The Mockers and other Verses :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ay, sure that was owld Owen MacDonnell you seen, ma'am, himself that lives lone
Up above on Knockeevin; true for you, he wouldn't come next you or nigh,
But take off wid him, scared like a hare, or a crow that might happen to spy
Wid its eye-corner somebody standin' and stoopin' to gather a stone.
'Tis this long while he's bidin' up yonder, and raison and good raison why.

II

They be quare in themselves, them MacDonnells, unchancy and strange; I've heard said
Ne'er a sowl's after gettin' his death on our Inish by land or by say,

But among the MacDonnells was one could ha' towld of it many a day
Ere the scraws were cut square on his grave, or the wather closed over his head;
For 'tis more than their neighbours they know and they see in the times far away.
Folks there be that the same sort of sight is a gift wid from father to son,
And from mother to daughter; I mind all the young ones was goin' in dread,
When meself was a girl, of owld Molly's black cloak and her petticoat red;
If we spied her along on the road, to the dykes and the ditches we'd run.
'Tis herself that was grandfather's sister to Owen, and thirty year dead,
But there's talk in it yet wid our folk of the quare cruel turn Molly done
Agin Norah Gillespie.

III

Poor Norah was only a slip of a lass,
And as pretty as ever you'd wish to behowld, the fine Sunday in Lent

That herself and meself and Grace Farrell was watchin' folk coming from Mass,
On the road there alongside the well, where it runs by our goat's bit of grass,
And sure, sorra the atom of harm in the world e'er a one of us meant,
But just lookin' and laughin' light-hearted; when who should mis-happen to pass
Save old Molly MacDonnell, limped by wid her stick, and her beads in a bag,
And she mutterin' away as she went. So says Norah Gillespie to me,
Bein' strange in this place: “Och to goodness,” says Norah, “and who, now, is she?
But whoever it is, sure and sartin herself is the ugly owld hag.”

Well, ma'am, louder she spoke than she thought, or the wind gave a lift to the word,
For it's round Molly turned on a suddint as if she was called by her name,
And you couldn't misdoubt by the look of her face that she'd heard what she'd heard;

And then hobblin' back straight to the place where we stood, still and frighted, she came,
Wid her eyes howldin' Norah, till only the len'th of her short shadow lay
'Twixt them both. And says she: “Owld and ugly, in troth 'tis meself is that same;
But as ugly and owld as I am, and as young and as bowld as you be,
Truth I tell you,” says Molly, “the next time the people are passin' this way,
'Tis the face of me, ugly and owld, they'll be liker and liefer to see
Than your face.”

And that week was scarce out ere the girsheach was cowld in her clay.

IV

So small blame to us all if afeard we do be of the folk that can pry
Round the corners ahead on the road we must travel whate'er may befall,
And come scaldin' some poor crathur's heart wid bad luck he'd ne'er think of at all

Till it dropped wid a flash at his feet like a fire-ball lit out of the sky;
And 'tis better than walkin' in grief, since you know where the black shadows lie,
That your frettin' beforehand will stir from your way when it stirs a stone wall.

V

But I'll tell you what happint that time when owld Owen quit out of the town,
And took off to the shanty above on the hill.

'Twas a cowld winter's night
And I stepped round to see was it seven, for but seldom our clock does be right,
At Nan Reilly's, that married me brother Pat Doyne. So she bid me sit down
Till she'd wet us a cup of hot tay; and the two of us there by the light
Of her fire in discoorse had the house to ourselves, sorra foot on the floor,
Barrin' Dermot MacNeill, sittin' back of the settle, and he splicin' an oar,

Sister's son to Nan Reilly, and ever a dacint lad, steady and quite;
But that evenin' discouraged he seemed, in a way, spakin' hardly a word
Bad or good. Well, ma'am, all of a suddint, and faix but it gave us the fright,
Come a terrible knock on the door, like as if some great weight of a bird
Druv agin it headforemost, and struck herself dead in the midst of her flight;
Yet no bird 'twas at all, for the voice there of somebody callin' we heard:
Let me in! let me in! let me in! like one frantic, and rattlin' the latch,
Until Dermot, that lep' up to pull back the cross-bar as quick as he might,
Flung the door open wide, and who else should stand black 'twixt the snow and the thatch
Except Maureen Ni Meara, me cousin, that people said hadn't her match
For a beauty in all of the Inishes? Ay, for sure, thrimblin' and white,

It was Maureen herself. And “Och Felix,” says she, grippin' Dermot's arm tight,
“I'm afeard.” For at first, runnin' out of the dark, in her flurry she thought
'Twas her bachelor Felix, the brother of Dermot; but soon as she seen,
Like a lapwing she darted away from him straight, and a howld of me caught,
And: “What scared you, alanna?” says Nan, and says she: “Comin' up the boreen,
There was Owen MacDonnell, that called me and beckoned, and bid me to wait,
So I run like the win', because well do I know if he stopped me for aught,
'Twas some cruel misfortune he'd tell me he knew of as sartin as fate,
That 'ud frighten me life out,” says Maureen, and wrapped up her head in her shawl
Agin hearin'. And “Whist,” says Nan Reilly, “child, dear, we'll be lettin' him call;
Sorra foot he'll set in it this night, and the sorra bad fortune he'll tell—

Draw the bolt,” says she, “Dermot avic, in God's name!” But her word was too late,
For that minyit she spoke it we seen the door move, as we heard the hinge grate,
And the moon shinin' clear behind Owen himself where his black shadow fell.

