And exhausted fell down, overwhelmed, to the ground
"It is Joan! it is Joan!" ran in whispers about,
And in truth on that subject there seemed little doubt;
For poor Murphy kept popping his head in and out,
Till the Abbot requested he'd walk in instead,
When he took to his heels and ran off with his head,
And as fast out of sight as a pickpocket fled.
"Fetch him back!" cried the Abbot, in thundering tone,
And far swifter than light'ning the monks out have flown;
Oh, such speed you'd have thought that they never could own!
It is true that old Peter kept quite in the rear,
Still he bustled along though without an idea
Of beholding the sport till his friends brought it near.
Yet 'tis true (though you choose to believe it or not),
He was one of the first to return to the spot
When the captors their pris'ner in safe keeping had got.
Now all through this commotion the beautiful maid
Veiled her face in her hands, as if really afraid
To encounter the gaze of the numbers of eyes
Which she felt stared upon her with unfeigned surprise.
So reclining she sat on the brick-covered floor,
And so mournfully sobbed, 'twould have made your heart sore
To behold one so tender, so young, and so fair
Almost broken in heart, and nigh crushed by despair;
Nearly out of her mind, and without an idea
Of what she should do, now she's found them out here.
Then again silence reigned,
And each tongue still remained,
Till the monks back returned
With their captive, held tight,
Who seemed breathless with fright,
While his face fiercely burned,
Like a red-hot coal blowed,
Which to all plainly showed
For the Abbot was one who but rarely had missed
The least chance that he had of his toe getting kissed.
Not exactly saluting his bunions, I mean,
But of causing his sway to be visibly seen.
By all other folks humbling he thought he should rise,
So had made it a point all the world to despise;
Ev'ry small fault exposing which hidden might pass,
Was tracked out like a snake by the trail in the grass.
"Sir, I'm sorry," he said, in a sarcastic tone,
"If from other appointments I keep you: unknown
To my sight till this hour you perhaps may have been,
Still your character now I have readily seen;
And would say a few words ere we part for the night,
On a subject perhaps you can give us some light.
Be so kind as to give that young lady a seat."
But before he could move Joan had rose to her feet,
And exclaimed, "Oh, base man! you might well flee with shame!
'Twas to warn these good people I hitherward came.
Oh, how could you thus serve me, who lov'd you so dearly!
Whom you promised to wed once or twice—very nearly.
Is it thus all our kindness and trust you repay?
Such ingratitude never I met till to-day.
Still I'll wish you no worse, but your heart may relent,
And for all the grief caused me may quickly repent."
Then again into tears she was melting away,
Having said all she had for the present to say.
While her beautiful hair (dark and soft as black silk)
Trickled down her fair neck (whiter far than new milk)
In the greatest disorder, without comb or pin;
For to be in good time, such a haste she was in;
And unto the dame to support her she clung—
With her head on her shoulder, her face downward hung;
For the crimson tide rising rushed through ev'ry vein,
With a pang piercing sharper than actual pain.
"Come, Sir, Mr. Bridegroom, or whatever 's your name,
Let me hear some excuse which shall ward off the blame
Which you richly deserve, if appearance tells true.
But they say—and their saying shall benefit you—
That folks ought not to go by appearances ever,
But should judge from plain facts, as more law-like and clever.
So I'll hear all you have, sir, to say in defence
Of what seems to these ladies a serious offence."
Now, between you and I, the good Abbot enjoys
This dispute quite as much as a child does his toys;
And his eyes wander oft to the beautiful maid,
To whose cause he inclines, I am sadly afraid.
And so too you would feel if your heart be not stone,
Though, like him, p'rhaps the feeling you'd not care to own.
Still I'm sure your compassion would so far arise,
That you'd lend her your kerchief to wipe up her eyes;
And would feel much inclined, and with justice, I'm fearing,
To condemn the poor culprit before his case hearing.
But he speaks! and relates all he stated before,
And declares he ne'er promised to marry her, nor
Had said anything pointed, to give her to think
That his fate unto hers he was wishing to link.
"Stop—I did call her pretty, one time, by the bye,
But she took not the trouble my words to deny;
So 'tis plain she thought them not so out of the way,
But a kind of a tribute that folks ought to pay.
Then I lived in the house, and so might once have kissed her,
For I treated her just as if she'd been my sister;
Going out with her walks when she wanted fresh air,
And by treating her always at every fair."
Now I've heard a remark, which I know to be true,
That a man is no judge of the kind of a view
Which a sister presents to unprejudiced eyes.
