University of Virginia Library

BY THE BOG-HOLE

I

Ay, her people an' mine we lived next door at the end o' the long boreen,
Afore it runs out on the breadth o' the bog where the black land bates the green;
An' Nelly's mother 'ud always give me a pleasant word passin' thim by,
As I dhruv out our cow of a mornin', an' meself scarce her showlder high.
An' Nelly she'd crawl up the step, an' stump afther me into the lane,
An' she'd throt, callin': ‘'Top, Dimmy, 'top!’ for she couldn't run sthraight, or spake plain;
And her mother'd say, ‘Jimmy, me lad, if I trust her along wid ye, thin,
Keep your eye on her; mind the big hole; for your life don't be lettin' her in.’
So it's many a day I'd be keepin' me eye on the child an' the baste,
That had mostly a mind to be goin' wherever ye wanted thim laste;
An' th' ould cow'd sthray away thro' the bog, if she couldn't find mischief to do
Thramplin' fences an' fields; but it's Nelly herself was the worst o' the two.
For ere ever ye'd know, there she'd be like a scut of a rabbit a-creep—
She'd creep faster thim whiles than she'd walk— down the bank where the hole's lyin' deep;
An' it's thin I'd the work o' the world to be catchin' her an' coaxin' her back,
Such a fancy she'd tuk to the place, an' it lookin' so ugly an' black,
Wid its sides cut wall-sthraight wid the spade, an' the wather like midnight below,
Lyin' far out o' reach; overhead all the storm-winds may blusther an' blow,
But 'tis still as a floor o' stone flags, an' its depth ye can't measure noways;
Sure if Nelly had crep' o'er the edge, she'd ha' crep' to the end of her days.

II

But the years wint till Nelly'd more wit than to dhrown of herself in a hole,
An' meself was a size to git work in the fields; yit, fair weather or foul,
Whin a holiday come we'd be out rovin' round on the bog, she an' me,
For we always kep' frinds; and it's lonesome was Nell, since the mother, ye see,
Tuk an' died wan hard winter, worse luck—a bad job for the little colleen—
And her brothers had gone to the States, and her father was fond o' potheen,
And 'ud bide dhrinkin' dhrops down at Byrne's till he hadn't a thought in his head;
So that, barrin' ould Granny an' me, all her company'd quit or was dead.

III

There's a bit of a hill rises up, right fornint the big hole—the same sort
As ye'll count be the dozen in bogs, wid the grass on't fine-bladed an' short,
An' the furzes an' broom in a ruffle a-top, an' flat stones peepin' out,
Where it's pleasant to sit in the sun and be lookin' around and about,
Whin the bog wid its stacks and its pools spreads away to the rim o' the blue
That lanes over as clear as a glass, on'y somehow wan ne'er can see thro'.
An' there's plenty to mind, sure, if on'y ye look to the grass at your feet,
For 'tis thick wid the tussocks of heather, an' blossoms and herbs that smell sweet
If ye tread thim; an' maybe the white o' the bog-cotton waved in the win',
Like the wool ye might shear off a night-moth, an' set an ould fairy to spin;
Or wee frauns, each wan stuck 'twixt two leaves on a grand little stem of its own,
Lettin' on 'twas a plum on a tree; an' the briers thrailed o'er many a stone
Dhroppin' dewberries, black-ripe and soft, fit to melt into juice in your hould;
An' the bare stones thimselves 'ill be dusted wid circles o' silver an' gould—
Nelly called thim the moon an' the sun—an' grey patches like moss that's got froze,
Wid white cups in't that take a red rim by the time we've the sheaves up in rows;
I'd be vexed whin they turned, for a sign that the summer was slippin' away,
But poor Nelly was pleased wid the little bright sthrakes growin' broader each day.

