For they tould me this day little Nelly had died o’ the fever last night,
An’ the frettin’; so nothin’ that matthers a thraneen’s left under the light.
What’s the differ if people believe ’twas meself shoved him into the pool?
They can’t help her or harm her. But, faith, sir, ye’ll think me a powerful fool,
Or ye’d scarce have the face to be biddin’ me spake out the truth now, afore
’Tis too late; an’ yourself sittin’ there tellin’ lies this last half-hour an’ more,
Wid your little black book full o’ blatheremskyte as its leaves is o’ print;
Sure, I’d heard all your stories; an’ sorra a wan ye’ve the wit to invint
That ’ill show folk the sinse o’ the life where they’ve come, an’ the death where they’ll go,
If there’s sinse in’t at all; wan thing’s certin: it isn’t the likes o’ yez know--
Wid your chapels an’ churches, Heaven walled up in each, an’ Hell’s blazes all round.
Och, the Divil _I_ keep is contint plaguin’ crathurs that bide above ground,
Widout blatherin’ afther thim into the dark; that’s the Divil for me;
Tho’ he wouldn’t suit you, sir: the folk’s aisier frighted wid things they can’t see.
But just leave me in paice wid your glory an’ joy--they’re as bad as the rest.
If there’s anythin’ manes me a good turn at all, let it give me what’s best--
The great sleep, that’s all sleep, ne’er a fear wan could wake, ne’er a thought to creep in;
Ne’er a dhrame--or I’d maybe hear Nelly call Felix her darlint agin.