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| WHETHEN is it yourself, Mister Hagan? an’ lookin’ right hearty you are; | |
| ’T is a thrate to behold you agin. You ’ll be waitin’ to take the long car | |
| For Kilmoyna, the same as meself, sir? They ’re late at the cross-roads tonight, | |
| For I mind when the days ’ud be long, they ’d be here ere the droop of the light, | |
| Yet out yonder far over the bog there ’s the sunset beginnin’ to burn | 5 |
| Like the red of a camp-fire raked low, and no sign of thim roundin’ the turn.— | |
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| So the dark’ll git ahead of us home on this jaunt; we ’ve good ten mile to go, | |
| And thin afther the rain-pours this mornin’, we ’re apt to be draggin’ an’ slow— | |
| Ay, you ’re right, sir: alongside the road I ’ve been thravellin’ you ’d scarce count that far; | |
| You ’ll cross dark an’ light times and agin between Creggan and Kandahar. | 10 |
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| And is Norah along wid you? Well, Norah jewel, how ’s yourself all this year? | |
| Sure she ’s thin grown and white, sir, to what I remember her last time we were here. | |
| Took could in the spring? Ah, begorrah, the March win’s as bad as a blight; | |
| But the weather we git in Afghanistan, troth, ’t would destroy her outright. | |
| For in summer Ould Horny seems houldin’ the earth in the heat of his hand, | 15 |
| And in winther the snow ’s the great ghost of a world settled down on the land, | |
| Wid a blast keenin’ over it fit to be freezin’ the sun where he shone; | |
| If they ’d lease you that counthry rint-free, you ’d do righter to let it alone. | |
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| Glad enough to be ought of it? Well, in a way, but I ’ve this on me mind, | |
| That I ’m come like the winther’s worst day, after lavin’ me betthers behind; | 20 |
| An’ the nearer I git to the ould place at home, it ’s the stranger I seem, | |
| Missin’ thim I ’ll behold there no more till me furlough I take in a dream. | |
| But the divil a dream’s in it now, and I ’d liefer dream ugly than think | |
| What Jack Connolly’s folk ’ll remember whinever they notice the blink | |
| Of me coat past their hedge, and I goin’ their road. Jack’s poor mother belike | 25 |
| ’Ill be feedin’ her hins in the door, or else gath’rin’ her clothes at the dyke, | |
| And it ’s down to the gate she’ll be runnin’ and callin’, an’ biddin’ me step in; | |
| And she’ll say to me: “Well, Dan, you ’re home, and I ’m glad, sure, to see you agin.” | |
| Quare an’ glad, I ’ll be bound, wid the thought in her heart of how long she might wait, | |
| Ere she ’d see her own slip of a redcoat come route-marchin’ in at her gate; | 30 |
| He that ’s campin’ apart from us, joined wid the throop who shift quarters no more; | |
| Crep’ in under the tent that ’s wide worlds beyond call, tho’ ’t was pitched at your door. | |
| Ah, the crathur: ’t is poor bits of hope folk take up wid whin luck ’s turnin’ bad! | |
| She that not so long since ’ud be thinkin’ she ’d soon git a sight of the lad, | |
| There she’ll stand wid her eyes on me face, till I see all as plain ’s if I heard | 35 |
| How she ’s wond’rin’, an dhreadin’ to ask, have I brought her so much as a word. | |
| That ’s the notion’s come home wid me; faix, I get thinkin’ it every odd while, | |
| Maybe oft as a lamed horse shrinks his fut in the len’th of a stony mile. | |
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| You ’ll remember Jack Connolly, sir? Ay, for sure, ’t is good neighbors you ’ve been | |
| Since he was n’t the height of your stick, and meself but a bit of spalpeen. | 40 |
| Great the pair of us both were; out most whiles off over the bog and away, | |
| But the end of it happint us yonder at sunset last Pathrick’s Day. | |
| The way of it? Our picket was ridin’ in be the wall of the little white town, | |
| That ’s stuck like a blaiched wasps’ nest in the gap where the ridge of the hills breaks down, | |
| And the big flat plain spreads out and about, you might say ’t was a bog gone dhry, | 45 |
| Lookin’ nathural enough till you notice, pricked up ’gin the light in the sky, | |
