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

Sure he'd never ha' done it, not he, if I'd on'y but held o' me tongue;
Och, the fool that I was, the black fool—for the same I'd deserve to be hung;
But, bedad thin, the tongue o' ye's harder than aught in the world else to hould,
An' that mornin' we all was disthracted an' perished wid hunger an' could.

138

II

It was right in the worst o' the famine, the first years the praties wint black—
Tho' ye're scarce of an age, Sisther Frances, to remember o' things so far back;
But in coorse ye've heard tell o' thim times, whin the people was dyin' be the score,
Ay, be hundrids an' thousinds, the like was ne'er seen in the counthry before.
An' what else should the crathurs ha' done, wid the food o' thim rotted to dirt?
Och, to see thim—ye'd meet ne'er a man but his face was as white as his shirt.
And ourselves had been starved all the winther, the childher, an' Micky, an' me,
An' poor Micky's ould mother, till, comin' on spring, not a chance could we see;

139

For there wasn't a house far or near where they'd give ye the black o' your eye,
And our Praste he was down wid the fever, an' clane ruinated forby.

III

So it's rale delighted we were on that evenin' Pat Murphy brought word
How the people o' Lunnon had sint some relief to our townland he heard;
Relief—that was oatmale, an' loaves, an' a grand sup o' broth in a bowl,
An' to git it ye'd stip down to Parson, who'd tuk to disthribit the whole. So full early we started next day, sin' the road's a long sthretch to his place,
An' we hadn't a scrap in the house but a crust for the childher. And in case

140

We got out the big bag for the male, Mick an' I, while the rest, lookin' on,
Did be wishin' we'd bring it back full, an' a- wondhrin' how long we'd be gone.
Sure, the laste o' thim all, little Larry, that scarce was a size to run sthraight,
Tuk a notion to come wid us too, whin he heard 'twas for somethin' to ait.
I remember the look of it yit, skytin' afther us the lenth o' the lane.

Thin I mind, comin' into the town, meetin' cart- loads and cart-loads o' grain,
That Lord Athmore was sindin' in sthrings to be shipped off from Westport by say;
An' the people stood watchin' thim pass like as if 'twas a corpse on its way.
An' sez Mick, whin we met thim: ‘Look, Norah,’ sez he, ‘that's not aisy to stand:
It's the lives of our childher th' ould naygur's a-cartin' off out o' the land.’

141

An' sez I, just to pacify Mick: ‘Thin good luck to the folks as ha' sint
What 'ill keep o' the sowls in their bodies; if we can but do that I'm contint.’

IV

But, och, Sisther darlin', at Parson's we got sorra a bit afther all;
Not a taste in the world save the smell o' the soup that was sthrong in the hall.
For whin Parson come out from his breakfast, he said the relief that he'd got
Was for thim who wint reg'lar to church—where he'd ne'er seen a wan of our lot;
An' he'd liefer throw bread to the dogs than to childher o' papists, whose thricks
Were no better than haythins'. brought up to be worshippin' ould bits o' sticks.

142

Howsome'er, if we'd give him our word we'd attind the next Sunday, why thin
He'd considher. But who could ha' promised the like? Such a shame and a sin:
Turn a souper in sight o' thim all, an' throop off to the place where they curse
The ould Pope, an' the Virgin, an' jeer at the Mass —why, what haythin'd do worse?
Yet that hape o' big loaves. Sisther Frances, thim folk's in a manner to blame
Who know whin ye're starvin' an' tempt ye. So we wint back the way that we came.
But, ochone, it seemed double the lenth, an' it's never a word Micky said,
An' the ould empty bag on me arm was that light it felt heavy as lead;
An' the childher, that ran out to meet us as far as the top o' the hill,
Whin they found we'd brought nothin' at all—I could cry now to think o' thim still.

143

V

An' twyst afther that Mick wint down there to thry if a bit could be had,
But onless that we promised to turn, not a scrapeen we'd git good or bad.
Och, the long hungry days. So wan mornin' we'd ate all the breakfast o'er night,
And I hoped we'd be late wakin' up, but it seemed cruel soon gittin' light.
An' the March win' was ice, an' the sun on'y shinin to show it its road,
An' the fire was gone out on us black, an' no turf till wan thramped for a load.
Thin the childher, an' Mick's mother herself, were that starvin', the crathurs, an' could,
That they all fell to keenin' together most woeful, the young an' the ould;

144

Until Mick, that was lyin' in bed for the hunger, an' half the week long
Had scarce tasted a bit, he laned up on his elbow to ax what was wrong.
An' sez I—God forgive me, 'twas just the first thing that come into me head—
‘Sure it's cryin’ they are, man,” sez I, ‘for the want of a mouthful o' bread,
And it's dyin' they may be next thing, for what help I can see. Och, it's quare,
But if Parson had knowed how we're kilt, an' ye'd on'y ha' spoken him fair,
He'd allow us a thrifle at laste.’ An' sez he: ‘Woman, whisht! what's the use?
I might spake him as fair as ye plase, or might give him the heighth of abuse,
All as wan, he's that bitther agin us. But throth will I stand it no more;
I'll turn souper this day for the male.’ And he ups wid himself off the floor;

145

For 'twas Sunday that mornin', worse luck: ‘It's a sin, sure,’ sez he, ‘I know well,
“Siver, sooner than watch thim disthroyed, I'd say prayers to the Divil in Hell,’
Sez he, goodness forgive him—but, mind you, meself's every ha'porth as bad,
For thin, watchin' him off down the lane, I dunno was I sorry or glad.

