Bog-land Studies :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sure, 'tis waitin' an' hopin' that keep ye tor- mented. It's aisy to say:
‘Och, I'll put the thoughts out o' me head; I'll not hope it no more from this day’;

But next minute, the same as a spark that ye think ye've throd under your heel,
It flares up, an' flares out, an', begorrah, it laves you a desolit feel.

I remember one day we made sure there was news, for the boat we espied
Wid the boys rowin' mad, fit to reave the ould thole-pins clear out of her side,
An' Long Mick, the big fool, lettin' bawls in the bows, and a-wavin' the bag,
“Cause a velopy'd come wid a sthrange-coloured stamp, an” they'd settled to brag
“Twas from 'Sthralia. An”, there, when th' ould master had tore it wid his hands all a-shake,
It was merely some blathers in print o' the fortins a body could make
On the railroads in France; an' that mornin' there wasn't a word of abuse
That we didn't be givin' the omadhaun Mick— but, sure, where was the use?

So the years slipt away an' away, an' no news to be had good or ill;
But it's more than the years, I'll go bail, did be dhrivin' th' ould master down-hill;
'Twas the wond'rin', an' wishin', an' frettin' that whitened the hair on his head,
When 'twas black as a crow, an' that stooped him, when sthraight as a soldier he'd tread.