But, indeed, for that matther, the Lord, who’d enough to contind wid those times,
Might ha’ some sort o’ notion himself how the poor people’s tempted to crimes,
Whin they’re watchin’ their own folk a-starvin’, an’ no help for it, strive as they may.
For himself set a dale by his mother, accordin’ as I’ve heard say,
An’ remembered her last thing of all in the thick of his throuble, an’ thought
To make sure she’d ha’ some wan to care her an’ heed that she wanted for nought,
An’ be keepin’ the roof o’er her head while she lived, all the same as her son--
But, ye see, he’d a frind he could trust to, an’ Micky, the crathur, had none.
An’ that same would be vexin’ his heart while he lay dyin’ there on the road;
For the sorra a sowl would be left in the world to purtect us, he knowed;
An’ I mind when the fever he had, an’ was wandh’rin’ a bit in his head,
He kep’ ravin’ continyal as how ’twas desthroyed we’d be wanst he was dead.
An’ poor Mick was that kind in his heart, he’d be put past his patience outright
Whin th’ ould mother an’ childher was frettin’ wid hunger from mornin’ till night;
An’ it’s that was the raison he done it--nought else. So, belike, if above
They’d considher the hardships he met, till it s’ desprit, bedad, he was dhruv,
An’ no hope o’ relief for the crathurs at home, mind you, barrin’ he wint
An’ let on a bit now an’ agin--they’d believe ’twas no harm that he mint;
An’ that wan sin he done, an’ he starvin’, they ’d maybe forgive an’ forget--
Och, Sisther Frances, me honey, would ye say there’s a chance for him yet?