| Their two thin towers, like an ould snail’s horns be the shell of their haythin dome, | |
| Peerin’ out of a purpose to put you in mind where you’ve thravelled from home. | |
| We were ridin’ too close; I remember along on the white of the wall | |
| The front men’s helmets went bob, bob, bob, in blue shadow, sthretched won’erful tall, | 50 |
| For the sunbames were raichin’ their furthest aslant from the edge of the day, | |
| Where the light ran, dhrained over the earth, like a wave turnin’ back to the say, | |
| All hot gold. Howane’er, when we past where their straight-archin’ door opened black, | |
| Wid the dust-thracks they thramp into roads glamin’ in at it, off went a crack, | |
| And ere ever an echo got rappin’ the hills, or the smoke riz to float, | 55 |
| ’T was a plunge, and a thud, and Jack Connolly down wid him, shot in the throat. | |
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| So be raison of we two bein’ neighbors, they bid me mind Jack while they went | |
| To make out what the mischief at all the rapscallion that potted him meant; | |
| Some ould objic’ wisped up in his rags head and fut, the crow’s notice to quit, | |
| Wid a quare carabine ’ud scarce fright e’er a bird who ’d a scrumption of wit. | 60 |
| But it was able enough for that job, and be hanged to it; Jack’s business was done, | |
| As you could n’t misdoubt. All the west swam clear fire round the smooth, redhot sun, | |
| Dropped down steady as a shell thro’ still wather; but’t would n’t be sunk out of sight | |
| Ere the lad had got finished wid dyin’, and gone beyond darkness and light. | |
| And between whiles ’t was divil as much could I do to be helpin’ him; just | 65 |
| Keep beside him, and dhrive the black fly-buzz, and lift up his head from the dust, | |
| And hear tell had he aught in his mind. But, och man, if his heart was to break, | |
| Every whisper of voice he had in him was kilt, not a word could he spake. | |
| Sure now that was conthrary. An instant before ’t was no odds what he said, | |
| And he ’d laughed, and he ’d gabbed on galore, any blathers come into his head; | 70 |
| But wid on’y a minit to hold all his speech in for ever and a day, | |
| Just one breath of a word like a hand raichin’ worlds’ worlds an’ years’ years away, | |
| ’T is sthruck dumb he was, same as his crathur of a baste that stood watchin’ us there, | |
| Wid big eyes shinin’ fright, and snuffin’ the throuble up out of the air. | |
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| ’T was a throuble swep’ nearer, an’ blacker, an’ surer; the whole world stood still; | 75 |
| You ’d as aisy turn back a cloud’s shadow, that ’s tuk to slide over a hill. | |
| There was Jack wid the life failin’ out of him fast as the light from the sky, | |
| That came fingerin’ the grass wid long rays, blade be blade, an’ thin twinklin’ up high | |
| On the gold spark atop their green dome. And I thought to meself how the same | |
| Blamed ould sunset ’ud thrapese away to the west till the shine of it came, | 80 |
| Flarin’ red in the bog-houles, an’ bright past the turf-stacks, and in at the door | |
| Of the little ould place down the lonin’, that Jack ’ud set fut in no more, | |
| And ’t would dance on their bits of gilt jugs, till they glittered like stars in a row, | |
| And the people widin at their suppers ne’er thinkin’ no great while ago | |
| It was dazzlin’ Jack’s eyes as he looked for me face wid the last of his sight. | 85 |
| And sez I to him, “What is it, lad?” but I knew I might listen all night | |
| And no answer; the sorra a chance to be bringin’ thim a word we ’d ha’ found, | |
| On’y Jack had more sinse in him yet than meself that was hearty and sound; | |
| For he looked towards the rim of the west wid the sun hangin’ ready to fall, | |
| And he whistled two notes quick and low—well I knew it: the curlew’s call. | 90 |
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| I ’d not aisy mistake it; sure out on these bogs scarce a minit goes by, | |
| But anear or afar on the win’ comes a flicker of the crathur’s cry— | |
| Faith I heard wan just thin—and on many a day, ere the sun ’ud be up, | |
| And around and around stood the gray of the air like a big empty cup | |