For I've seen brothers stare with a look of surprise
When I talked of a sister, and thought I would flatter
If I made a remark, or but cast a glance at her.
I, by chance, once myself made this very mistake
(Near as awkward a one as a man can well make),
For I have a few sisters, but never once thought
Them much out of the way, till more properly taught.
They explained I was wrong, and I could not well doubt it,
For they proved that I really knew nothing about it.
Now in just this position was poor Murphy placed,
He could scarcely perceive Joan was prettily faced;
She was handy, he knew, in the kitchen and dairy,
But for beauty—he thought that tastes widely must vary.
It was living together so long, I suppose,
Made him blind to the charms of this beautiful rose.
For he's not what folks call a man really hard-hearted,
And his conscience now pricked him, and terribly smarted,
As he thought on the kindness she ever had shown him
Since the days of his boyhood, when first she had known him.
Then the dame was asked next,
If she aught had to say;
She look'd sad, much perplexed,
And her head turned away
As she said, "On my word,
Till to-day I ne'er saw,
No, nor even have heard
Of this maiden before.
Still it seems very plain
She was first in the field;
So her rights she shall gain,
For all claims I now yield.
She has loved him, it seems, all her life pretty nigh,
So I'm sure she deserves him far better than I,
Who all hope—yea, the wish—now for ever resign
Of beholding young Murphy a bridegroom of mine.
Unless (and she here had a slight tickling cough),
Your rev'rence think right I should keep to my troth."
"Please to stop," said the priest; "this is pretty, no doubt;
Still when Justice begins she must have her say out.
We have well scanned the subject on every side,
But have not yet decreed which by law is the bride;
Though, as some great philosopher wisely observed,
'They who come up the first ought to be the first served.'
While the difference of ages compels me to fear,
That a storm will arise ere the close of the year;
For of course the old lady must have her own way,
As 'age before honesty goes,' the folks say.
It is true she may not get the like chance again;
But she's had her turn once, so must patient remain.
Unless that the jury, when packed, shall think best
To remake her a wife, and deny her request."
Then the jurors were chose,
But so plainly he shows
How the guests cannot impartial be,
That such aid they refuse,
And the number out choose
From eyes that unprejudiced see.
Who like peers soon pair out,
To consider about
In whose favour they ought to agree.
Now what thrilling suspense!
(To poor Joan how intense!)
To the rest in a lesser degree.—
All but Murphy, who ne'er
Seemed to have the least care
What Fate or what Justice decree.
But the Jury return, and the maid droops her head,
While her fair bosom heaves with a feeling of dread;
As nigh breathless she listens the verdict to hear,
Which shall fill her with transports of pleasure or fear.
"And pray what's your decision?" the Abbot inquired;
In the tones of a pig who has, murdered, expired.
"Have you settled the point who the fair bride's to be?
They seem terribly anxious to hear your decree."
Then a very tall man with a very sharp nose,
All their wisdom united and cleverness shows,
"'Tis the young one, we think, is by justice the bride,
So we deem it our duty on her to decide."
Then again a loud shout
Ran the chamber throughout,
While the maiden had fainted with bliss
Had not Murphy arose,
Who both arms round her throws,
And revives her at once with a kiss;
And whispers that once he but loved as a brother,
But now is most anxious to love as some other.
But the Abbot, of course, must again interfere.
Loud he calls, "Mr. Culprit, just step, sir, up here;
And you, monks, keep your eyes on the door.
For our sentence is this,—that the maiden you wed;
Yes, and live with her too till you're dead, sir—quite dead.
Oh, you ne'er shall escape from her more!
And Miss Bride, you'll oblige by just letting me know
If he does not behave himself properly, so
I may think of some punishment sore.
Now, before I unite
In the conjugal rite
This unhappy young pair,
Is there any one here
Has the slightest idea
Of a like rash affair?
If there is, I advise,
Ere the chance from him flies,
That he hither repair.
For, as Romulus said, you should never delay
Till to-morrow what can be as well done to-day.
For delays dang'rous are, as the widow can prove,
And time never returns, but is still on the move."
Then he silent remained, as if buried in thought,
While his eyelids dropt down as if slumber they sought;
Till the beautiful Clare, by young Flanagan Ted
(Her long-betrothed lover), was joyfully led.
When "Ah!" he exclaimed; and again closed his eyes,
Just to ponder, no doubt, on some subject more wise;—
On the frailty, perhaps, of the masculine sex,
Who allow pretty faces their thoughts to perplex,
And their hearts twirl about like a conjurer's plate,
While they kindly persuade them they can't avoid Fate.
