Bog-land Studies By J. Barlow: 3rd ed |
 |
 |
| WALLED OUT
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
|
|
|
|
 | Bog-land Studies |  |
43
WALLED OUT
OR, ESCHATOLOGY IN A BOG
Ουκ οναρ, αλλ' υπαρ εσθλον ο τοι τετελεσμενον εσται;
45
I
In last September it was, whin the weather'll be mostly grand,Wid the sunshine turnin' the colour o' corn all over the land,
An' the two young gintlemen came to shoot wid their guns an' their dogs,
A-thrampin' just for divarsion about the hills an' the bogs.
And I thramped afther thim, tho' it's little divarsion I had,
Carryin' the baskits an' all; but sure it's meself was glad
46
Mate, an' bread, an' a dhrop to dhrink—ye needed no more that day.
For, tho' 'twas thick o' the harvest, down here the bogs an' the hills
Lave on'y narrow slips o' fields for the furrows an' pratie dhrills;
Terrible quick they're raped an' dug; but what should the farmer do?
If there's on'y work for wan, he can't find wages for two.
II
An' wanst we were restin' a bit in the sun on the
smooth hillside,
Where the grass felt warm to your hand as the fleece of a sheep, for wide
As ye'd look overhead an' around, 'twas all a-blaze
and a-glow,
An' the blue was blinkin' up from the blackest bog-holes below;
An' the scent o' the bogmint was sthrong on the air, an' never a sound
But the plover's pipe that ye'll seldom miss by a lone bit o' ground.
Where the grass felt warm to your hand as the fleece of a sheep, for wide
47
An' the blue was blinkin' up from the blackest bog-holes below;
An' the scent o' the bogmint was sthrong on the air, an' never a sound
But the plover's pipe that ye'll seldom miss by a lone bit o' ground.
An' he laned—Misther Pierce—on his elbow, an'
stared at the sky as he smoked,
Till just in an idle way he sthretched out his hand an' sthroked
The feathers o' wan of the snipe that was kilt an' lay close by on the grass;
An' there was the death in the crathur's eyes like a breath upon glass.
Till just in an idle way he sthretched out his hand an' sthroked
The feathers o' wan of the snipe that was kilt an' lay close by on the grass;
An' there was the death in the crathur's eyes like a breath upon glass.
An' sez he: ‘It's quare to think that a hole ye
might bore wid a pin
'Ill be wide enough to let such a power o' darkness in
On such a power o' light; an' it's quarer to think,’
sez he,
‘That wan o' these days the like is bound to happen to you an' me.’
'Ill be wide enough to let such a power o' darkness in
48
‘That wan o' these days the like is bound to happen to you an' me.’
Thin Misther Barry, he sez: ‘Musha, how's wan
to know but there's light
On t' other side o' the dark, as the day comes afther the night?’
An' ‘Och,’ sez Misther Pierce, ‘what more's our knowin'—save the mark—
Than guessin' which way the chances run, an' thinks I they run to the dark;
Or elseagin now some glint of a bame'd ha' come slithered an' slid;
Sure light's not aisy to hide, an' what for should it be hid?’
Up he stood wid a sort o' laugh; ‘If on light,’ sez he, ‘ye're set,
Let's make the most o' this same, as it's all that we're like to get.’
On t' other side o' the dark, as the day comes afther the night?’
An' ‘Och,’ sez Misther Pierce, ‘what more's our knowin'—save the mark—
Than guessin' which way the chances run, an' thinks I they run to the dark;
Or elseagin now some glint of a bame'd ha' come slithered an' slid;
Sure light's not aisy to hide, an' what for should it be hid?’
Up he stood wid a sort o' laugh; ‘If on light,’ sez he, ‘ye're set,
Let's make the most o' this same, as it's all that we're like to get.’
49
III
Thim were his words, as I minded well, for often afore an' sin'The 'dintical thought 'ud bother me head that seemed to bother him thin;
An' many's the time I'd be wond'rin' whatever it all might mane,
The sky, an' the lan', an' the bastes, an' the rest o' thim plain as plain,
And all behind an' beyant thim a big black shadow let fall;
Ye'll sthrain the sight out of your eyes, but there it stands like a wall.
‘An' there,’ sez I to meself, ‘we're goin’ wherever we go,
But where we'll be whin we git there it's never a know I know.’
50
Wid sthrivin' to comprehind onnathural things o' the kind;
An' Quality, now, that have larnin', might know the rights o' the case,
But ignorant wans like me had betther lave it in pace.
