University of Virginia Library

VIII

An' the last time he ever come down on the beach was a dhreary wild day
In the could heart o' March, whin the win' keeps a keen like a dog gone asthray,
An' the sun 'ill let on to be shinin' wid no taste of heat in it yet,
An' the world seems swep' empty an' waitin' for somethin' it never 'ill get.
So th' ould master come mopin' along where me boat was heeled up on the sands,
An' sat down wid his hands on the top of his stick, an' his chin on his hands;
Och, it's feeble, an' fretted, an' lonesome he looked as he stared o'er the gleam
O' the say; an' sez he to me: ‘Connor, I'm thinkin” th' ould Inish 'ill seem
Quare enough whin there's ne'er an O'Neil on't, an' we afther ownin' it all
For these hundrids o' years.’ An': ‘Yer Honor,’ sez,I, ‘that's not like to befall
In these hundrids o' years comin' by.’ But sez he wid a shake of his head:
‘Troth, 'twill happen as soon as I quit; for since he—they've no hope but he's dead—
To the sorra an O'Neil Inish Fay's bound to go; 'tis me uncle's son's son,
That lives over the wather. He'd plenty, he'd plenty—an' I'd but the one.
Little news I've e'er heard o' thim all, an' that little no good. I misdoubt
He'll be playin' the Divil's game here, an' be turnin' me poor people out:
Sure ye'll mind Misther Denis 'd ha' ne'er thried that trade? He would go, man, would go—
But in troth it's hard lines on yous all.’ An' sez I to meself: ‘It is so;
It's hard lines ne'er to know from one day to the other who'll be ownin' ye next,
Whether folks that be kind-like an' wait or a grabbin' ould naygur that's vext
Till he's got the thatch burnt o'er your head, an' the walls battered down round your hearth;
'Tis the same as if God an' the Divil tuk turns to be ownin' the earth’;
So thinks I to meself. But, och musha, who'd go to be sayin' a word
Might disthress the poor master thim times? And sez I: ‘Wid the help o' the Lord,
Div'l a sowl save your Honor's own self'll get the chance to be thratin” us hard
For this great while. An' happen your Honor'd step round now by Gallaher's yard,
For his pigs is a sight to behold.’ An' sez he: ‘Well, to-morrow I might—
But to-day—it's 'most time I turned home.’ The Saints shield him, 'twas clear as the light
That he hadn't the heart to be carin' for aught 'neath the sun, here or there.
An' he off wid him home to his big empty house; an' to-morrow came ne'er.