The Cut Finger
THE GOSSOON [Weeping]
It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!
THE OULD WOMAN [Soothingly]
An’ shure, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’;
But come, me hearty laddy buck, be brave an’ do not cry;
A lad that’s learnin’ readin’ sh’u'd be far beyant the heedin’
Av a tiny bit o’ finger cut that hurrts a bit foreby.
‘Ere ye come till wan an’ twinty
Ye’ll be havin’ hurrts in plinty
An’ ye’ll learn a bit o’ bleedin’ doesn’t mean ye’re goin’ t’ die.
THE GOSSOON [Crying]
It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!
THE OULD WOMAN [Comfortingly]
An’ shure, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’;
But he’s me slashin’ buckeen, an’ he will not weep at all;
A rag is all ‘t is needin’ fer t’ sthop the whole proceedin’,
An’, shure, a bit o’ rosy blood won’t make me gossoon bawl;
Fer ‘t is but wan way av knowin’
Ye have good red blood a-flowin’
An’ a-workin’ all inside av ye t’ make ye strong an’ tall.
THE GOSSOON [Sobbing]
It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!
THE OULD WOMAN [Lovingly]
Aye, aye, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’,
An’ some foine day yer hearrt will bleed as bleeds the hearrt av me.
The saints ye will be pleadin’, but ‘t is little they’ll be heedin’,
Fer the worrld is full av bleedin’ hearrts on either side the sea.
An’ I’d die t’ aise the achin’
Whin ye feel yer hearrt a-brealdn’,
But, ah! the poor ould woman won’t be there t’ comfort ye.
New England Magazine
Upon Bottle Miche the autre day
While yet the nuit was early,
Je met a homme whose barbe was grey,
Whose cheveaux long and curly.
'Je am a poete, sir,' dit he,
'Je live where tres grande want teems—
I’m faim, sir. Sil vous plait give me
Un franc or cinquatite centimes.'
I donne him vingt big copper sous
But dit, 'You moderne rhymers
The sacre poet name abuse—
Les poets were old timers.'
'Je know! I know!' he wept, contrite;
'The bards no more suis mighty:
Ils rise no more in eleve flight,
Though some are beaucoup flighty.
'Vous wonder why Je weep this way,
Pour quoi these tears and blubbers?
It is mon fault les bards today
Helas! suis mere earth-grubbers.
'There was a time when tout might see
My grande flights dans the saddle;
Crowned rois, indeed, applauded me
Le Pegasus astraddle.
'Le winged horse avec acclaim
Was voted mon possession;
Je rode him tous les jours to fame;
Je led the whole procession.
'Then arrivee the Prussian war—
The siege—the sacre famine—
Then some had but a crust encore,
We mange the last least ham-an’
'Helas! Mon noble winged steed
Went oft avec no dinner;
On epics il refusee feed
And maigre grew, and thinner!
'Tout food was gone, and dans the street
Each homme sought crusts to sate him—
Joyeux were those with horse’s meat,
And Pegasus! Je ate him!'
My anger then Je could not hide—
To parler scarcely able
'Oh! curses dans you, sir!' Je cried;
'Vous human livery stable!'
He fled! But vous who read this know
Why mon pauvre verse is beaten
By that of cinquante years ago
‘Vant Pegasus fut eaten!
