“Poor la-ads, poor la-ads,” said Mr. Dooley, putting aside his newspaper and rubbing his glasses. “’Tis a hard lot theirs, thim that go down into th’ sea in ships, as Shakespeare says.  Ye niver see a storm on th’ ocean?  Iv coorse ye didn’t.  How cud ye, ye that was born away fr’m home?  But I have, Jawn.  May th’ saints save me fr’m another!  I come over in th’ bowels iv a big crazy balloon iv a propeller, like wan iv thim ye see hooked up to Dempsey’s dock, loaded with lumber an’ slabs 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 above his head, day an’ night, day an’ night, poor soul.  An’ th’ babby cryin’ out his heart, an’ him settin’ there with his eyes as red as his hair, an’ makin’ no kick, poor soul.