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

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.

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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.