Part 3

Thin t’ other: ‘Mind you, there’s many that’s new to this place,’ sez he, ‘Comes axin’ the same as yourself. But considher the way it ’ud be. For whin wanst we downed wid the wall, an’ nothin’ was left to pervint The poor folks yonder beholdin’ the grandeur we’ve here fornint, An’ nearer a dale, belike, than they’d ever ha’ thought or believed, Who are the fools that ’ud stay any more where they’re throubled an’ grieved, An’ wouldn’t be off wid thim here? Why, now, whin there’s nought but a vast O’ shadow an’ blackness afore him who looks to his death an’ past Why, even so, there’s a few comes in that life wid its weary work Has dhruv intirely mad, till they lept to their ends in the dark. ‘An’ in Ireland, sure, this instant, there’s crowds o’ thim sailin’ bound Off to the States an’ ’Sthralia, that’s half o’ the whole world round, Miles an’ miles thro’ the waves an’ storms, an’ whin they’ve got there, bedad, No such won’erful lands, but just where their livin’s aisier had. An’ it’s mostly the young folks go, so the ould do be frettin’ sore, For thim that are gone they doubt ’ill come home in their time no more; An’ dhreary as e’er the long winther’s night is the lonesome summer’s day, Whin there’s never a stir in the house, an’ the childher are over the say. ‘And, arrah now, wouldn’t it be the worst day that ould Ireland has known, Whin she’d waken an’ find all the people had quitted an’ left her alone? Never a voice to be heard, or a hover o’ smoke to be spied, An’ sorra a sowl to set fut on the green o’ the grass far an’ wide, Till the roads ran lone thro’ the lan’ as the sthrame that most desolit flows, An’ the bastes, sthrayed away in the fields, grew as wild as the kites an’ the crows, An’ no wan to care what became o’ the counthry left starin’ an’ stark-- But that’s how ’twould happen if ever we let thim look clear thro’ the dark.’

XII

An’ the other, sez he: ‘Thrue for ye; but what seems sthrange to me yet Is the notions they’ve learned down yonder in spite o’ this screen ye’ve set; For there’s many hears tell of a pleasant place where a man ’ill go whin he dies, An’ some be that certin sure, ye’d think they’d seen it all wid their eyes.’

XIII

‘The raison o’ that,’ sez he, ‘is, we wouldn’t let thim despair, Cliver an’ clane, any more than we’d show thim the whole of it clear; So wanst in a while we’ve given to some poor crathur o’ thim A glimpse at this place, but on’y lapt up in a mist like an’ dim. An’ as soon as it slips from their sight ’tis dhrowned in the darkness deep, Till sometimes they doubt afther all if ’twas aught but a dhrame in their sleep. An’ the rest spy nothin’ at all, but they hear from the folks that do, An’ they wish it so bad that often they believe they believe it’s thrue. ‘But suppose, now, wan that was hungry could watch unbeknownst thro’ a chink Where some had a faste preparin’, the finest ye ever could think, If he thought he’d a chance o’ the thrate, sure it’s quiet an’ still he’d wait, For fear if he came ere they called they’d be puttin’ him out of it sthraight.’

XIV

That’s all their discoorse I remember, for thin, as sure as I’m born, It was Rexy’s bark that I heard--no other baste’s, I’ll be sworn: And I couldn’t tell ye the pleasure I tuk in’t, for somehow the sound Seemed givin’ a nathural feel to whatever I seen around. And I just was thinkin’: ‘It’s mad wid joy, poor Rexy, he’d be if he knew There was wan of us come from th’ ould place at home’--whin, och wirrasthrew, All in a minute I opened me eyes where I lay on the floor, An’ the child was keenin’ away, an’ the wind moanin’ under the door, An’ the puddle was freezed by the hearth, that hadn’t a spark to show, An’ outside in the could daylight the air was a-flutther wid snow, An’ the black bank sthraked wid white like the bars on a magpie’s wing-- For sorra a word o’ thruth was in’t, an’ I’d nought but dhramed the thing.

XV

Sorra a word o’ thruth--yet some sez that they’ve never a doubt But there’s plenty o’ thruth in a dhrame, if ye turn it the right side out: An’ I mind me mother, wan night she dhreamt of a ship on the say, An’ next mornin’ her Micky, the souldier, came home that was years away. Thin a notion I have, as I woke, I’d heard wan o’ thim two inside Sayin’: ‘Sleep, that’s the chink for a glimpse, but death, that’s the door set wide’; An’ whin things do be cruel conthráry, wid could an’ the hunger an’ all, Some whiles I fall thinkin’: ‘Sure, maybe, it’s on’y a bit o’ their wall.’ So p’rhaps it’s a fool that I am, but many’s the time, all the same, I sez to meself I’d be wishful for just a dhrame o’ that dhrame.

LAST TIME AT M‘GURK’S

OR, MICK FLYNN _DE SENECTUTE_

... Πολλὰ μὲν αἰ μακραὶ ἁμέραι κατέθεντο δὴ λύπας ἐγγυτέρω, τὰ τέρποντα δ’οὐκ ἂν ἲδοις ὂπου

LAST TIME AT M‘GURK’S

OR, MICK FLYNN _DE SENECTUTE_

I

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