 | Bog-land Studies |  |
V
But the marchin' around, an' the tunes, an' the
thricks that the young fellows play,
'Tisn't thim ye think badly o' missin', at laste on'y wanst in a way;
For, as far as I know be experience, ye'll mostly be plased nigh as well
If the childher 've their bit o' divarsion the same as ye had yoursel';
An' your legs get so stiff of an evenin', that afther
your day's work is done
Ye're contint wid the full o' your pipe at the door, and a sight o' the fun.
'Tisn't thim ye think badly o' missin', at laste on'y wanst in a way;
For, as far as I know be experience, ye'll mostly be plased nigh as well
If the childher 've their bit o' divarsion the same as ye had yoursel';
83
Ye're contint wid the full o' your pipe at the door, and a sight o' the fun.
It's your work, your day's work; that's the
mischief. It's little enough I knew,
Whin the sun had me scorched to the bone, or the win' maybe perished right thro',
In the field or the bog, as might chance, an' I'd think to meself I could wish
Nought betther than never agin to be loadin' a cart or a kish—
It's little I knew; for, sure, now, whin I couldn't to save o' me soul
So much just as carry a creel to our heap from the next bog-hole,
The two eyes I'd give out o' me head to be peltin' away at it still,
Mowin' a meadow, or cuttin' the turf, ay, or ploughin' up hill.
For I hate to be hearin' the lads turnin' out whin
the dawn blinks in,
And I lyin' there like a log wid the sorra a job to begin,
Barrin' helpin' to ait up the praties, an' they none too plenty perhaps;
Sure, the pig's worther keepin', poor baste, for it's fatter he gits on his scraps.
So at home be the hearth-stone I stick, or I creep up an' down be the wall,
An' the day feels as long as a week, an' there seems no sinse in it all.
Whin the sun had me scorched to the bone, or the win' maybe perished right thro',
In the field or the bog, as might chance, an' I'd think to meself I could wish
Nought betther than never agin to be loadin' a cart or a kish—
It's little I knew; for, sure, now, whin I couldn't to save o' me soul
So much just as carry a creel to our heap from the next bog-hole,
The two eyes I'd give out o' me head to be peltin' away at it still,
Mowin' a meadow, or cuttin' the turf, ay, or ploughin' up hill.
84
And I lyin' there like a log wid the sorra a job to begin,
Barrin' helpin' to ait up the praties, an' they none too plenty perhaps;
Sure, the pig's worther keepin', poor baste, for it's fatter he gits on his scraps.
So at home be the hearth-stone I stick, or I creep up an' down be the wall,
An' the day feels as long as a week, an' there seems no sinse in it all.
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