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.