Shanty Irish Read Free Page B

corpse.
    Still a child, I was with him and my father in a saloon.
    â€œYou must have had a lot of fun in Ireland when you were a kid,” I said to him.
    Grandfather looked at me. and then at his glass.
    â€œThere was niver any fun in Ireland, me lad— It was always a wailin’ and a weepin’ country. Hearts full of the great sadness and stomicks empty of food—fools prayin’ to God, and starvin’ on their knays.
    â€œIreland at its bist was a hard country—we lived wit’ the pigs an’ the geese—we petted thim an’ thin we ate thim—
    â€œAll who saw not alike were bayten—an’ stabbed an’ shot an’ strangled.”
    The bartender wore a beer-spotted apron. He poured more whisky, and gave me a glass of beer. He started away with the whisky. I could hear the gunshot rattling in the bottle.
    â€œLave it here, Pat,” said my grandfather, “it is better so, me son—Jim will pay you for the whole bottle.” No sooner was it placed on the wet table than grandfather poured another drink.
    He looked at my father.
    â€œDid ye iver think, Jim, why me and you ain’t dead?” He gave a few heavy sardonic chuckles. My parent made no answer.
    â€œI’ll tell ye why—we’re like me father—only a bolt o’ lightnin’ from God Almighty’s merciful rainbag can kill us.”
    He pushed his empty glass away.
    â€œMe and your mother lived through the Great Famine—a-suckin’ the wind and drinkin’ the rain on the bogs.
    â€œThere was niver nothin’ like the famine of ’46—an’ the boy here talks about a lot o’ fun.
    â€œWhat a bunch of liars an’ brigands we Irish are. We’d cut the Pope’s throat for a nickel an’ burn ‘im in hell for a dime. There was only the one trouble with the Great Famine—it didn’t starve enough of thim. An’ thim that lived through it didn’t live. They died an’ come to life agin. An’ yere niver the same once ye rise from the dead—somethin’ has gone out ov the heart o’ ye. No one saw Jaysus after he rose. He hurried away in a cloud—the soul ov Him torn an’ bloody at the side ov his Blissed Father.
    â€œThe dear Irish niver see the truth—an’ the greatest fighters in the world—they git licked iv’ry time they start.
    â€œThough I hate to say it—bein’ a devout Catholic meself—an’ believin’ in the Holy Womb of Mary—but they should aither kill all their praists or put ’em to work—it would be the same thing, be God.”
    â€œTell me about the Great Famine,” I asked eagerly.
    â€œBe quiet, me lad, and don’t talk out ov your turn—’tis a bad habit.”
    He shook his head violently.
    â€œI think I swallowed some gunshot—I’ll explode in a minute—
    â€œAn’ wasn’t it in ’46 that a Catholic Baishop said how the pizzants bravely paid their rint—the good craytures, he called thim—the lazy holy bum.” His face wrinkled. “And didn’t old Danny O’Connell tell ’em they were the finest pizzants on earth—the poor fools an’ they belaved it—min who talk without thinkin’ are the bane ov Ireland—their tongues mane no more than broken church bells callin’ ’em to prayer.
    â€œAn’ Danny O’Connell’s son said he thanked his just God that he lived among payple who would rather die ov the hunger than cheat the landlords of their rint—” He muttered with contempt—“The damn fool.”
    â€œAn’ Mike Davitt—the son ov pizzants from the County Mayo—who knew my payple—it was him that rose in his wrath and asked why in the hell he wasn’t kicked into the River ov Liffey.
    â€œIreland couldn’t even fight thim—the eyes ov the pizzants were glazed over with the