 | Bog-land Studies |  |
75
I
Betther nor thirty year sin' Barney M'Gurk
set up
Here by the ould cross-roads, and, begorra, there's many a sup
I've tuk sittin' snug be the hearth in the corner he calls me own,
For all it's a quare bad custhomer Barney'll ha' found me, ochone,
This long while back, bringin' seldom or never the pinny to spind;
But Barney M'Gurk isn't wan that 'ud disremem- ber a frind.
So many's the warm I've had in the could o' the
winther's night,
For he keeps up the grandest o' fires; ye'll see the glim of it bright
Away down the bog; it's the divil to pass be the door in the dark,
Whin ye doubt if at home on the bit o' wet floor ye'll find ever a spark.
Here by the ould cross-roads, and, begorra, there's many a sup
I've tuk sittin' snug be the hearth in the corner he calls me own,
For all it's a quare bad custhomer Barney'll ha' found me, ochone,
This long while back, bringin' seldom or never the pinny to spind;
But Barney M'Gurk isn't wan that 'ud disremem- ber a frind.
76
For he keeps up the grandest o' fires; ye'll see the glim of it bright
Away down the bog; it's the divil to pass be the door in the dark,
Whin ye doubt if at home on the bit o' wet floor ye'll find ever a spark.
And oft o' these summer evenin's I've watched
how the moon 'ill stale
O'er yonder black ridge o' Knockreagh like the ghost of a little white sail,
Wid never a beam to her more than a ball o' the thistle-down,
Till she'd drink every dhrop o' the light from the breadths o' the air aroun',
An' shine like a bubble o' silver that swells an' swells, an' thin
Float off thro' the thick o' the stars. But I'll never watch her agin.
O'er yonder black ridge o' Knockreagh like the ghost of a little white sail,
Wid never a beam to her more than a ball o' the thistle-down,
Till she'd drink every dhrop o' the light from the breadths o' the air aroun',
An' shine like a bubble o' silver that swells an' swells, an' thin
Float off thro' the thick o' the stars. But I'll never watch her agin.
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