VI

And he wint, sure enough, to the church. Widdy Mahon she tould me next day
How she'd gone there herself for the victuals, an' met wid him comin' away;
And how afther the service they stepped up to Parson's to thry what they'd git,
An' they got a half loaf, an' the full o' the male- bag; an' never a bit

146

Would he touch, but made off wid him sthraight, tho' she said he seemed hard-set to crawl—
Och, ye see 'twas for us that he turned, for him- self he'd ne'er do it at all.
An' it's wishful he was to slip home in a hurry, poor lad, wid his pack,
An' to bring us the best that he had. But och, Sisther, he never got back.

VII

For the boys comin' up from the Mass down at Moyna, a while later on,
Found him dhropped of a hape be the path past Kilogue wid the life of him gone;
An' th' ould male-bag gripped close in his hand, that he thought to ha' carried us home.
Och, I mind it, the place where he lay, 'tis the lonesomest road ye can roam,

147

Wid the bog black an' dhreary around ye, an' sorra a wall or a hedge,
Sthretchin' out till the hill-top lifts up like a fear- ful great face o'er the edge;
An' the breadths o' the big empty sky, wid no end, look as far as ye will,
Seem just dhrawin' an' dhrainin' your life out, if weak-like ye're feelin' an' ill;
An' it's that way poor Mick was. Och, Sisther, there's scarcely a day's gone by
In the years ever since, but I'm thinkin' how desolit he happint to die,
And I dhrame it o' nights—be himself, starin' lonesome an' lost 'nathe thim skies,
Wid the could creepin' into his heart, an' the cloud comin' over his eyes,
An' that sin on his sowl—would ye say there's a chance for him? Look, now, at me,
Wid a bed to die aisy on here in the House, betther off, sure, than he,

148

An' me fau't just as bad. Cock me up! to lie here where I've help widin call,
An' poor Mick out o' rache on the road—where's the manin' or sinse in't at all?

VIII

Ay, in troth, 'twas no thing to go do; ay, a scandal it was and a sin;
But mayhap they'd scarce judge him so hard if they knew all the sthraits we were in.
There's the Mother o' Mercy, sez I to meself, sure, it's childher she's had—
May they ne'er want the bite or the sup, if she'll spake a good word for me lad.
Och, me head's gittin' doitered an' quare, or I'd know they've tuk off out o' this,
And is settled in glory above, where there's nought can befall them amiss.

149

But suppose she remembers her time down below, if she even lived where
The ould blight never come on their praties an' dhruv the whole land to despair,
Yet I'm thinkin' there's always been plenty o' throuble about on this earth,
An' for sure 'twill ha' happint her whiles to ha' never a sod on the hearth,
Or a scrap for the pot, an' the childher around her all famished an' white,
An' they cryin', an' she nothin' to give them, save bid them to whisht an' be quite.

IX

But, indeed, for that matther, the Lord, who'd enough to contind wid those times,
Might ha' some sort o' notion himself how the poor people's tempted to crimes,

150

Whin they're watchin' their own folk a-starvin', an' no help for it, strive as they may.
For himself set a dale by his mother, accordin' as I've heard say,
An' remembered her last thing of all in the thick of his throuble, an' thought
To make sure she'd ha' some wan to care her an' heed that she wanted for nought,
An' be keepin' the roof o'er her head while she lived, all the same as her son—
But, ye see, he'd a frind he could trust to, an' Micky, the crathur, had none.
An' that same would be vexin' his heart while he lay dyin' there on the road;
For the sorra a sowl would be left in the world to purtect us, he knowed;
An' I mind when the fever he had, an' was wandh'rin' a bit in his head,
He kep' ravin' continyal as how “twas desthroyed we'd be wanst he was dead.

151

An' poor Mick was that kind in his heart, he'd be put past his patience outright
Whin th' ould mother an' childher was frettin” wid hunger from mornin' till night;
An' it's that was the raison he done it—nought else. So, belike, if above
They'd considher the hardships he met, till its' desprit, bedad, he was dhruv,
An' no hope o' relief for the crathurs at home, mind you, barrin' he wint
An' let on a bit now an' agin—they'd believe 'twas no harm that he mint;
An' that wan sin he done, an' he starvin', they'd maybe forgive an' forget—
Och, Sisther Frances, me honey, would ye say there's a chance for him yet?

Souper is a term applied to the few Irish Catholic peasants who, during famine years, professed Protestantism in order to obtain the relief, often intrusted for distribution to the clergy of the then Established Church, who occasionally made a grant conditional upon attendance at their services, etc., though as a rule acting impartially and humanely.