Chapter V

An’ twyst afther that Mick wint down there to thry if a bit could be had,
But onless that we promised to turn, not a scrapeen we ’d git good or bad.
Och, the long hungry days. So wan mornin’ we’d ate all the breakfast o’er night,
And I hoped we ’d be late wakin’ up, but it seemed cruel soon gittin’ light.
An’ the March win’ was ice, an’ the sun on’y shinin to show it its road,
An’ the fire was gone out on us black, an’ no turf till wan thramped for a load.
Thin the childher, an’ Mick’s mother herself, were that starvin’, the crathurs, an’ could,
That they all fell to keenin’ together most woeful, the young an’ the ould;
Until Mick, that was lyin’ in bed for the hunger, an’ half the week long
Had scarce tasted a bit, he laned up on his elbow to ax what was wrong.
An’ sez I--God forgive me, ’twas just the first thing that come into me head--
‘Sure it’s cryin’ they are, man,’ sez I, ‘for the want of a mouthful o’ bread,
And it’s dyin’ they may be next thing, for what help I can see. Och, it’s quare,
But if Parson had knowed how we ’re kilt, an’ ye’d on’y ha’ spoken him fair,
He’d allow us a thrifle at laste.’ An’ sez he: ‘Woman, whisht! what’s the use?
I might spake him as fair as ye plase, or might give him the heighth of abuse,
All as wan, he’s that bitther agin us. But throth will I stand it no more;
I’ll turn souper this day for the male.’ And he ups wid himself off the floor;
For ’twas Sunday that mornin’, worse luck: ‘It’s a sin, sure,’ sez he, ‘I know well,
’Siver, sooner than watch thim disthroyed, I’d say prayers to the Divil in Hell,’
Sez he, goodness forgive him--but, mind you, meself’s every ha’porth as bad,
For thin, watchin’ him off down the lane, I dunno was I sorry or glad.

VI

And he wint, sure enough, to the church. Widdy Mahon she tould me next day
How she ’d gone there herself for the victuals, an’ met wid him comin’ away;
And how afther the service they stepped up to Parson’s to thry what they ’d git,
An’ they got a half loaf, an’ the full o’ the male-bag; an’ never a bit
Would he touch, but made off wid him sthraight, tho’ she said he seemed hard-set to crawl--
Och, ye see ’twas for us that he turned, for himself he ’d ne’er do it at all.
An’ it’s wishful he was to slip home in a hurry, poor lad, wid his pack,
An’ to bring us the best that he had. But och, Sisther, he never got back.