IV
Priest, tubbe sure, an' Parson, accordin' to what
they say,
The whole matther's plain as a pikestaff an' clear as the day,
An' to hear thim talk of a world beyant ye'd think at the laste
They'd been dead an' buried half their lives, an' had thramped it from west to aist;
An' who's for above, an' who's for below they've
as pat as if they could tell
The name of every saint in Heaven an' every divil in Hell.
But cock up the likes of thimselves to be settlin' it all to their taste—
I sez, and the wife she sez I'm no more nor a haythin baste—
For mighty few o' thim's rael Quality, musha, they're mostly a pack
O' playbians, each wid a tag to his name an' a long black coat to his back;
An' it's on'y romancin' they are belike; a man must stick be his trade,
An' they git their livin' by lettin' on they know how wan's sowl is made.
And in chapel or church they're bound to know somethin' for sure, good or bad,
Or where'd be the sinse o' their preachin' an' prayers an' hymns an' howlin' like mad?
So who'd go mindin' o' thim? barrin' women, in
coorse, an' wanes,
That believe 'most aught ye tell thim, if they don't understand what it manes—
Bedad, if it worn't the nathur o' women to want the wit,
Parson an' Priest I'm a-thinkin' might shut up their shop an' quit.
But, och, it's lost an' disthracted the crathurs 'ud be widout
Their bit o' divarsion on Sundays whin all o' thim gits about,
Cluth'rin' an' plutth'rin' together like hins, an' a- roostin' in rows,
An' meetin' their frins an' their neighbours, an' wearin' their dacint clothes.
The whole matther's plain as a pikestaff an' clear as the day,
An' to hear thim talk of a world beyant ye'd think at the laste
They'd been dead an' buried half their lives, an' had thramped it from west to aist;
51
The name of every saint in Heaven an' every divil in Hell.
But cock up the likes of thimselves to be settlin' it all to their taste—
I sez, and the wife she sez I'm no more nor a haythin baste—
For mighty few o' thim's rael Quality, musha, they're mostly a pack
O' playbians, each wid a tag to his name an' a long black coat to his back;
An' it's on'y romancin' they are belike; a man must stick be his trade,
An' they git their livin' by lettin' on they know how wan's sowl is made.
And in chapel or church they're bound to know somethin' for sure, good or bad,
Or where'd be the sinse o' their preachin' an' prayers an' hymns an' howlin' like mad?
52
That believe 'most aught ye tell thim, if they don't understand what it manes—
Bedad, if it worn't the nathur o' women to want the wit,
Parson an' Priest I'm a-thinkin' might shut up their shop an' quit.
But, och, it's lost an' disthracted the crathurs 'ud be widout
Their bit o' divarsion on Sundays whin all o' thim gits about,
Cluth'rin' an' plutth'rin' together like hins, an' a- roostin' in rows,
An' meetin' their frins an' their neighbours, an' wearin' their dacint clothes.
An' sure it's quare that the clergy can't ever
agree to keep
Be tellin' the same thrue story, sin' they know such a won'erful heap;
For many a thing Priest tells ye that Parson sez
is a lie,
An' which has a right to be wrong, the divil a much know I,
For all the differ I see 'twixt the pair o' thim'd fit in a nut:
Wan for the Union, an' wan for the League, an' both o' thim bitther as sut. But Misther Pierce, that's a gintleman born, an' has college larnin' and all,
There he was starin' no wiser than me where the shadow stands like a wall.
Be tellin' the same thrue story, sin' they know such a won'erful heap;
53
An' which has a right to be wrong, the divil a much know I,
For all the differ I see 'twixt the pair o' thim'd fit in a nut:
Wan for the Union, an' wan for the League, an' both o' thim bitther as sut. But Misther Pierce, that's a gintleman born, an' has college larnin' and all,
There he was starin' no wiser than me where the shadow stands like a wall.
V
An' soon afther thin, it so happint, things grew so conthráry an' bad,I fell to wond'rin' a dale if beyant there's aught betther at all to be had;
54
The more ye'll be cravin' an' longin' for somethin' else in the next;
While whinever there's little that ails ye, an' all goes slither as grase,
Ye don't so much as considher, bedad, if there's e'er such a place.
The same as a man comin' home from his work of a winther's night,
Whin the wind's like ice, an' the snow an' the rain have him perished outright,
His heart'll be set on a good turf blaze up the chimney roarin' an' red,
That'll put the life in him agin afore he goes to his bed;
Tho' on summer evenin's, whin soft as silk was every breath that wint,
He'd never have axed for a fire, but turned to his sleep contint.
