“Why didn’t you shoot me the night you were behind the old archway on the old Moiveen road?” he asked one of them.
“The night was cold,” replied the Boy; “and the drop of the crater as the Captin sint me was that strong that it set me to sleep. I axes your pardon now for going to shoot you at all, for you are such a ‘dacent’ [plucky] man, you might be one of the Boys yourself. And to show you I has no ill-will agin you, if there is any little job as you wants done before marning” (meaning murder, of course), “I’ll do it for you meself and welcome.”
‘However, this didn’t see the poor Master at the end of his troubles; there was more before him. A short time after, as the man was ploughing in the field, four of the Boys came and told him to stand aside. Then two of them held him, while the other two put a bullet through the head of each horse, and the poor creatures died the same night. The Boys broke the plough afterwards and warned the man away. They tied notices on it forbidding any one to plough for the Master till he gave up the idea of taking the farm, as Captin Rock wanted it for his own use.
‘But the Master, he was an iligant man surely. Many’s the time, gorsoon though I was, I’d have given my two eyes to help him; but though I was no Whiteboy, and I hated their dirty work, I was the son of one, and you know, “There is honour among thieves.”—Well, as I was saying, the Master was an iligant, foine man. Being a bit handy, he mended his plough, took it in his own hands, and with his loaded gun laid across it, did all the ploughing himself. Maybe you won’t hardly credit me when I tell you that he did most of the work with a mule; and sometimes, to help the poor baste, when the ground was light, he yoked himself with her, whilst an old man who lived with the Master guided the plough. After this, the Boys, seeing they could not frighten him, let him alone.
‘When the Bloodsuckers had had their day, next came the Molly M‘Guires. ’Twas them as had the big blunderbuss called “Roaring Mag,” which maybe you have heard tell of. There was an Englishman who came over to Ireland and laid down a weir to catch our salmon; but the Molly M‘Guires would not have any foreigners come a-fishing to our shores, so they cut away the nets and destroyed the weir. Whenever they performed a bould feat such as this, they made poetry of it, writing it out, and giving a copy to the principal Molly M‘Guire Boys. ’Tis many a year ago since four of the Boys, long since dead, wrote the piece I allude to; and I doubt if there is any one alive but meself who could repeat it for you; but I always had a good mimory,’ concluded Barry proudly.
Molly M‘Guire.
written and composed for the
Boys, by four of ’em.
approved of
by our counsil
Sind—Molly M‘Guire.
’Twas of a Sunday morning,