cuckoos beginnin’ to call, Poor Miss Honor I mind, an’ her weddin’, that was never a weddin’ at all.

A CURLEW’S CALL

Εκλυον ἃν ἐγὼ οὐδ’ ἃν ἤλπισ’ αὐδάν

A CURLEW’S CALL

I

Whethen is it yourself, Mister Hagan? an’ lookin’ right hearty you are; ’Tis a thrate to behold you agin. You’ll be waitin’ to take the long car For Kilmoyna, the same as meself, sir? They’re late at the cross-roads to-night, For I mind when the days ’ud be long, they’d be here ere the droop of the light, Yet out yonder far over the bog there’s the sunset beginnin’ to burn Like the red of a camp-fire raked low, and no sign of thim roundin’ the turn. So the dark’ll git ahead of us home on this jaunt; we’ve good ten mile to go, And thin afther the rain-pours this mornin’, we’re apt to be draggin’ an’ slow-- Ay, you’re right, sir: alongside the road I’ve been thravellin’ you’d scarce count that far; You’ll cross dark an’ light times and agin between Creggan and Kandahar.

II

And is Norah along wid you? Well, Norah jewel, how’s yourself all this year? Sure she’s thin grown and white, sir, to what I remember her last time we were here. Took a could in the spring? Ah, begorrah, the March win’ ’s as bad as a blight; But the weather we git in Afghanistan, troth, ’twould destroy her outright. For in summer Ould Horny seems houldin’ the earth in the heat of his hand, And in winther the snow’s the great ghost of a world settled down on the land, Wid a blast keenin’ over it fit to be freezin’ the sun where he shone; If they’d lease you that counthry rint-free, you ’d do righter to let it alone.

III

Glad enough to be out of it? Well, in a way, but I’ve this on me mind, That I’m come like the winther’s worst day, after lavin’ me betthers behind; An’ the nearer I git to the ould place at home, it’s the stranger I seem, Missin’ thim I’ll behold there no more till me furlough I take in a dream. But the divil a dream’s in it now, and I’d liefer dream ugly than think What Jack Connolly’s folk ’ill remember whinever they notice the blink Of me coat past their hedge, and I goin’ their road. Jack’s poor mother belike ‘Ill be feedin’ her hins in the door, or else gath’rin’ her clothes at the dyke, And it’s down to the gate she’ll be runnin’ and callin’, an’ biddin’ me step in; And she’ll say to me: ‘Well, Dan, you’re home, and I’m glad, sure, to see you agin.’ Quare an’ glad, I’ll be bound, wid the thought in her heart of how long she might wait, Ere she’d see her own slip of a redcoat come route-marchin’ in at her gate; He that’s campin’ apart from us, joined wid the throop who shift quarters no more; Crep’ in under the tent that’s wide worlds beyond call, tho’ ’twas pitched at your door. Ah, the crathur: ’tis poor bits of hope folk take up wid whin luck’s turnin’ bad. She that not so long since ’ud be thinkin’ she’d soon git a sight of the lad, There she’ll stand wid her eyes on me face, till I see all as plain ’s if I heard How she’s wond’rin’, an’ dhreadin’ to ask, have I brought her so much as a word. That’s the notion’s come home wid me; faix, I get thinkin’ it every odd while, Maybe oft as a lamed horse shrinks his fut in the lenth of a stony mile. You’ll remember Jack Connolly, sir? Ay for sure, ’tis good neighbours you’ve been Since he wasn’t the height of your stick, and meself but a bit of spalpeen. Great the pair of us both were; out most whiles off over the bog and away, But the end of it happint us yonder at sunset last Pathrick’s Day.

IV

The way of it? Our picket was ridin’ in be the wall of the little white town, That’s stuck like a blaiched wasps’ nest in the gap where the ridge of the hills breaks down, And the big flat plain spreads out and about, you might say ’twas a bog gone dhry, Lookin’ nathural enough till you notice, pricked up ’gin the light in the sky, Their two thin towers, like an ould snail’s horns be the shell of their haythin dome, Peerin’ out of a purpose to put you in mind where you’ve thravelled from home. We were ridin’ too close; I remember along on the white of the wall The front men’s helmets went bob, bob, bob, in blue shadow, sthretched won’erful tall, For the sunbames were raichin’ their furthest aslant from the edge of the day, Where the light ran, dhrained over the earth, like a wave turnin’ back to the say, All hot gold. Howane’er, when we past where their straight-archin’ door opened black, Wid the dust-thracks they thramp into roads glamin’ in at it, off went a crack, And ere ever an echo got rappin’ the hills, or the smoke riz to float, ’Twas a plunge, and a thud, and Jack Connolly down wid him, shot in the throat.