55
VI
The first thing that wint agin us, an' sure we were rale annoyed,Was when Smithson, he that's steward at the Big House, he tuk an' desthroyed
Rexy, our little white dog, that we'd rared from no more than a pup,
For a matther o' four or five year, an' had kep' him an' petted him up.
Huntin' the sheep? If ye'd seen him ye'd know they were tellin' a lie,
Him that wasn't the size of a rabbit, an' wouldn't ha' hurted a fly.
And the frinliest baste, morebetoken, ye'd find in a long day's walk,
An' knowin' an' sinsible, too, as many a wan that can talk.
56
He'd be off like a shot an' meet me a dozen perch down the boreen;
An' whiles ye'd be kilt wid laughin', that quare wor his ways an' his thricks—
But there he lay stone dead be the gate at the back o' Hourigan's ricks;
For it's creepin' home the crathur was in hopes to die near his frins,
On'y he couldn't creep no furdher wid the leg of him smashed into splins.
An' och, but the house was lonesome whin we'd buried him down be the dyke,
An' the childer bawled thimselves sick, for they thought that there wasn't his like;
An' just this night, comin' up to the door, I was thinkin' I'd give a dale
For the sound of his bark, an' the pat of his paws, an' the wag of his tail.
57
VII
An' thin the winther began, on a suddint it seemed, for the treesWere flamin' like fire in the wood whin it tuk to perish an' freeze;
An' thro' your bones like a knife wint the win' that come keenin' around,
An' afther that wid the pours o' rain we were fairly dhrowned.
For the wather'd be runnin' in sthrames beneath the step at the door,
An' t' ould thatch that's thick wid holes let it dhrip in pools on the floor,
Till sorra the fire 'ud burn, wid the peat-sods no betther than mud,
Since the stacks thimselves outside seemed meltin' away in the flood.
58
Mayhap some one was follyin' behind me, but whin I looked round I seen nought,
Ne'er a sowl save meself, that I dunna believe he tuk heed on at all.
An' sez he: ‘Och, thin, Denis, me lad, so ye're here? Why, the step in the hall
Sounded strange-like; and I to be listenin', an’ never to think it was you.
But, in troth, till ye stood in me sight, I'd no aisier believe me luck true
Than if sthraight ye were come from the Dead. For the time, lad, wint wonderful slow,
An' it seems like the lenth o' me life since ye left us this great while ago;
An' sure only to look down a long lenth o' time sthrikes the could to your heart,
Let alone whin the days sthretch away, each like each, an' nought keeps thim apart
59
VIII
But I mind wan Sathurday's night, whin we
just were starved wid the could,
Me mother, she that we keep, an' that's growin' terrible ould,
All of a heap she was crouched be the hearth that was black as your grave,
For clane gone out was the fire; and her ould head never 'ud lave
Thrimblin' on like a dhrop o' rain that's ready to fall from the row,
The faster it thrimbles an' thrimbles the sooner it is to go.
And her poor ould hands were thrimblin' as she sthretched thim out for the hate,
For she'd gone too blind to see that there wasn't a spark in the grate;
Nor bit nor sup she'd had but a crust o' dhry
bread that day,
'Cause our praties had rotted on us, an' we'd had to throw thim away;
An' I knowed she was vexed, for, sure, it's but doatin' she is afther all,
And 'ill fret like a child whin she feels that her slice is cut skimpy an' small;
But other whiles she'd be grievin that we'd not got quit of her yet,
An' misdoubtin' we grudged away from the childher each morsel she'd get.
Me mother, she that we keep, an' that's growin' terrible ould,
All of a heap she was crouched be the hearth that was black as your grave,
For clane gone out was the fire; and her ould head never 'ud lave
Thrimblin' on like a dhrop o' rain that's ready to fall from the row,
The faster it thrimbles an' thrimbles the sooner it is to go.
And her poor ould hands were thrimblin' as she sthretched thim out for the hate,
For she'd gone too blind to see that there wasn't a spark in the grate;
60
'Cause our praties had rotted on us, an' we'd had to throw thim away;
An' I knowed she was vexed, for, sure, it's but doatin' she is afther all,
And 'ill fret like a child whin she feels that her slice is cut skimpy an' small;
But other whiles she'd be grievin that we'd not got quit of her yet,
An' misdoubtin' we grudged away from the childher each morsel she'd get.
An' watchin' her sittin' there, an' rememb'rin'
the life she'd led,
For me father dhrank, an' she'd throuble enough to keep the pack of us fed,
An' never the comfort she'd now, an' she grown feeble an' blind—
I couldn't but think 'twas a cruel bad job for such as she if behind
The blackness over beyant there was nought but
could for the could,
An' dark for the dark—no new world at all to make amends for the ould.
