Last Time at M‘Gurk's or, Mick Flynn De Senectute by Jane Barlow

I

Betther nor thirty year sin' Barney M‘Gurk set up Here by the ould cross-roads, and, begorra, there's many a sup I've tuk sittin' snug be the hearth in the corner he calls me own, For all it's a quare bad custhomer Barney'll ha' found me, ochone, This long while back, bringin' seldom or never the pinny to spind; But Barney M‘Gurk isn't wan that 'ud disremember a frind. So many's the warm I've had in the could o' the winther's night, For he keeps up the grandest o' fires; ye'll see the glim of it bright Away down the bog; it's the divil to pass be the door in the dark, Whin ye doubt if at home on the bit o' wet floor ye'll find ever a spark. And oft o' these summer evenin's I've watched how the moon 'ill stale O'er yonder black ridge o' Knockreagh like the ghost of a little white sail, Wid never a beam to her more than a ball o' the thistle-down, Till she'd drink every dhrop o' the light from the breadths o' the air aroun', An' shine like a bubble o' silver that swells an' swells, an' thin Float off thro' the thick o' the stars. But I'll never watch her agin.