bs an' Swedes. We watched th' little ol' island fadin' away behind
us, with th' sun sthrikin' th' white house-tops iv Queenstown an'
lightin' up th' chimbleys iv Martin Hogan's liquor store. Not wan iv
us but had left near all we loved behind, an' sare a chance that we'd
iver spoon th' stirabout out iv th' pot above th' ol' peat fire again.
Yes, by dad, there was wan,--a lad fr'm th' County Roscommon. Divvle
th' tear he shed. But, whin we had parted fr'm land, he turns to me,
an' says, 'Well, we're on our way,' he says. 'We are that,' says I.
'No chanst f'r thim to turn around an' go back,' he says. 'Divvle th'
fut,' says I. 'Thin,' he says, raisin' his voice, 'to 'ell with th'
Prince iv Wales,' he says. 'To 'ell with him,' he says.

"An' that was th' last we see of sky or sun f'r six days. That night
come up th' divvle's own storm. Th' waves tore an' walloped th' ol'
boat, an' th' wind howled, an' ye cud hear th' machinery snortin'
beyant. Murther, but I was sick. Wan time th' ship 'd be settin' on
its tail, another it 'd be standin' on its head, thin rollin' over
cow-like on th' side; an' ivry time it lurched me stummick lurched
with it, an' I was tore an' rint an' racked till, if death come, it 'd
found me willin'. An' th' Roscommon man,--glory be, but he was
disthressed. He set on th' flure, with his hands on his belt an' his
face as white as stone, an' rocked to an' fro. 'Ahoo,' he says, 'ahoo,
but me insides has torn loose,' he says, 'an' are tumblin' around,' he
says. 'Say a pather an' avy,' says I, I was that mad f'r th' big
bosthoon f'r his blatherin'. 'Say a pather an' avy,' I says; f'r ye're
near to death's dure, avick.' 'Am I?' says he, raising up. 'Thin,' he
says, 'to 'ell with the whole rile fam'ly,' he says. Oh, he was a
rebel!

"Through th' storm there was a babby cryin'. 'Twas a little wan, no
more thin a year ol'; an' 'twas owned be a Tipp'rary man who come fr'm
near Clonmel, a poor, weak, scarey-lookin' little divvle that lost his
wife, an' see th' bailiff walk off with th' cow, an' thin see him come
back again with th' process servers. An' so he was comin' over with
th' babby, an' bein' mother an' father to it. He'd rock it be th' hour
on his knees, an' talk nonsense to it, an' sing it songs, 'Aha, 'twas
there I met a maiden,' an' 'Th' Wicklow Mountaineer,' an' 'Th' Rambler
fr'm Clare,' an' 'O'Donnel Aboo,' croonin' thim in th' little babby's
ears, an' payin' no attintion to th' poorin' thunder abov