But, och, Sisther darlin’, at Parson’s we got sorra a bit afther all;
Not a taste in the world save the smell o’ the soup that was sthrong in the hall.
For whin Parson come out from his breakfast, he said the relief that he’d got
Was for thim who wint reg’lar to church--where he’d ne’er seen a wan of our lot;
An’ he’d liefer throw bread to the dogs than to childher o’ papists, whose thricks
Were no better than haythins’, brought up to be worshippin’ ould bits o’ sticks.
Howsome’er, if we ’d give him our word we ’d attind the next Sunday, why thin
He’d considher. But who could ha’ promised the like? Such a shame and a sin:
Turn a souper in sight o’ thim all, an’ throop off to the place where they curse
The ould Pope, an’ the Virgin, an’ jeer at the Mass--why, what haythin’d do worse?
Yet that hape o’ big loaves. Sisther Frances, thim folk’s in a manner to blame
Who know whin ye’re starvin’ an’ tempt ye. So we wint back the way that we came.
But, ochone, it seemed double the lenth, an’ it’s never a word Micky said,
An’ the ould empty bag on me arm was that light it felt heavy as lead;
An’ the childher, that ran out to meet us as far as the top o’ the hill,
Whin they found we’d brought nothin’ at all--I could cry now to think o’ thim still.
V
An’ twyst afther that Mick wint down there to thry if a bit could be had,
But onless that we promised to turn, not a scrapeen we ’d git good or bad.
Och, the long hungry days. So wan mornin’ we’d ate all the breakfast o’er night,
And I hoped we ’d be late wakin’ up, but it seemed cruel soon gittin’ light.
An’ the March win’ was ice, an’ the sun on’y shinin to show it its road,
An’ the fire was gone out on us black, an’ no turf till wan thramped for a load.
Thin the childher, an’ Mick’s mother herself, were that starvin’, the crathurs, an’ could,
That they all fell to keenin’ together most woeful, the young an’ the ould;
Until Mick, that was lyin’ in bed for the hunger, an’ half the week long
Had scarce tasted a bit, he laned up on his elbow to ax what was wrong.
An’ sez I--God forgive me, ’twas just the first thing that come into me head--
‘Sure it’s cryin’ they are, man,’ sez I, ‘for the want of a mouthful o’ bread,
And it’s dyin’ they may be next thing, for what help I can see. Och, it’s quare,
But if Parson had knowed how we ’re kilt, an’ ye’d on’y ha’ spoken him fair,
He’d allow us a thrifle at laste.’ An’ sez he: ‘Woman, whisht! what’s the use?
I might spake him as fair as ye plase, or might give him the heighth of abuse,
All as wan, he’s that bitther agin us. But throth will I stand it no more;
I’ll turn souper this day for the male.’ And he ups wid himself off the floor;
For ’twas Sunday that mornin’, worse luck: ‘It’s a sin, sure,’ sez he, ‘I know well,
’Siver, sooner than watch thim disthroyed, I’d say prayers to the Divil in Hell,’
Sez he, goodness forgive him--but, mind you, meself’s every ha’porth as bad,
For thin, watchin’ him off down the lane, I dunno was I sorry or glad.