Page:Mr. Punch's history of the Great War, Graves, 1919.djvu/286

 M.P., is intense; but not to the point of expressing itself in khaki.

The woes of the Irish harvest labourers in England have



not yet been fully appreciated, and seem to demand a revised version of "Moira O'Neill's" beautiful poem:

Over here in England I'm slavin' in the rain; Six-an'-six a day we get, an' beds that wanst were clane; Weary on the English work, 'tis killin' me that same— Och, Muckish' Mountain, where I used to lie an' dhrame!

At night the windows here are black as Father Murphy's hat; 'Tis fivepence for a pint av beer, an' thin ye can't get that; Their beef has shtrings like anny harp, for dacent ham I hunt— Och, Muckish Mountain, an' my pig's sweet grunt!