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Bog-land Studies

By J. Barlow: 3rd ed
Barlow, Jane (1857?-1917)

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TH' OULD MASTER
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WALLED OUT
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LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S
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BY THE BOG-HOLE
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PAST PRAYING FOR OR, THE SOUPER'S WIDOW
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MISS HONOR'S WEDDING
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A CURLEW'S CALL

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IV

So wan evenin'—I know if I think, 'twas whin last they were cuttin' the oats,
Maybe four months from now, whin outside past the bars there's an odd snow-flake floats,
But it seems to me feelin' a world's breadth away, and a life's lenth ago—
Well, the two of us sat on the hill, an' the sun was about gettin' low,
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An' there wasn't a ray on the lan', for the dhrift o' dark cloud overhead
Sthretched away like a roof, till just rimmin' the west ran the light in a thread,
Same as if 'twas a lid liftin' up on bright hinges; an' sorra a breath
Thro' the leaves or the grass, for the win' never stirred, an' 'twas stiller than death.
An' so Nelly'd a poppy-bud pulled, wid the red all crased up in the green,
An' sat smoothin' its leaves on her lap, till ye saw its black heart in between;
An' her hair curlin' over the shine of her eyes, an' a smile on her mouth,
As I knew by the dint in her cheek turned aside from me. Sure 'twas the truth,
But I dunno for why of a suddint the notion come into me mind
That in all o' that bog-land it's Nell was the purtiest thing ye could find;
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An' thinks I: ‘Sure the slip of a lass, whin the days o' me life 'ill be dark,
Is the same as yon glame in the west that widout it has sorra a spark.’
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