She had long been a thorn in Moggy’s side, by rayson of the gabbin’ an’ blather she made, claiming to be descinded from the Seven Champions of Gortgorla in Ballynahinch Knockmalone.... Wild as an aigle and brown as the say-weed, she was; and eyes like two blazing yellow torches under the red thatch of hair she had. Her man was a young color-sergeant in Lord Cloneen’s famous Hussar Regiment, and she knew him to be end-file rider on the right of the single squadron that brought up the rear.
Watching from her eyrie with those piercing yellow eyes of hers, she had seen the shell burst, and the plumed busby fly, and the little gay-colored speck that was all her joy tumble out of the saddle, as Houlahan’s riderless horse swept on, borne by the rest.
Fell wid a screech she did, an’ then riz up, an’ the eyes of her might have been sewn in wid red worsted.... Her blue Galway cloak flapped like wings as she cried, tossing up her lean freckled arms:
“Och! my grief for the sthrong men! the fine big sthrapping men that do be lying dead below the hillside! Blood on the sod, an’ the yellow fat laughing from the deep belly-wounds! Father av Heaven! Was it for this that their fathers begot and their mothers suckled them? Christ and Mary pity the wounded, comfort the dying, help for the souls av the departed, even if they passed widout a prayer!”
She clapped her hands and swayed herself, gathering all her forces, and not an Irishwoman there but clapped and rocked with her. She cried:
“Och vogh! my grief! for my own grand young husband Michael Houlahan! For the hoofs of the horses are tangled in his bowels an’ his brains are spilt like curd upon the ground! Man that I always knew you—why did I turn from you—last night when we lay togedher undher the wet tent av the sky? ‘Sleep,’ I said, ‘Sleep! that ye may be sthrong to meet the morrow!’ An’ he turned from me an’ slept, wid the cowld raindrops on his cheek.... Och! vogh, vogh! Ochone!—for my own man, Michael Houlahan! Darlin’, darlin’, why did you die? Why did I deny you, avourneen, jewel of my heart! that sought to lave a son of your race behind you? A graft to bear, a seed to spring in the womb! Blessed Saints, pray for the desolate widow of Michael Houlahan! Holy Souls! pity——”
The strained voice of lamentation cracked—just in time. For Moggy Geogehagan could bear no more. For all she knew Jems Geogehagan was killed like the rest of them—and here was this unconscionable woman monopolizing the good offices of every One of Thim Above.
She tore out a handful of her coarse black hair, cast it from her with a superb gesture, clapped her hands, and took up the theme. Ordinary language was far too poor to do justice to the merits of the departed. She gave him all the grandest words she knew.
“Woman!” she began, with a clap of her hands and a toss of her head. “Away wid you! I am extenuated wid your lamentations! What call have you to be bragging of your Mike Houlahan? Sure, beside the man that was Jems Geogehagan your Mike Houlahan showed no bigger than a flay! Of a configuration that excogitated the behoulder wid revelations av martial splindhour, where was his aiqual? What modher’s son iver got the betther av him? Whilleleu! Och, och! whatever will I do at all?”
She shrieked like a locomotive, reveling in the glory of her wretchedness, and drew her ten nails down the length of her face. The woman from Clare had collapsed by this time into a blue rag-bundle. The other women came crowding about Moggy—laying hands upon her—pointing, vociferating.... With the power that was upon her in that great hour, they fell off her elbows, she said, like a bundle av sthraws....