SAID HANRAHAN
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,In accents most forlorn,Outside the church, ere Mass began,One frosty Sunday morn.The congregation stood about,Coat-collars to the ears,And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,As it had done for years."It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke;"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,For never since the banks went brokeHas seasons been so bad.""It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,With which astute remarkHe squatted down upon his heelAnd chewed a piece of bark.And so around the chorus ran"It's keepin' dry, no doubt.""We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,"Before the year is out."The crops are done; ye'll have your workTo save one bag of grain;From here way out to Back-o'-BourkeThey're singin' out for rain."They're singin' out for rain," he said,"And all the tanks are dry."The congregation scratched its head,And gazed around the sky."There won't be grass, in any case,Enough to feed an ass;There's not a blade on Casey's placeAs I came down to Mass.""If rain don't come this month," said Dan,And cleared his throat to speak--"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,"If rain don't come this week."A heavy silence seemed to stealOn all at this remark;And each man squatted on his heel,And chewed a piece of bark."We want a inch of rain, we do,"O'Neil observed at last;But Croke "maintained" we wanted twoTo put the danger past."If we don't get three inches, man,Or four to break this drought,We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,"Before the year is out."In God's good time down came the rain;And all the afternoonOn iron roof and window-paneIt drummed a homely tune.And through the night it pattered still,And lightsome, gladsome elvesOn dripping spout and window-sillKept talking to themselves.It pelted, pelted all day long,A-singing at its work,Till every heart took up the songWay out to Back-o'Bourke.And every creek a banker ran,And dams filled overtop;"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,"If this rain doesn't stop."And stop it did, in God's good time;And spring came in to foldA mantle o'er the hills sublimeOf green and pink and gold.And days went by on dancing feet,With harvest-hopes immense,And laughing eyes beheld the wheatNid-nodding o'er the fence.And, oh, the smiles on every face,As happy lad and lassThrough grass knee-deep on Casey's placeWent riding down to Mass.While round the church in clothes genteelDiscoursed the men of mark,And each man squatted on his heel,And chewed his piece of bark."There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,There will, without a doubt;We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,"Before the year is out."
John O'Brien
