Part 1
BOG-LAND STUDIES
BOG-LAND STUDIES
BY J. BARLOW
THIRD EDITION
NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND CO. 149 AND 151 FIFTH AVENUE 1895
CONTENTS
PAGE
TH’ OULD MASTER 1
WALLED OUT: OR, ESCHATOLOGY IN A BOG 43
LAST TIME AT M‘GURK’S:
OR, MICK FLYNN _DE SENECTUTE_ 73
BY THE BOG-HOLE 103
PAST PRAYING FOR: OR, THE SOUPER’S WIDOW 135
MISS HONOR’S WEDDING 153
A CURLEW’S CALL 169
TH’ OULD MASTER
Πῆ δἐθέλεις ἰέναι πολλὴν ἐπὶ γαῖαν Μοῦνος ἐὼν ἀγαπητός;
TH’ OULD MASTER
I
It mayn’t be so much of a place whin ye reckon by land--Inish Fay-- Just a thrifle o’ fields and a bog like; but if ye considher the say, Sure we’ve lashins an’ lavins o’ that, spreadin’ out and away like a floor To Ratheen at the end of our bay, that’s as far as ye’ll look from your door, An’ that far ye’d scarce look in a week to the west, where there isn’t, I’m tould, One dhry step ’twixt yer fut an’ the States; sartin ’tis the long waves do come rowled Same as if they’d set out from the back o’ beyant an’ was thryin’ how each Could swell up to the sizeablest bigness afore it lapt o’er on the beach. Ay, we’ve plenty enough o’ the say, an’ good luck to’t; I don’t understand How the folk keep continted at all that be settled far up on the land, Out o’ reach o’ the tides; ’tis like livin’ wid never a chance to be spied, And what use is one’s life widout chances? Ye’ve always a chance wid the tide; For ye never can tell what ’twill take in its head to sthrew round on the shore; Maybe dhrift-wood, or grand bits o’ boards, that comes handy for splicin’ an oar; Or a crab skytin’ back o’er the shine o’ the wet-- sure, whatever ye’ve found, It’s a sort o’ diversion thim whiles when ye’re starvin’ an’ sthreelin’ around.
II
I’d be noways denyin’ the say’s done ill turns on us now and agin; But our bit of an Inish, begorrah, I’ll stan’ by thro’ thick an’ thro’ thin, For the pleasant ould times we’ve had on it is more than I’ll ever forget, And except for th’ ould master’s misfortins, belike we’d be havin’ thim yet. There was none lived continteder; he in the Big House that’s screened from the wind Up the hollow, an’ ourselves by the shore wid the bank lanin’ over behind, An’ the say washin’ up to the doors, an’ the sod runnin’ down to our boats, Where along o’ the weed-dhrifts an’ shells there’d be grazin’ most whiles for the goats; And our pratie-dhrills yonder--ochone, not the heart-scalds they’ve been to us since, For it’s bare-fut th’ ould master’d ha’ walked ere he’d ask for a poor body’s pince, If so happen--an’ ready enough ’tis to happen--a bad saison came. He was _that_ sort, and young Misther Denis, God rest of his soul, was the same.
III
Yet ’twas just be the raison of him, Misther Denis, the throuble began. For afore ye’d believe he shot up from a slip of a boy to a man; Not his match in the counthry, sez we; an’ th’ ould master he thought that the lad Bet creation, because, ye percaive, it was all o’ the childher he had, An’ the misthress had died on thim both. So ’twas rael bad luck to befall When young master tuk into his head to be off and away from us all, An’ to make of his fortin in ’Sthralia. Och, sure he’d one made fit an’ fine, But some money they owned, I’ve heard said, had got all swallied up in a mine, An’ that gave him the notion; an’ thin there’s the world young chaps fancy to see. So th’ ould master was fairly disthracted, an’ couldn’t abide the idee. And he done all he could to pervint of his goin’ an’ coax him to stay, For he got him the natest half-decker that ever was sailed in our bay, An’ for huntin’ a mare that ’ud frighten the Saints wid the leps that she’d lep, A grand baste--but no ha’porth o’ use; Misther Denis he wouldn’t be kep’, An’ the sorra a thing good or bad ’ud persuade him to bide here contint, For he’d clane set his heart upon goin’. An’ so one fine mornin’ he wint.