V

So be raison of we two bein’ neighbours, they bid me mind Jack while they went To make out what the mischief at all the rapscallion that potted him meant; Some ould objic’ wisped up in his rags head and fut, the crow’s notice to quit, Wid a quare carabine ’ud scarce fright e’er a bird who’d a scrumption of wit. But ’twas able enough for that job, and be hanged to it; Jack’s business was done, As you couldn’t misdoubt. All the west swam clear fire round the smooth, redhot sun, Dropped down steady as a shell thro’ still wather, but ’twouldn’t be sunk out of sight, Ere the lad had got finished wid dyin’, and gone beyond darkness and light. And between whiles ’twas divil a much could I do to be helpin’ him; just Keep beside him, and dhrive the black fly-buzz, and lift up his head from the dust, And hear tell had he aught in his mind. But, och man, if his heart was to break, Every whisper of voice he had in him was kilt, not a word could he spake. Sure now that was conthrary. An instant before ’twas no odds what he said, And he’d laughed, and he’d gabbed on galore, any blathers come into his head; But wid on’y a minit to hold all his speech in for ever and a day, Just one breath of a word like a hand raichin’ worlds’ worlds an’ years’ years away, ’Tis sthruck dumb he was, same as his crathur of a baste that stood watchin’ us there, Wid big eyes shinin’ fright, and snuff-snuffin’ the throuble up out of the air.

VI

’Twas a throuble swep’ nearer, an’ blacker, an’ surer; the whole world stood still; You ’d as aisy turn back a cloud’s shadow, that’s tuk to slide over a hill. There was Jack wid the life failin’ out of him fast as the light from the sky, That came fingerin’ the grass wid long rays, blade be blade, an’ thin twinklin’ up high On the gold spark atop their green dome. And I thought to meself how the same Blamed ould sunset ’ud thrapese away to the west till the shine of it came, Flarin’ red in the bog-houles, an’ bright past the turf-stacks, and in at the door Of the little ould place down the lonin’, that Jack ’ud set fut in no more, And ’twould dance on their bits of gilt jugs, till they glittered like stars in a row, And the people widin at their suppers ne’er thinkin’ no great while ago It was dazzlin’ Jack’s eyes as he looked for me face wid the last of his sight. And sez I to him, ‘What is it, lad?’ but I knew I might listen all night And no answer; the sorra a chance to be bringin’ thim word we’d ha’ found, On’y Jack had more sinse in him yet than meself that was hearty and sound; For he looked towards the rim of the west wid the sun hangin’ ready to fall, And he whistled two notes quick and low--well I knew it: the curlew’s call.

VII

I’d not aisy mistake it; sure out on these bogs scarce a minit goes by, But anear or afar on the win’ comes a flicker of the crathur’s cry-- Faith, I heard wan just thin--and on many a day, ere the sun ’ud be up, And around and around stood the grey of the air like a big empty cup Fit to hold every sound ever stirred, and to catch all the light ever shone, I’d be out wid me on to our bogland, all desolit lyin’, and lone As the say whin you’ve watched the low shore till it dips where the ridges rowl green, And I’d spy was there e’er a wan out, and belike not a sowl to be seen Save Jack whistlin’ away to me down be the lough; you ’d ha’ swore ’twas the bird, Barrin’ just the laste differ; Jack done it the likest that ever I heard. And there’s plenty that thry at it. Seldom a sunsit throops out of the west But some lad ’ll be whistlin’ his sweetheart, that’s sittin’ and listenin’ her best, While the corners grow dark, and she’s reckonin’ the shadows for ’fraid he might fail. So his call lit the world like a star. Ne’er a sweetheart had Jack, I’ll go bail, For the truth is his mind was tuk up wid his own folk; it couldn’t be tould The opinion he had and consait of the whole of thim, young wans and ould, And it’s there where I’m bothered entirely to think how he got the idee To go soldierin’ off to the ends of the earth wid no comrade but me. Howanever, he went of a suddint, afore we knew right what was on; And I thought to meself the ould place ’ud be quare wid Jack Connolly gone, So I up and I down to the barracks below, an’ the shillin’ I tuk-- That’s the way it fell out, and belike ’twas himself had the best of the luck.

VIII

And continted and aisy he went, wanst he saw he’d made shift to conthrive That the message he had in his mind ’ud go safe. For sez I: ‘Man alive, I’ll be tellin’ your people at home the first chance I can git, good or bad, How thimselves, and the ould place you quit, was the last thought that ever you had; And I’ll bid thim be thinkin’ of you, whin they hear the bird cry on our bog. Your poor mother, an’ father, an’ the childher, an’ their little ould rogue of a dog, Ne’er a wan you’re forgettin’,’ sez I; and bedad any fool might ha’ known, For the manin’ he meant wid his call was as clear as a bugle blown. And our rifles wint crack be the gateway, and now and agin wid a plop Come a bullet dhruv deep in the sand--’twas the divil dhrill-sowin’ his crop-- And a priest legged it up to the top of the tower, and stood risin’ a yell For the rest to be sayin’ their prayers, like as if ’twas our angely bell. But it’s little Jack heeded; for sure his own folk, and th’ ould counthry, and all Were come nearer than near, and gone further than far, along wid that curlew’s call.

IX