IV

V

But that instant he stepped round the end o' the turf-stack fornint the boreen,
Wid a scarlet to aquil the poppies ablaze on his bit o' coateen,
And his belts and his straps and his buckles as white an' as bright as could shine—
Whin a dragon-fly sits on the slant o' the sun he looks somethin' as fine—
Till he seemed to be lightin' a dazzle an' glitter each step that he stirred;
And his little red cap set a-top wid a cock, like the crest of a bird,
And his spurs glancin' out at his heels, an' the stripes o' gold lace down his sleeve;
And himself was just Felix Magrath comin' home to his father's on leave.

VI

The red-coats—I'd seen thim at Christmas, when 'victions was down at Drumloe,
Standin' watchin' the ould folk an' childher put out in the flurries o' snow,
And it's thin they looked bitther an' black as their powdher an' steel, man for man,
But—I'll say that for Felix Magrath—find a pleasanter lad if ye can.
For he seemed somehow heartenin' things up, whin he stepped along sthraight as a dart,
Maybe twirlin' his bit of a stick to a tune like, that dacint an' smart
That ye'd feel, clumpin' on be his side, like a quare sort o' raggety gawk.
Thin to hear him discoorse; ye might listen from mornin' till night to his talk,
He'd such stories of all he'd beheld in thim lands where they fight wid the blacks,
Where the curiousest things ye could think do be plenty as turf-sods in stacks.
And he'd medals that set him rememb'rin' wan day whin the guns let a roar
From the ridge o' the sandhills close by, where they'd come since the evenin' before;
An' it's mountin' they all were next minute, an' waitin' the word o' command,
Wid his baste in a quiver to start, sthrainin' hard on the reins in his hand,
An' thim other lads passin' thim on to the front till their hearts were nigh broke,
Thramp an' thramp, wid the bands playin' march- tunes ahead thro' the booms in the smoke;
Thin the bugle rang out—Och, I've ne'er heard the like, yet wan aisy can tell
They'd ha' lep' all the locked gates of Heaven to ride wid that music to Hell.

VII

So if Nell tuk a pleasure in listenin', the same as the rest o' thim, why
'Twas small blame to her; that's what I said to meself; but it seemed like a lie.
An' whine'er I come home from me work, an' seen never a sowl be the hedge,
Where there'd most whiles be Nelly to meet me, but, happen, away on the edge
O'the hill-slope a pair standin' dark 'ginst the clear o' the sunset, och thin
All the fire that was dead in the sky seemed flared up to a burnin' agin
In the core o' me heart; an' the first thing I knew I'd be rippin' an oath,
Wid me fingers clenched hard in a rage, like as if they were grippin' his throath;
An' I'd swear to meself that whin wanst he was parted from Nelly that night,
I'd slip afther him back to his place, an' pervoke him some way to a fight,
As I ready might do if I plased, an' no throuble about it at all,
For it's aisier risin' a quarrel than sthrikin'a match on a wall.
An' bedad, if it come to that work, it's meself might be havin' the pull,
For I stood a head taller than he, and I'd always the strenth of a bull;
An' 'twas likely enough, if I masthered him thin, he'd take off out o' this,
An' leave Nelly an' me to ourselves as if naught had befallen amiss;
An' thin Nelly'd percaive there was more in the world than a gay bit o' red—
So thinks I to meself; but, sure, musha, wan's thoughts is like beads off a thread,
Slippin' each after each in a hurry: an' so I kep' considherin' on,
Till the next thought I had was if Nelly'd be fretted whin Felix was gone.
For I knew that the comfort was crep' from me life like the light from the day
Since se'd tuk up wid him; an' belike now if aught chanced that dhruv him away,
She'd be heart-broke. An' what call had I to go vex her wid comin' between,
Whin she'd liefer have him than meself in me shows of ould brogues an' caubeen?
‘Divil take me,’ sez I, ‘thin it's schemin' I am to have Nelly to wake
Wid her heart every mornin' like lead, if there's lead that can thrimble and ache,
Wid no pleasure in aught, feelin' lonesome an' lost in the world dhrear an' wild,
I might betther ha' left her to dhrown, an' she on'y an imp of a child.’