IV
And we missed him, faith, little an’ big, but th’ ould master he missed him the worst, It’s a full ten year oulder he looked from that day. Howsomedever, at first We thried puttin’ the best face we could on the matter, an’ talkin’ a dale Of how soon he’d be wid us agin; an’ thin letters ’ud come by the mail Wid discripshins of all Misther Denis was seein’ an’ doin’ out there, An’ that cheered him up finely; an’ whiles he’d step down where the most of us were, When we’d sit on the pier afther work, an’ ’ud read us out bits of his news From Austhraly; an’ thin we’d get gabbin’ together like say-gulls an’ mews Whin they’re fishin’ an’ fightin’, of all Misther Denis ’ud do out of han’ Once he come home as rich as a Jew; the good stock that he’d put on the lan’, An’ the fields he’d be dhrainin’; bedad, we’d the whole of it settled an’ planned, To the names o’ the cows, an’ which side o’ the yard the new cart-shed ’ud stand. Why, one night young Pat Byrne an’ Joe Murphy they set to an’ boxed up an’ down About which o’ thim both’d get the job to look afther the greyhounds he’d own-- For we knew Misther Denis ’d be sartin to keep an odd few in the place-- An’ th’ ould master seemed rael diverted, an’ gave thim a shillin’ apiece.
V
But thin, it was maybe a couple o’ twelve-months from whin he set out, We began to misdoubt some bad luck, till at last we done worse than misdoubt, For the throuble crep’ closer each day; so I’ve watched a fog dhrift up the shore Wipin’ out one by one every field glintin’ green in the sun just before. An’ to my mind that throuble’s the worst, whin the time keeps jog-throttin’ along, An’ because nothin’ happens at all, ye get certiner somethin’s gone wrong. For if grief’s to befall ye, I’d liefer ’twould lape on ye suddint when laste Ye expect, an’ grip hould o’ your heart like some nathural sort o’ wild baste, Than come slitherin’ by like a snake, an’ be prickin’ your fut wid its sting That’ill send the death crawlin’ in could thro’ your limbs. But ’twas just such a thing Wid the young master’s letters. For, first time one missed, all we said was the post Had delayed it belike; an’ next mail-day we said one might aisy be lost Comin’ that far; an’ time an’ agin we’d be sayin’: ‘Och, musha, if aught Would ha’ happint him, some one’d ha’ wrote fast enough wid the news’; but we thought It was quare. Till at last we were dhruv to believe that he’d surely been tuk Wid some fever, or met wid a hurt, and be thravellin’ far off, be bad luck, And had died all alone, wid the sorra a friend to be sendin’ home word; Or what else was the raison that year afther year tale nor tidings we heard?
VI
But it come cruel hard on th’ ould master, for, livin’ so lonesome an’ quite, He’d got naught to be takin’ his mind off the throuble by day or by night. An’ he wouldn’t let on he thought bad o’ the matter; an’ yet all the same, He’d be off wid himself in the boat to the town every mornin’ that came, Like enough wid no chance in the world o’ the mail bein’ in, as he knew; But he’d set Widdy Doyle at the office a-sortin’ the letter-bags thro’, An’ stan’ watchin’ as if one ’ud make all the differ ’twixt Heaven and Hell; An’ it never was Heaven; for always there’d be the same story to tell: ‘No, there’s nought for your Honor this day.’ An’ he stopped himself goin’ at last, And ’ud send the boys over, but, och, ere ye’d think they’d ha’ fairly got past Inish Greine, half ways back, he’d be thrampin’ the pier lookin’ out for the boat, In a down-pour, mayhap, wid the win’ fit to blusther the nap off his coat; An’ ’twas: ‘Sorra a thing for your Honor.’-- Ochone, every sowl in the place Would be heart-vexed to see him creep home be himself wid that news in his face.
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.
