The last of the boats was out in the bay by this time. She could be seen quite plainly in the moonlight, with the green blade of a wave breaking on her quarter. Somebody was carrying a light on her deck, and the giant shadow of a man's figure was cast up on the new lugsail. There were shouts and answers across the splashing water. Then a fresh young voice on the boat began to sing “Lovely Mona, fare thee well.” The women took it up, and the two companies sang it in turns, verse by verse, the women on the quay and the men on the boat, with the sea growing wider between them.
An old fisherman on the skirts of the crowd had a little girl on his shoulder.
“You'll not be going to Kinsale this time, mate?” said a voice behind him.
“Aw, no, sir. I've seen the day, though. Thirty years I was going, and better. But I'm done now.”
“Well, that's the way, you see. It's the turn of the young ones now. Let them sing, God bless them! We're not going to fret, though, are we? There's one thing we can always do—we can always remember, and that's some constilation, isn't it.”
“I'm doing it reg'lar.” said the old fisherman.
“After all, it's been a good thing to live, and when a man's time comes it'll not be such a darned bad thing to die neither. Don't you hould with me there, mate?”
“I do, sir, I do.”
The last boat had rounded the castle rock, and its topsail had diminished and disappeared. On the quay the song had ended, and the women and children were turning their faces with a shade of sadness towards the town.
“Well,” with a deep universal inspiration, “wasn't it beautiful?”— “Wasn't it?”—“Then what are you crying about?”