VI

And a hand or a foot ne'er a one of us stirred, standin' listenin' in dread,
Like as if some comether he put on us all till we'd hear what he said;
Musha, better we knew than be biddin' him whist wid that look in his eyes,
For as aisy you'd hinder the lightnin' of burnin' its track through the skies.
And says he: “Listen, Maureen Ni Meara, yourself there that's hidin' your head,
Sure I see you, I see you; I see where the chapel looks down on the strand;
And 'tis up the boreen to the door, wid the lad that's your groom at your side,

You went by in the noon's light; ay, Maureen Ni Meara, I see you a bride,
But I'm thinkin' 'tis strange, truth I'm tellin' you, scarcely the breadth of me hand
Is the shadow slid over the stone, and the wave's rim crep' white up the sand,
And I see you, I see you—ah, Maureen Ni Meara, a widow you tread
Wid your feet in the prints of the bride's feet before you that passed in this sun,
Not the time since a lark would be singing its song. Is his travellin' all done
That should walk to the last of his life wid you? Sure then, sore-hearted he sped,
For if long be the days of the livin', 'tis lone are the paths of the dead—
So I lave you to joy and to sorrow, soon ended and sooner begun.”

VII

And wid that round he turned where he stood in the door, and went out of our sight.
But the voice of him scarcely was past, or the shadow of him quit from the sill,

When up started young Dermot MacNeill wid the eyes in his head shinin' bright
As the wild eyes of Owen himself. And says he: “Let him lave what he will.
Sure I met him but now down below in the lane, and he goin' his lone,
So I gave him good-night, and says he to me: ‘Night never blacker was known
Than the night I see darkenin' above you, to fall on you sudden and soon,
When the sun climbs his height, and no breath's on the blue, in the eye of the noon,
And you stretchin' a hand to lay howld of a jewel you never may own—
Soon and sudden,’ says he, and no more. But God send every word of it true.

“For that bride left a widow what grief would be lightin' on, Maureen aroon,
If meself was the lad gone to loss? Ay, mavourneen, 'tis little you'd rue;
Well I know in me heart to the ind of this world I'll be nothin' to you.

But there's glimpses and glimmers folk seek to console them when Heaven they miss,
And see, Maureen Ni Meara, me jewel, 'tis fine I'd contint me wid this.
For I'd count it the best of me luck, nought I'd grudge to be gettin' me death
Soon and sudden, if just till the Priest said his say I'd have lave to draw breath
By your side at the altar; no time would I ask for a look or a kiss
Might be vexin' you, Maureen machree, ere I dropped at your feet, and the dark
From me eyes took the sight of you. Ay, but I'm thinkin' there's somethin' I'd keep;
For the thought of that minyit I called you me wife 'ud burn on like a spark
Through the deepest of night, and 'twould light me to joy, as a dream in me sleep
Wid no endin' or wakin'. Mavourneen,” says he, “if you'll have it but so,
No bad luck Owen towld you and me.” And 'twas wishful he watched till she'd spake.

But sure, Maureen was mad wid him then; and says she: “Be it bad luck or no,
'Tis the strange talk you have to me, Dermot MacNeill, and you strangely mistake,
If it's break me hand-promise, you'd have me, to Felix, that's truer than steel,
And go back on me word for your sake. Whethen now I'd have little to do.
But mis-happen what may, wife of yours would I never be, Dermot MacNeill,
For the time that the star blinkin' yonder was shiverin' 'twixt red fire and blue,
That's the short while to reckon,” says she, “but I'd count it too long, for my part,
To be playin' the traitor and tellin' a lie.”
So he turned on his heel,
And away thro' the night he went, bitter and bleak, wid that word in his heart.

VIII

Well and good, ma'am, not long after that, in come Felix from Killerone Fair,

Wid his talk of the bastes he was buyin' and sellin', and what folk he met there,
And all manner of news. But the story we had he passed off wid a laugh.
And says he: “Widdy Maureen, acuishla machree, it is this, I suppose,
Poor owld Owen consaits in his mind to be livin' as long as the crows,
So it's croakin' he keeps like themselves, and We'll heed him as much. Sure the half
Of a hundred year off he was lookin' this night, if me widdy you were;
And the nearest sight ever he'll get,” Felix says. But that time we towld nought
About Dermot's quare raumuish; laist said soonest mended; 'twas only, we thought,
Just some notion stirred up in his head, seein' Maureen distressed wid the scare.

