 | Bog-land Studies |  |
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,
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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,
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An' poor Mick out o' rache on the road—where's the manin' or sinse in't at all?
| Bog-land Studies | |