Rory’s ReverieB
Death o’ my soul! the lot is cast, and mine will be the hand
To free from curse than plague spot worse this corner of the land,
To quench the light of eyes that never glared except in hate,
To stifle evermore the tongue that mocked the poor man’s fate.
’Tis I am proud that from the crowd ’twas I, and I alone,
Was chosen out to pay the debts that half the parish own;
My faith! the country side will ring before the mornin’ light,
Though little knows rack-rentin’ Phil that Rory walks to-night!
How Thade M’Gurk and Redmond Burke across the spreadin’ say,
Driven from home for years to roam ’mid strangers far away,
Will shout with glee the day they see their black and cruel lot,
Their woes, their tears, paid off in years by my avenging shot!
An’ they must know—the tale will go ’twas I, their boyhood’s friend,
That brought at last the tyrant to his well-earned bitter end.
Why, when I meet them next they’ll shake my arms off with delight—
I’m longin’ for the hour of gloom when Rory walks to-night!
Mary’s asleep. Now heaven keep her slumbers safe and sound,—
(“Heaven,” said I? Well, that’s wrong; ’tis Hell is surging hotly round),—
And, nestled closely by her side, my little Kathleen’s face
Seems smiling like an angel’s through the darkness of the place.
She kissed me ere she sank to rest—I’d think it sin just now
To press my burnin’ lips again upon her childish brow;
Perhaps she’d dream about my scheme, and after shun my sight—
I mustn’t think of this—No! no! for Rory walks to-night!
Where’s that ould gun? But softly, so; I’d better make no noise,
I wouldn’t like the wife to know I’d dealings in such toys.
The barrel’s rather rusty: it’s been in the thatch too long—
Musha! the pull is heavy. Well, my trigger-finger’s strong.
And just to think! with this ould thing you lie behind a ditch,
When there’s silence all around you, an’ the night is dark as pitch,
An’ your landlord comes up whistlin’, an’ you spot his shirt-front white,
An’ his tune is changed immediately to “Rory walks to-night!”
And that black Phil has never done kind deed to me or mine;
If he were dead a thousand times none of my blood would pine;
My wife might even bless the hand by which his end was wrought;
My child—but, no, Great God forbid her wronged by such a thought!
She prayed for me at bedtime; sure I stood beside her when
She asked God’s blessing on me, and I dar’ not say Amen:
Amen to such a prayer as that! ’Twould be a curse, a blight,
To pray at all to God or saint, when Rory walks to-night!
What ails me? Am I coward turned? I, who had ever sneer
For every one that showed at all of priest or preacher fear;
I, who have sworn, were once I asked to play a man’s stern part,
No quiver of a nerve should swerve the bullet from his heart!
I’m shakin’ like an aspen—Faugh! I can’t afford to spend
My time in trembling, when I’m due down at the boreen’s end—
What? but a dream? Now God be praised for this sweet mornin’s light,
I’m better plased that, after all, no Rory walked last night.