VIII
An’ the last time he ever come down on the beach was a dhreary wild day In the could heart o’ March, whin the win’ keeps a keen like a dog gone asthray, An’ the sun ’ill let on to be shinin’ wid no taste of heat in it yet, An’ the world seems swep’ empty an’ waitin’ for somethin’ it never ’ill get. So th’ ould master come mopin’ along where me boat was heeled up on the sands, An’ sat down wid his hands on the top of his stick, an’ his chin on his hands; Och, it’s feeble, an’ fretted, an’ lonesome he looked as he stared o’er the gleam O’ the say; an’ sez he to me: ‘Connor, I’m thinkin’ th’ ould Inish ’ill seem Quare enough whin there’s ne’er an O’Neil on’t, an’ we afther ownin’ it all For these hundrids o’ years.’ An’: ‘Yer Honor,’ sez I, ‘that’s not like to befall In these hundrids o’ years comin’ by.’ But sez he wid a shake of his head: ‘Troth, ’twill happen as soon as I quit; for since he--they’ve no hope but he’s dead-- To the sorra an O’Neil Inish Fay’s bound to go; ’tis me uncle’s son’s son, That lives over the wather. He’d plenty, he’d plenty--an’ I’d but the one. Little news I’ve e’er heard o’ thim all, an’ that little no good. I misdoubt He’ll be playin’ the Divil’s game here, an’ be turnin’ me poor people out: Sure ye’ll mind Misther Denis’d ha’ ne’er thried that trade? He _would_ go, man, would go-- But in troth it’s hard lines on yous all.’ An’ sez I to meself: ‘It is so; It’s hard lines ne’er to know from one day to the other who’ll be ownin’ ye next, Whether folks that be kind-like an’ wait or a grabbin’ ould naygur that’s vext Till he’s got the thatch burnt o’er your head, an’ the walls battered down round your hearth; ’Tis the same as if God an’ the Divil tuk turns to be ownin’ the earth’; So thinks I to meself. But, och musha, who’d go to be sayin’ a word Might disthress the poor master thim times? And sez I: ‘Wid the help o’ the Lord, Div’l a sowl save your Honor’s own self’ll get the chance to be thratin’ us hard For this great while. An’ happen your Honor’d step round now by Gallaher’s yard, For his pigs is a sight to behold.’ An’ sez he: ‘Well, to-morrow I might-- But to-day--it’s ’most time I turned home.’ The Saints shield him, ’twas clear as the light That he hadn’t the heart to be carin’ for aught ’neath the sun, here or there. An’ he off wid him home to his big empty house; an’ to-morrow came ne’er.
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.
X
But far on in the last of October, the news that come suddint one morn Nearly dhruv us deminted wid joy; ’twas too good to be true we’d ha’ sworn, On’y somehow the Divil himself scarce seemed divil enough to go plot Such a thrick on th’ ould master as that; if he would, he deserves all he’s got. ’Twas a letter, no less, from young master himself, wrote the next day but one From where else on the earth save ould Dublin, in reach ’twixt two shines o’ the sun; And ourselves had made sure we might thravel the world, an’ his grave all we’d find At its farthest--’twas grand. An’ the letter explained how he’d made up his mind That th’ ould master was gone. For some folk comin’ sthraight from this counthry, they said, Havin’ hould of the story’s wrong end, that O’Neil o’ the Inish was dead-- Inish Fay--no mistake could be in it at all at all--every one knew. An’ thin poor Misther Denis got desprit, not doubtin’ the throuble was true; For it happint the sweetheart he had wint an’ died on him too, an’ he thought All his life was disthroyed, an’ the rest just a rubbish that mattered for nought. So he joined wid a party explorin’ some big lonely hills afther gould, An’ they sted there I dunno how long, till the fortins they made was untould; But whin once he got back among people, by chance the first thing he heard tell Was how folks home from Connaught were sayin’ his father was livin’ an’ well. An’ wid that he slipt into a boat that by luck was just puttin’ to say, Never waitin’ to write by the wires. An’ belike he’d be here the next day.