| Fit to hold every sound ever stirred, and to catch all the light ever shone, | 95 |
| I ’d be out wid me on to our bogland, all desolit lyin’, and lone | |
| As they say whin you’ve watched the low shore till it dips where the ridges rowl green, | |
| And I ’d spy was there e’er a wan out, and belike not a sowl to be seen | |
| Save Jack whistlin’ away to me down be the lough; you ’d ha’ swore ’t was the bird, | |
| Barrin’ just the laste differ; Jack done it the likest that ever I heard. | 100 |
| And there ’s plenty that thry at it. Seldom a sunsit throops out of the west | |
| But some lad ’ll be whistlin’ his sweet-heart, that ’s sittin’ and listenin’ her best, | |
| While the corners grow dark, and she ’s reckonin’ the shadows for ’fraid he might fail. | |
| So his call lit the world like a star. Ne’er a sweetheart had Jack, I ’ll go bail, | |
| For the truth is his mind was tuk up wid his own folk; it could n’t be tould | 105 |
| The opinion he had and consait of the whole of thim, young wans and ould, | |
| And it ’s there where I ’m bothered entirely to think how he got the idee | |
| To go soldierin’ off to the ends of the earth wid no comrade but me. | |
| Howanever, he went off suddint, afore we knew right what was on; | |
| And I thought to meself the ould place ’ud be quare wid Jack Connolly gone, | 110 |
| So I up and I down to the barracks below, an’ the shillin’ I tuk— | |
| That ’s the way it fell out, and belike ’t was himself had the best of the luck. | |
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| And continted and aisy he went, wanst he saw he ’d made shift to conthrive | |
| That the message he had in his mind ’ud go safe. For sez I: “Man alive, | |
| I ’ll be tellin’ your people at home the first chance I can git, good or bad, | 115 |
| How thimselves, and the ould place you quit, was the last thought that ever you had; | |
| And I ’ll bid thim be thinkin’ of you, whin they hear the bird cry on our bog. | |
| Your poor mother, an’ father, an’ the childher’ an’ their little ould rogue of a dog, | |
| Ne’er a wan you ’re forgettin’,” sez I; and bedad any fool might ha’ known, | |
| For the manin’ he meant wid his call was as clear as a bugle blown. | 120 |
| And our rifles wint crack be the gateway, and now and again wid a plop | |
| Come a bullet dhruv deep in the sand—’t was the divil dhrill-sowin’ his crop— | |
| And a priest legged it up to the top of the tower, and stood risin’ a yell | |
| For the rest to be sayin’ their prayers, like as if ’t was our angely bell. | |
| But it ’s little Jack heeded; for sure his own folk, and th’ ould counthry, and all | 125 |
| Were come nearer than near, and gone further than far, along wid that curlew’s call. | |
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| Ah, but Norah, you ’re perished an’ thrimblin’ wid could sittin’ here in the win’; | |
| Did you bring ne’er a wrap to rowl round you, machree, now the night ’s closin’ in? | |
| For there ’s mists curlin’ white on the pools, and the air gets an edge whin they lift. | |
| Ay, the moon ’s up, just on’y a breath ’gin the blue, where the cloud comes adrift, | 130 |
| Sthreelin’ by like a haystack on fire, wid the flame blowin’ off be the way | |
| In bright bundles and wisps, as if some wan ’ud harvest the light of the day. | |
| ’T is n’t that fashion dark falls, out there in the aist. Wanst the sun goes on lave, | |
| Ne’er a thrace of a glame bides to show where he passed, like the foam of a wave; | |
| He ’ll be blazin’ wan minit, and thin ’t is the same as if somebody shut | 135 |
| A black door on the blink of a hearth, or kicked over a lamp wid his fut. | |
| So the rest of us rode thro’ a night blindin’ dark, till we ’d half the plain crossed, | |
| And the moon riz ice-clear, wid a shine lyin’ thick on the grass as hoar-frost | |
| You could gather up. And, troth, if our tongues had froze stiff, ’t is as much we ’d ha’ said, | |
| Wid Jack Connolly’s baste saddle-empty, and jerkin’ the reins as I led. | 140 |
| Sure poor Jack had a dale of good-nature; he ’d fooled the ould mare all he could, | |
| And the crathur went slow-fut and heavy; you might think that she understood. | |
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