Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: "Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now-- it's the fortunate woman you are; You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he? Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright, And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day." And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door, Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed, Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat; Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead? Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that. Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild; Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell she'd be losin' her only child. And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind, And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind-- Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me? My Foe A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:-- _GURR!_ You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face! Here amid the wreck and rout Let us grip and have it out! Here where ruins rock and reel Let us settle, steel to steel! Look! Our houses, how they spit Sparks from brands your friends have lit. See! Our gutters running red, Bright with blood your friends have shed. Hark! Amid your drunken brawl How our maidens shriek and call. Why have _YOU_ come here alone, To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? Come to ravish, come to loot, Come to play the ghoulish brute. Ah, indeed! We well are met, Bayonet to bayonet. God! I never killed a man: Now I'll do the best I can. Rip you to the evil heart, Laugh to see the life-blood start. Bah! You swine! I hate you so. Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . . There! I've done it. See! He lies Death a-staring from his eyes; Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, How it's horrible, is Death! Plucking at his bloody lips With his trembling finger-tips; Choking in a dreadful way As if he would something say In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . Oh, how horrible Death is!