 | The Mockers and other Verses |  |
XII
But it's sorry I was for owld Owen MacDonnell, for mostly the folkDid 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,
36
'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.
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