Tho' in troth it 'ud have to be the quarest world ye could name
That 'ud make it worth wan's while to ha' lived in the likes o' this same.
For me father dhrank, an' she'd throuble enough to keep the pack of us fed,
An' never the comfort she'd now, an' she grown feeble an' blind—
I couldn't but think 'twas a cruel bad job for such as she if behind
61
An' dark for the dark—no new world at all to make amends for the ould.
Tho' in troth it 'ud have to be the quarest world ye could name
That 'ud make it worth wan's while to ha' lived in the likes o' this same.
IX
But the dhrame I dhreamt that night was as sthrange as sthrange, for thinI thought I had come to a place whose aquil I never was in,
An' nobody'd tould me 'twas out o' this world, yet as soon as I came
Just o' meself I knew it, as people will in a dhrame.
62
The colour o' leaves in the spring, wid a thrimble o' mist between;
An' the smell o' the spring was in it, but the light that sthramed over all
Was liker the shine of a sunset whin leaves are beginnin' to fall.
X
An' two were talkin' together, that must ha' been standin' near,Tho' out o' me sight they kep'; an' their voices were pleasant to hear.
An' wan o' them sez to the other: ‘It's this I don't undherstand,
The sinse o' this wall built yonder around an' about the land’—
63
‘For,’ sez he, ‘it hides our world, as the thruth is hid be a lie,
From every sowl that's alive on the weary earth below,
Till ne'er such a place there might be at all, for aught they can know.
But grand it 'ud be some mornin' to make it melt off like the haze,
An' lave thim a sight o' this land that they're comin' to wan o' these days.
For look ye at Ireland, now, where they're just in a desperit state,
Wid the people sleepin' on mud, an' wantin' the morsel to ait;
If they knew there was betther in store, I dunno what harm could be in't,
Or what it 'ud do but hearten thim up, an' keep thim a bit contint.’
64
XI
Thin t' other: ‘Mind you, there's many that's
new to this place,’ sez he,
‘Comes axin' the same as yourself. But considher the way it 'ud be.
For whin wanst we downed wid the wall, an' nothin' was left to pervint
The poor folks yonder beholdin' the grandeur we've here fornint,
An' nearer a dale, belike, than they'd ever ha' thought or believed,
Who are the fools that 'ud stay any more where they're throubled an' grieved,
An' wouldn't be off wid thim here? Why, now, whin there's nought but a vast
O' shadow an' blackness afore him who looks to his death an' past
Why, even so, there's a few comes in that life wid
its weary work
Has dhruv intirely mad, till they lept to their ends in the dark.
‘Comes axin' the same as yourself. But considher the way it 'ud be.
For whin wanst we downed wid the wall, an' nothin' was left to pervint
The poor folks yonder beholdin' the grandeur we've here fornint,
An' nearer a dale, belike, than they'd ever ha' thought or believed,
Who are the fools that 'ud stay any more where they're throubled an' grieved,
An' wouldn't be off wid thim here? Why, now, whin there's nought but a vast
O' shadow an' blackness afore him who looks to his death an' past
65
Has dhruv intirely mad, till they lept to their ends in the dark.
‘An’ in Ireland, sure, this instant, there's crowds
o' thim sailin' bound
Off to the States an' 'Sthralia, that's half o' the whole world round,
Miles an' miles thro' the waves an' storms, an' whin they've got there, bedad,
No such won'erful lands, but just where their livin's aisier had.
An' it's mostly the young folks go, so the ould do be frettin' sore,
For thim that are gone they doubt 'ill come home in their time no more;
An' dhreary as e'er the long winther's night is the lonesome summer's day,
Whin there's never a stir in the house, an' the childher are over the say.
Off to the States an' 'Sthralia, that's half o' the whole world round,
Miles an' miles thro' the waves an' storms, an' whin they've got there, bedad,
No such won'erful lands, but just where their livin's aisier had.
An' it's mostly the young folks go, so the ould do be frettin' sore,
For thim that are gone they doubt 'ill come home in their time no more;
An' dhreary as e'er the long winther's night is the lonesome summer's day,
Whin there's never a stir in the house, an' the childher are over the say.
66
‘And, arrah now, wouldn't it be the worst day
that ould Ireland has known,
Whin she'd waken an' find all the people had quitted an' left her alone?
Never a voice to be heard, or a hover o' smoke to be spied,
An' sorra a sowl to set fut on the green o' the grass far an' wide,
Till the roads ran lone thro' the lan' as the sthrame that most desolit flows,
An' the bastes, sthrayed away in the fields, grew as wild as the kites an' the crows,
An' no wan to care what became o' the counthry left starin' an' stark—
But that's how 'twould happen if ever we let thim look clear thro' the dark.’
