Bog-land Studies :: :: University of Virginia Library

He's been always a good son, Pat, an' the wife, there's no fau't in his wife,
Sure she's doin' her best to keep house sin' me ould woman lost her life;
But the throuble she's had—och! the crathur, small blame to her now if she'd think
It was time they were quit of a wan fit for nought save to ait an' to dhrink.

For whiles, whin she's washin' the praties, or cuttin' the childher's bread,
I know be the look of her face she's rememb'rin' the child that's dead;

The littlest, that died in last winther, and often afore it died
Did be askin' its mammy for bread, an' thin, 'cause she'd none, it cried;
An' the Docther he said 'twas the hunger had kilt it; an' that was the case:
Ye could see thro' its wee bits of hands, an' its eyes were as big as its face.
An' whiles whin I'm aitin' me crust, I'll be thinkin' to hear it cry—
But she, that's the mother who bore it—who'd blame her? In throth not I.

Och! but that was the terrible winther, an' like to ha' starved us outright;
Ne'er a hungrier saison I mind since the first o' the pratie blight;
An' whine'er wan's no call to be hungry, it's three times as hungry wan feels,
An' so I that worked never a sthroke, I did always be great at me meals.

Yet I spared thim the most that I could, for o' nights whin I noticed our heap
O' praties looked small in the pot, I'd let on I was fast asleep;
So Molly she'd spake to the childher, an' bid thim to whisht an' be quite,
For if gran'daddy sted on asleep, he'd be wantin' no supper that night;
Thin, the crathurs, as cautious an' cute as the mice they'd all keep whin they heard,
An' to think that the little childher'd sit watchin', not darin' a word,
But hush-hushin' wan to the other, for fear I might happin to wake
And ait up their morsel o' food—sure me heart 'ud be ready to break.