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said-in what people call a pig's whisper-" Me Easther's eggs on you, Mat. I wondher what way is the otther this mornin'?"
"The way I left him, I suppose; wid his neck broke an' he hanging be the heels," said her brother, his thin, otherwise healthy, young face, twinkling all over with satisfaction at the memory of his last evening's exploit.
The family were soon all awake, and as neatly attired as possible under the circumstances. In honor of the day, poor old Gran, with much pride, tied a new checked bib upon Patsy, the price of which she had earned by knitting, and looked with love and admiration upon his curly head and shining face, notwithstanding her aching sides. She made him kneel down and say his prayers, and he stumbled through his Pater and Ave pretty well, considering his years; though his thoughts were on the otter, and his eyes kept turning towards the door.
"Mind your prayers, sir," said his grandmother.
"He have awful long whishkers," responded Patsy, upon which she gave him a cuff on the ear, and he finished his prayers in tears; but quickly consoled himself by running out to see the otter. From whence, however, he returned in a few moments crying lustily, and stating in indignant tones, interspersed with sobs, that "Mat bate him 'cause he on'y dust put his finger on his whishkers."
"Begob! thin, if you could put your finger on Mat's whisker you could do more than I could anyhow!" said his father from out a thick lather of soap which covered the lower half of his face.
"Aye, troth," laughed old Gran.
"Tosn't Mat's whiskers, on'y the otther's," grumbled Patsy in an injured tone.
MRS. W. SKRINE (“MOIRA O'NEILL ").
MOIRA O'NEILL," who was Miss Nesta Higginson, comes of an old Ulster family. She is married to Mr. Walter Skrine; they lived for some years on a ranch in Canada, but they are now settled in Ireland. The poems of "Moira O'Neill" have mostly made their first appearance in Blackwood's and The Spectator. The authoress has also published two prose stories- The Elf-Errant' and 'An Easter Vacation.' "Her poetry," says a writer in 'A Treasury of Irish Poetry,' "is Irish of the Irish-tender, wistful, hovering on the borderland between tears and laughter, and as musical as an old Gaelic melody. It springs straight from life, a genuine growth of the Antrim glens."
I met an ould caillach I knowed right well on the brow o' Carnashee :
"God save ye!" she
"The top o' the mornin'!" I says to her.
says to me:
"An' och! if it's you,
Tell me true,
When are ye goin' to marry?"
"I'm here," says I, "to be married to-morrow, Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."
"As sure as ye 're young an' fair," says she, one day ye'll be
ugly an' ould.
If ye haven't a husband, who 'll care," says she, "to call ye in out o' the could?
Left to yourself,
Laid on the shelf,
Now is your time to marry.
Musha! don't tell me ye 'll be married to-morrow,
"I may be dead ere I'm ould," says I, "for nobody knows their day.
I never was feared o' the could," says I, "but I'm feared to
give up me way.
Good or bad,
Sorry or glad,
"T is mine no more when I marry.
So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."
The poor ould caillach went down the hill shakin' her finger at
""T is on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' that's what it is," says she.
But thon was the day
Had me promise to marry.
So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,
The man he is found, but the money 's to borrow.
THE GRAND MATCH.
Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young,
An' he wanted a girl wid a fortune.
Nannie was gray-eyed an' Nannie was tall,
But she'd not a traneen to her fortune.
He be to look out for a likelier match,
She brought him her good-lookin' gold to admire,
An' paid him that "thrifle" he tould her.
He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by,
She said, "How is the woman that owns ye?"
Och, never be tellin' the life that he 's led!
An' the tongue o' the woman that owns him.
Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay,
There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees,
I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the
Past Corrymeela wi' the blue sky over it.
The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews,
I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child,
Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care,
Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind.
D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise,
Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain.
The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English Town!
Sure, he 's five months, an' he 's two foot long,
An' his fists 'ill he up if ye make any slips,
But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips,
There's nobody can rightly tell the color of his eyes,
For they're partly o' the earth an' still they 're partly o' the skies,
So far as he's thraveled he 's been laughin' all the way,
He'll sail a boat yet,
if he only has his luck,
Sure, them are the hands now to pull on a rope,
For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet-
'T is you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet,
Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night,
Wathers o' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin',
Night and day where the waves are green.
Sternish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather,
Here they're lyin' the long year through.
Och, an' the shadows between are blue!