VIII

But there's whiles whin the throubles ye're dhreadin' seem comin' be conthrary ways,
An' ye'll wondher what road ye should turn from the worst till your mind's in a maze,
Like me own, whin I heard what the neighbours were sayin' o' Nelly. Bedad,
It's the lasses were jealous I know—but they all would go bail Magrath's lad
Was just foolin' the girl for the sake o' divarsion as certin as fate,
Wid his slootherin' talk, and his thrapesin' afther her early an' late,
Till she'd come to no good. Ay, mayhap, it was nothin' but envy an' spite,
Yet it seemed to meself whin the neighbours called Felix a rogue, they said right;
An' thin Nell'd got no mother to mind her. I couldn't tell what to be at,
For if all that they talked was the truth, I'd ha' choked him as soon as a rat;
But the truth was as hard to piece out as a page whin the half of it's torn;
An' I'd think 'twixt us both Nell might fare like a little white rose on the thorn,
That two childher'll be scufflin' an' tusslin' to grab, 'cause it's purty an' sweet,
Till its laves is shook off in a shower, an' throd down in the dust at their feet.

IX

An' thim evenin's I felt to be hatin' whatever I seen or I heard,
So I'd slinge away into the house, where I'd nowan to give me a word,
An' the corners is black at noonday. But I couldn't shut out o' me sight
How the west where the sun had gone by would be swimmin' brimful wid clear light,
An' as fast as it dhrained off the stars 'ud be slippin' this side o' the sky,
Like the rain-dhrops that rowl down and hang from the blade-points; it's Nelly and I
'Ud be watchin' thim many a time; an' sure now she was watchin' wid him,
An' what differ to her? But a wolf whin he's tearin' a man limb from limb
Might ha' frindlier feelin's than me, whin I fancied the two o' thim there,
Sthrollin' aisy, while Felix'd be stickin' red poppies in Nelly's black hair,
As I seen him wan evenin', or pullin' her kingcups along be the pool,
An' they both talkin' low, an' it's like enough laughin' at me for a fool
That had tuk off to sulk be himself. I'd ha' sworn I was hearin' him laugh;
An' I wanst grabbed me blackthorn that laned be the wall, an' I snapped it in half
Like a withy, ere I knew what I done, and it thick as your wristbone. An' thin
There'd be Granny, that sat on the step wid her knittin', would keep peerin' in,
Thinkin' maybe I'd speak to her pleasant some while; for the crathur was scared,
An' she dursn't so much as be askin' what ailed me; but little I cared,
Or it's plased in a manner I was wid the notion I'd somebody vexed;
An' I'd often scarce open me lips, good or bad, from wan light till the next.
Och, but slow wint the time, an' I crouched in the dark like a baste in his lair,
Ragin' crueler than bastes, barrin' divils. Sure mad ye'd go, mad wid despair,
If ye hadn't the thought that the end o' the end, whatsoe'er may befall,
Is nought else save a paice and a quiet, where ye'll disremember it all.

X

Well, wan night, comin' home agin sundown, I met wid some girls at the gate
Beyant Reilly's, an' Biddy O'Loughlin: ‘Och Jimmy,’ sez she, ‘man, ye're late;
For we seen thim just now, passin’ by near the pool at the fut o' the hill,
Your sweetheart an' her sweetheart, thick as two thieves. Ye might find thim there still,
If ye stirred yourself,’ sez she. Sez I: ‘Find a sweetheart, me lass, o' your own,
And it's thin ye'll be maybe contint to let other folks' sweethearts alone.’
So sez I; but I thought to meself I'd turn back be the way that I came,
An' keep out o' the sight o' the hole. But it's there I wint sthraight all the same.

