Th' Ould Master by Jane Barlow

I

It mayn't be so much of a place whin ye reckon by land -- Inish Fay -- Just a thrifle o' fields and a bog like; but if ye considher the say, Sure we've lashins an' lavins o' that, spreadin' out and away like a floor To Ratheen at the end of our bay, that's as far as ye'll look from your door, An' that far ye'd scarce look in a week to the west, where there isn't, I'm tould, One dhry step 'twixt yer fut an' the States; sartin 'tis the long waves do come rowled Same as if they'd set out from the back o' beyant an' was thryin' how each Could swell up to the sizeablest bigness afore it lapt o'er on the beach. Ay, we've plenty enough o' the say, an' good luck to't; I don't understand How the folk keep continted at all that be settled far up on the land, Out o' reach o' the tides; 'tis like livin' wid never a chance to be spied, And what use is one's life widout chances? Ye've always a chance wid the tide; For ye never can tell what 'twill take in its head to sthrew round on the shore; Maybe dhrift-wood, or grand bits o' boards, that comes handy for splicin' an oar; Or a crab skytin' back o'er the shine o' the wet -- sure, whatever ye've found, It's a sort o' diversion thim whiles when ye're starvin' an' sthreelin' around.