XI
Whiles I’ve seen a big elm-tree the storm’s afther blowin’ clane out o’ the ground, That lay stark where it fell all the long winter thro’, till the spring-time came round, An’ the twigs on its boughs in the grass ’ud be greenin’ wid leaf-buds an’ shoots Same as if they were wavin’ above; but one knew it was up by the roots, An’ the life dyin’ out of it. That’s what I thought on whinever I seen How th’ ould master cheered up wid the news. He that wouldn’t ha’ cared a thraneen If they’d tould him his best cow was dead, or say-wather had boiled wid his tay, He was askin’ for this an’ for that, an’ discoorsin’ and orderin’ away; An’ remimb’rin’ whate’er Misther Denis was plased wid in th’ ould times long sin’: ‘Lest he’ll find things amiss here to-morrow,’ sez he, ‘whin we have him agin.’ Yet he scarce could set one fut ’fore t’ other, tho’ for pleasure he couldn’t keep quite; An’ we thought, sure, young master’d find more gone amiss than he’d aisy set right. But the first thing th’ ould master’d go do, was to send the boys over beyant Wid a boat-load of orders for aught he could think Misther Denis might want-- Ale, an’ baccy, an’ cheese, an’ the round little cakes that he liked wid his wine, And a rug for his room that the rats had ate up into ravels o’ twine; And a couple o’ chairs, ’cause the rest had got burnt by some manner o’ manes When the girls would be short o’ dhry sticks for the fires; an’ some glass for the panes That was out of his windy since ever the cord had gev way wid a smash; And his tongs had been broke in two halves, so they used it for proppin’ the sash-- And I dunno what else all besides. But before we expected thim home, They were roarin’ like bulls up the beach wid the news Misther Denis was come. For who else but himself had they met on the quays, safe an’ sound, on’y grown Somethin’ oulder; white sthrakes in his hair--‘Och,’ we sez, ‘let that story alone: Where’d the lad get white hairs on his head?’--And he’d bid thim be rowin’ back sthraight, And himself ’ud be over and afther thim soon, for he had but to wait Till his thraps were on board. There was news! Howsome’er we agreed ’twould be best To tell nought for a while to th’ ould master, who’d gone to his room for a rest, Or he’d likely enough get his death standin’ round in the could out o’ doors; So we settled to call him whenever we heard the first crake o’ the oars.
XII
Just a still misty day wid no shadow or shine was that same Holy Eve; Not a breath on the smooth o’ the say, on’y now an’ agin a soft heave Swellin’ up here an’ there, as ye’ll see in a sheet spread to blaich by the hedge, That keeps risin’ an’ fallin’ as oft as a breeze creeps in under the edge. Yet, as still as it was, we well knew that thim heaves was a sure sign o’ win’ On its way; an’ we all were a-wishin’ the boat ’ud make haste an’ come in; But we watched an’ we wished till nigh sunset, an’ never the sound of a pull, Till at last, dhrifted in from the west, came the fog like a fleece o’ sheep’s wool Sthreeled down low on the wather, an’ hidin’ away whatsoever it passed In its sthreelin’; and all of a minute, out somewhere behind it, a blast Lep’ up howlin’ an’ rushin’ an’ flustherin’ thro’ it, an’ dhrivin’ it on, Till afore we knew rightly ’twas comin’, it’s everythin’ else seemed clane gone. For your eyes was ’most blinded wid spray, an’ the win’ deaved your ears wid its roar, Not a step could ye look past the foam that seethed white to your fut on the shore; Sure ye couldn’t ha’ tould but the Inish was left in the wide world alone, Just set down be itself in the midst of a mist and a great dhreary moan.
XIII
An’ the thought of us each was the boat; och, however’d she stand it at all, If she’d started an hour or two back, an’ been caught in the thick o’ that squall? Sure it’s lost she was, barrin’ by luck it so chanced she’d run under the lee O’ Point Bertragh or Inish Lonane; an’ ’twas liker the crathurs ’ud be Crossin’ yonder the open, wid never a shelter, but waves far an’ wide Rowlin’ one on the other till ye’d seem at the fut of a mad mountain-side. An’ the best we could hope was they’d seen that the weather’d be turnin’ out quare, An’ might, happen, ha’ settled they wouldn’t come over, but bide where they were. Yet, begorrah! ’twould be the quare weather entirely, as some of us said, That ’ud put Misther Denis off aught that he’d fairly tuk into his head. Thin Tim Duigan sez: ‘Arrah, lads, whisht! afther sailin’ thro’ oceans o’ say, Don’t tell _me_ he’s naught better to do than get dhrowned in our dhrop of a bay.’ An’ the words were scarce out of his mouth, whin hard by, thro’ a dhrift o’ the haze, The ould boat we beheld sthrivin’ on in the storm--och the yell we did raise! An’ it’s little we yelled for, bedad! for, next instant, there under our eyes, Not a couple o’ perch from the pier-end, th’ ould baste she must take an’ capsize.
XIV