So it all died away in our minds as your breath melts to nought on the air.

IX

Well, the weddin' was fixed for that Shrove, when the year took a leanin' towards spring;
And the day come wid never a speck on the wather or sky to be found,
Save a lark singin' songs for divarsion, or maybe a little gull's wing
Sittin' white on the smooth of the say, and we startin' to sail o'er the Sound,
Three big boat-loads, wid Killerone Chapel forenent us, that stands on its height
Lookin' down from the cliff to the harbour. And flashin' around and around,
Like the footprints of crathurs we couldn't behowld dancin' wild wid delight,
All the sun-sparkles blinked. And the whole way across 'twas the great times we had,
Wid the bride and the groom sittin' aft, and Mick Sullivan fiddlin' like mad
In the bows; and meself next the mother of Felix, that thought ne'er was born

In the width of the world man or mortal could offer to aquil her lad,
Unless Dermot belike. The proud woman she was. “But, sad pity,” says she,
“'Tis of Maureen's poor mother that hadn't the luck to be livin' this morn.”

So we come to the harbour as plisant as plisant, and what should we see
Save owld Owen MacDonnell himself sittin' low by the steps where you land,
Like a little owld leprecaun perched on the stones that were slithery wid wrack
At the pier-end. And there Maureen spied him, and straightways was fear widenin' black
In her eyes. “Och I'm dreadin',” says she, “some great harm there is plotted and planned
'Gin the two of us, Felix; for yonder he's watchin' to see me come back
As he towld us that night.” But says Dermot MacNeill that was standin' anear:

“Now step on wid yous all to the chapel,” says he, “for behind yous I'll stay
Till I have the owld miscreant persuaded to roost out of that. And no fear,
Ne'er a chance will he get to be throublin' the wife of you, talkin' this day
Of your bride and your widow. Speed off to your weddin'; I'll wait for you here,
When 'tis over and done,” so says he.
And the rest of us trooped up the lane,
That run straight 'twixt two high sandy banks, glarin' white in a glow to the door
Of the chapel, night-dark at its end. Sure it seemed next to no time before
Out we stepped again, under the shine of the sun, nigh too bright to see plain,
Every one of us laughin' at Felix and Maureen, and givin' them joy,
And they walkin' along man and wife, lookin' nought but a girl and a boy.

X

But what happint next minyit, that's more, woman dear, than is clear in me mind:
For, if blazin' and burnin' and blastin' the land, a great thunderbolt's flame
Swep' about and around you in wafts of destruction, and went as it came,
You'd misdoubt, when you looked, was the world scorched coal-black or yourself gone stark blind.
And 'twas that way it fell on us sudden, ere ever we thought how it chanced.
Some one pounced like a kite from the big boulder-stone he was lurkin' behind,
Where the two of them passed; and, caught bright in the sun, somethin' flickered and glanced;
Then one choked in his shout, and dropped down; and one ran—and there Maureen stood still,
And 'twas Felix lay stabbed to the heart at her feet, stretched the len'th of his grave,
Ne'er to stir till it took him. But headlong his murderer raced over the hill,

Wid some follyin' as fast; sure that day he was bound to be havin' his will,
So they couldn't o'ertake or purvint him. And down by the edge of the wave,
On the rocks at the cliff's foot, 'twas Dermot MacNeill they got kilt on the strand,
Wid the blade he dhruv home to his own brother's heart gripped death-fast in his hand.

XI

Now a strange thing that happint I'll tell you. When some of us, down by the slip,
Done our best to be loosin' his howld on the haft, sorra one of us could;
Not his mother, that tried in distraction, for strong as a vice was his grip.
And the mother's owld mother of Maureen come near us, and cursed where she stood,
And was sayin' to God that the knife might keep ever the place it was in,
Till the Judgment, and Dermot rise up wid it clutched for a sign of his sin

And remimbrance; yet, troth, 'twould be grabbed off him soon, and he strivin' below
Wid the divils in Hell. But Pat Doyne bid her whist for the honour of God.
“Look you yonder,” says he; and the blade, sure enough, glittered flung on the sod;
And 'twas quit of it Dermot MacNeill on the last of his journeys should go,
For sure Maureen had drawn it soft out of his hand—ay, the crathur did so.

XII

But it's sorry I was for owld Owen MacDonnell, for mostly the folk
Did be blamin' it all on his seein' and tellin', that brought trouble and harm;
And they run from his road; not a sowl would set foot near his bit of a farm,
And they thought they'd be hearin' black news of misfortune whenever he spoke.
Till at last, and it wasn't so long after that, they'd the heart of him broke,

And he took off to bide up above on Knockeevin. So you may depind
'Twas himself you spied yonder, for over the hill of a mornin' he strays
Gatherin' sticks. Och forlorn is the little owld crathur, wid sorra a frind;
And I'm thinkin' whate'er he'd behould if he looked past his life's lonesome ind
Would be luckier than aught else he seen in the len'th of his desolit days.