XI

XII

Och, the world gave a reel; och, the words meant no more than the thunderclaps mane,
Thro' the roar in me ears, till I saw thim black sods that were soft wid the rain
All fresh thrampled, an' scrawmed on the edge were the prints left where somewan had gript
For dear life wid his fingers—God help him whin heavy he grew, an' they slipt,
And he dug his nails hard—an' they slipt. An' in Nelly's own bit of a hand,
That I'd caught, was a scrap o' gold lace; an' his cap wid its bright-shinin' band
Hung there waved on a brier; but the wather lay smooth. An' sez I: ‘In God's name,
What was that ye said, Nelly?’ An' sez she: ‘'Twas but now; he was here whin I came.
An' sez he, whin the rain-dhrops began: “Now the fine weather's broke, I'll be sworn,
But it's lasted as long as me leave, for I'm off to the Curragh the morn.”
So sez I: “Is it that soon ye'll be goin'?” An' sez he: “Sure, if longer I'd stay,
What at all would the wife there be doin'? She'd think that I'd scooted away;
Och, it's ragin' she'd be like the mischief. But, Nelly,” sez he, “wife or no,
Ye're the purtiest girl I e'er seen, an' ye'll give me a kiss ere I go.”
But I pushed him away, and I sez: “Ne'er a kiss ye'll be gittin' from me.”
An' I turned to run home, an' the sky'd grown so dark that I scarcely could see.
Thin he tuk a step back—sure belike he forgot he stood close to the bank—
An' he fell, an' he held to the edge, but he dhropped in the wather an' sank.
An' he's dhrownin'—leave go o' me, Jimmy—ye stookawn—I'd aisy jump down—
It's your fau't if ye hinder me savin' him—your doin' for lettin' him dhrown,
That's me sweetheart. Och, Felix,’ sez she, ‘I'd give body an' sowl for your life,
Felix darlint.’ I knew it afore, yet to hear her seemed twistin' a knife
That was stuck in me heart. But I held her the closer. I've learnt since I've thried
How a man can hold Heaven an' Hell in wan grip. Thin most piteous she cried,
An' she snatched her two hands out o' mine to her throat, an' seemed gaspin' for breath,
An' her head dhrooped aside, an' she lay in me arms like the image o' death.

XIII

But 'tis all in a mist afther thin. First the neighbours come plutherin' round,
Callin' wan to the other that Nelly was dead, an' that Felix was dhrowned.
An' the pólis thramped black thro' the glames of a moon that was takin' to rise,
An' thin somebody said: ‘Sure he's murthered her sweetheart before the girl's eyes.’
Was it that set the win' howlin' ‘Murther!’ all over the land in the dark?
An' they axed me a power o' questions, an' fitted me fut in a mark
On the bank. But it's little I heeded whatever they'd do or they'd say,
For thin Nelly was come to her sinses, an' ravin' an' moanin' away,
An' kep' biddin' thim hinder me dhrownin' the lad in the hole be the hill.
So sez I to meself whin I heard her: ‘I'll let thim believe what they will.
I'll say naught, an' the kinder they'll thrate her belike.’ So I just held me tongue.
An' some chaps began booin' an' shoutin' the villin'd a right to be hung.
An' his mother wint callin' him soft, lettin' on he was hid for a joke;
But th' ould father I'd seen shake his fist at me over the heads o' the folk:
Troth, as long as the life's in me body he'll ne'er git a minute o' paice.
And I seen Granny mopin' about wid the fright puckered up in her face.
Och, she'll starve, now, the crathur, she'll starve; that's the throuble I'm lavin' behind. Did I see? I'm scarce certin, but since, I'll be seein' it oft in me mind,
What they dhrew up all dhrippin', up out o' the wather that shivered an' spun
In black rings, hauled up slow like a log, stiff an' stark, an' laid down where the sun
Was just rachin' to twinkle the dew on the grass. Whin ye looked where that lay,
All the world seemed no more than a drift o' deep night round a hand's-breadth o' day.
But it's clearer I see him come stepped thro' the sunset in glimmers o' gould,
Than that wanst, sthretched his lenth there, stonestill, wid thim black snaky weeds, wet an' could,
Thrailin' round him. Her darlint, her darlint—I hear that asleep and awake;
I'd a right to quit hearin' it now, whin he'll listen no more than she'll spake.

XIV