University of Virginia Library

But he'd never go to chapel again,
No, not even for Missis Cain.
Sunday morning, the very first thing,
When his porridge was supped, he'd be off on the wing
For the Curraghs down—and away for hours—
Butterflies, insecks, beetles, flowers—
G'ology, botany, and such,
And a book to tell him which was which;
And a bit of a glass that wasn' as long
As your thumb. But, goodness me! the strong!—
Microscope. Hulloah! look out!
Aye, man! aye! and what do you know about
Microscopes? You're took on the sudden.
Well, you know, I wish you wouldn'.
But—however. So he liked the Curraghs well,
Did Tommy; and they've got a beautiful smell,
Upon my word, them Curraghs; yes!
Even in the spring they're not amiss,
When the soft little sally buds is busted,
And all the sthrames about is dusted
With the yellow meal: but—in summer! I'm blowed!
Just before the grass is mowed—
Kirk Andreas way, St. Jude's, Lezayre—
Just lie down, no matter where,
And you'll think you're in heaven: and the steam and the heat
Fit to smother you, the sweet—
Splendid too, when a chap is home
From a voyage; very wholesome to'm,
Clearin' the blood—astonishin'
The way it exthracks the salt from the skin.