Whin she'd waken an' find all the people had quitted an' left her alone?
Never a voice to be heard, or a hover o' smoke to be spied,
An' sorra a sowl to set fut on the green o' the grass far an' wide,
Till the roads ran lone thro' the lan' as the sthrame that most desolit flows,
An' the bastes, sthrayed away in the fields, grew as wild as the kites an' the crows,
An' no wan to care what became o' the counthry left starin' an' stark—
But that's how 'twould happen if ever we let thim look clear thro' the dark.’
67
XII
An' the other, sez he: ‘Thrue for ye; but what seems sthrange to me yetIs the notions they've learned down yonder in spite o' this screen ye've set;
For there's many hears tell of a pleasant place where a man 'ill go whin he dies,
An' some be that certin sure, ye'd think they'd seen it all wid their eyes.’
XIII
‘The raison o' that,’ sez he, ‘is, we wouldn't let
thim despair,
Cliver an' clane, any more than we'd show thim the whole of it clear;
So wanst in a while we've given to some poor
crathur o' thim
A glimpse at this place, but on'y lapt up in a mist like an' dim.
An' as soon as it slips from their sight 'tis dhrowned in the darkness deep,
Till sometimes they doubt afther all if 'twas aught but a dhrame in their sleep.
An' the rest spy nothin' at all, but they hear from the folks that do,
An' they wish it so bad that often they believe they believe it's thrue.
Cliver an' clane, any more than we'd show thim the whole of it clear;
68
A glimpse at this place, but on'y lapt up in a mist like an' dim.
An' as soon as it slips from their sight 'tis dhrowned in the darkness deep,
Till sometimes they doubt afther all if 'twas aught but a dhrame in their sleep.
An' the rest spy nothin' at all, but they hear from the folks that do,
An' they wish it so bad that often they believe they believe it's thrue.
‘But suppose, now, wan that was hungry could
watch unbeknownst thro' a chink
Where some had a faste preparin', the finest ye ever could think,
If he thought he 'd a chance o' the thrate, sure it's quiet an' still he'd wait,
For fear if he came ere they called they'd be puttin' him out of it sthraight.’
Where some had a faste preparin', the finest ye ever could think,
If he thought he 'd a chance o' the thrate, sure it's quiet an' still he'd wait,
For fear if he came ere they called they'd be puttin' him out of it sthraight.’
69
XIV
That's all their discoorse I remember, for thin, as sure as I'm born,It was Rexy's bark that I heard—no other baste's, I'll be sworn:
And I couldn't tell ye the pleasure I tuk in't, for somehow the sound
Seemed givin' a nathural feel to whatever I seen around.
And I just was thinkin': “It's mad wid joy, poor Rexy, he'd be if he knew
There was wan of us come from th' ould place at home”—whin, och wirrasthrew,
All in a minute I opened me eyes where I lay on the floor,
An' the child was keenin' away, an' the wind moanin' under the door,
70
An' outside in the could daylight the air was a-flutther wid snow,
An' the black bank sthraked wid white like the bars on a magpie's wing—
For sorra a word o' thruth was in't, an' I'd nought but dhramed the thing.
XV
Sorra a word o' thruth—yet some sez that they've
never a doubt
But there's plenty o' thruth in a dhrame, if ye turn it the right side out:
An' I mind me mother, wan night she dhreamt of a ship on the say,
An' next mornin' her Micky, the souldier, came home that was years away.
Thin a notion I have, as I woke, I'd heard wan o'
thim two inside
Sayin': ‘Sleep, that's the chink for a glimpse, but death, that's the door set wide’;
An' whin things do be cruel conthráry, wid could an' the hunger an' all,
Some whiles I fall thinkin': ‘Sure, maybe, it's on'y a bit o' their wall.’
But there's plenty o' thruth in a dhrame, if ye turn it the right side out:
An' I mind me mother, wan night she dhreamt of a ship on the say,
An' next mornin' her Micky, the souldier, came home that was years away.
71
Sayin': ‘Sleep, that's the chink for a glimpse, but death, that's the door set wide’;
An' whin things do be cruel conthráry, wid could an' the hunger an' all,
Some whiles I fall thinkin': ‘Sure, maybe, it's on'y a bit o' their wall.’
So p'rhaps it's a fool that I am, but many's the
time, all the same,
I sez to meself I'd be wishful for just a dhrame o' that dhrame.
I sez to meself I'd be wishful for just a dhrame o' that dhrame.
| Bog-land Studies | |