University of Virginia Library

XIV

Och! small blame to thim all if we'd never seen sight of a one o' thim more,
Wid the waves thumpin' thuds where they fell, like the butt-ends o' beams on a door;
An' the black hollows whirlin' between, an' the dhrift flyin' over thim thick,
'S if the Divil had melted down Hell, an' was stirrin' it up wid a stick.
But it happint the wave that they met wid was flounderin' sthraight to the strand,
An' just swep' thim up nate on its way, till it set thim down safe where the sand
Isn't wet twice a twelvemonth, no hurt on thim all, on'y dhrippin' an' dazed.
And one come to his feet nigh me door, where that mornin' me heifer had grazed.
An', bedad! 'twas himself, Misther Denis, stood blinkin' an' shakin' the wet
From his hair: ‘Hullo, Connor!’ sez he, ‘is it you, man?’ He'd never forget
One he'd known. But I'd hardly got hould of his hand, an' was wishin' him joy,
Whin, worse luck, he looked round an' he spied Widdy Sullivan's imp of a boy,
That a wave had tuk off of his feet, an' was floatin' away from the beach,
And he screechin' an' sthretchin' his arms to be saved, but no help was in reach.
An' as soon as the young master he seen it, he caught his hand out o' me own:
‘Now, stand clear, man,’ sez he, ‘would ye have me be lavin' the lad there to dhrown?’
An' wid that he throd knee-deep in foam-swirls. Ochone! but he gev us the slip,
Runnin' sheer down the black throat o' Death, an' he just afther 'scapin' its grip.
For the wild says come flappin' an' boomin' an' smotherin' o'er him, an' back
In the lap o' their ragin' they swep' him as light as a wisp o' brown wrack.
An' they poundin' the rocks like sledge-hammers, an' clatterin' the shingle like chains;
Ne'er the live sowl they'd let from their hould till they'd choked him or bet out his brains,
Sure an' certin. And in swung a wave wid its welthers o' wather that lept
Wid the roar of a lion as it come, an' hissed low like a snake as it crept
To its edge, where it tossed thim, the both o' thim. Och! an' the little spalpeen
Misther Denis had gript be the collar, he jumped up the first thing we seen,
While young master lay still—not a stir—he was stunned wid a crack on the head—
Just a flutter o' life at his heart—but it's kilt he was, kilt on us dead.