Bog-land Studies By J. Barlow: 3rd ed |
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 | Bog-land Studies |  |
IX
Sure now, Quality's quare in their ways; when
me cousin ran off to inlist,
Troth, the bawls of his mother an' sisthers were fit to ha' frighted the best;
An' last winther whin Norah Macabe had heard tell that her sweetheart was dhrowned,
It's her scrames 'ud ha' terrified nations—ye'd hear thim a good mile o' ground.
Troth, the bawls of his mother an' sisthers were fit to ha' frighted the best;
An' last winther whin Norah Macabe had heard tell that her sweetheart was dhrowned,
It's her scrames 'ud ha' terrified nations—ye'd hear thim a good mile o' ground.
165
But Miss Honor, as still and as quiet she turned
back be the way that she came,
Down the aisle, past the pews wid the people set starin' in rows just the same;
An' right out to the shine o' the sun, that should never ha' lit on her head
Till she walked wid a ring on her hand, an' the girls sthrewin' flowers where she'd thread.
So she passed thro' the yard, where the folk all kep' whisht as the dead in their graves,
Not a sound in the world save the flutther o' win' thro' the ever-green laves,
An' a lark somewhere singin' like wild up above in the high light alone;
Till the carriage dhruv off from the gate, an' we heard the wheels grate on the stone.
Thin ould Molly O'Rourke, that stood by wid her head in her raggety cloak:
‘Now, the Saints may purtect her,’ sez she, ‘for the heart of the crathur is broke.’
Down the aisle, past the pews wid the people set starin' in rows just the same;
An' right out to the shine o' the sun, that should never ha' lit on her head
Till she walked wid a ring on her hand, an' the girls sthrewin' flowers where she'd thread.
So she passed thro' the yard, where the folk all kep' whisht as the dead in their graves,
Not a sound in the world save the flutther o' win' thro' the ever-green laves,
An' a lark somewhere singin' like wild up above in the high light alone;
Till the carriage dhruv off from the gate, an' we heard the wheels grate on the stone.
Thin ould Molly O'Rourke, that stood by wid her head in her raggety cloak:
‘Now, the Saints may purtect her,’ sez she, ‘for the heart of the crathur is broke.’
| Bog-land Studies | |