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Bog-land Studies

By J. Barlow: 3rd ed
Barlow, Jane (1857?-1917)

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TH' OULD MASTER
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WALLED OUT
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LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S
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BY THE BOG-HOLE
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PAST PRAYING FOR OR, THE SOUPER'S WIDOW
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MISS HONOR'S WEDDING
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A CURLEW'S CALL

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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
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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;
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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.
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