"O dear May! dearest May!"
Whispered Samuel Delhay;
"I scarce know what I say,
But just listen, I pray.
I've loved you so dearly,
A twelvemonth or nearly,
Most truly, sincerely,—
Not for your looks merely,
But the bewitching grace
In each action I trace;
With which no charm keeps pace
But your beautiful face.
Oh, if you would hear me!
To be ever near me!
What joy would then cheer me!
Though trembling I fear me,
Lest you now should say Nay;
Your dear face turn away,
Or should wish for delay,
Then May blushed crimson deep,
While her eyes downward keep,
As she seems most intensely to think.
Till her gaze slily peeps;
Tow'rds her mother it creeps,
Who she saw nearly audibly wink.
Then, no more time to waste,
In his hands hers she placed,
Who appeared with such rapture possess'd
That he screamed with delight,
Put poor May in a fright,
And exceedingly startled each guest.
"Is there no one else then to be married, I pray?
Mr. Hymen is not found at work every day,"
Said the Abbot; "can no other man boast a heart?
Have you all really 'scaped from young What's-his-name's dart?"
Just as if he was only essaying to fill
Up the number required to form a quadrille;
And had cried, Take your partners, and no more time waste,
You young people might surely make rather more haste.
"Oh, pray catch me! Oh, dear!
I'm so dreadfully queer—
I shall faint—I shall die—
I must have a good cry"—
Said Miss Riley, who could not her feelings command,
As she seized and kept hold of young Donoghue's hand.
"Shall you tell them? Oh, no;
Though I'm very so-so.
And my heart beats so fast,
It will sure burst at last.
No! 'tis useless cold water to throw on my grief,
Far too deep are my sorrows for such a relief.
Oh, could you but feel
What my tongue must reveal—
How much I love you,
My dear Donoghue!
Your heart surely would melt, though it very hard aint,
And you'd try all you could to relieve my complaint."
"Well," thinks he, "I don't care,
Though in truth she's not fair;
Still there's hundreds far worse, that I'm sure."
So he said, "You're so kind,
Miss, I'd fain ease your mind;
But why did you not speak up before?
For you really have taken me quite by surprise,
Though great presence of mind at emergence will rise.
Still, be quick; for should we by some chance be too late,
I must leave you to struggle alone with your fate."
But the course of true love it can never run smooth,
As this tale will, as others, undoubtedly prove.
There is always some guardian, or cruel old Pa,
Who won't give his consent; or some tiresome Ma,
Who don't think the young man is quite well enough off
For her beautiful daughter to wed; and so forth.
Now old Donoghue tries all he can to find out
What so busies his son, till he leaps out of doubt,
And jumps at the conclusion, which proves to be true,
That he means to get married the old maid unto.
"I won't give my consent!" he exclaims in a rage;
"And you shall not yourselves to each other engage.
I'll disinherit you sure if you dare to resist
My commands, and shall still in this madness persist."
"Oh, oh! what's the matter?
What means all this clatter?"
Said the Abbot, who seemed much amused;
"It is really too bad!
Sure the man must be mad:
Such an offer, what maid could refuse?
Sir, you'd better allow me for life to provide
For your child, by converting her into a bride.
As her poor little heart will undoubtedly break,
If you cruelly make her her first love forsake."
"But it is not a daughter," the other replied;
"'Tis the man is my boy, who, if now he decide
To be snared by yon penniless girl, for himself
Must look out, for no finger he lays on my wealth."
"Well, that alters the case;
But I really must own
That, were I in your place,
I would leave them alone,
For Love's arrows sink deep, and our heart's blood they quaff,
While the little wretch dares at e'en locksmiths to laugh.
So it really is wiser to give your consent,
For you know you can't really the marriage prevent.
For what's gold, may I ask, when its charms you compare
With bright smiles, with such looks, and with features so fair?
And, besides, the young people are quite old enough
To decide for themselves; and advice would seem stuff
And great nonsense, I fear, to their prejudiced ears;
For their eyes are so blinded they won't see your fears."
Then the old man sat down
With a dark gloomy frown,
As he muttered he never would give them a "brown."
But the obstinate son
Could be ruled o'er by none;
When he made up his mind he would have a thing done.
So he still stood his ground,
And the fearful maid found
That she now had a chance of her fate getting bound;
Not just stitched, or bound half,
But quite whole bound with calf.
How she chuckles with joy, as she grins forth a laugh!
As she says the few words which proclaim her the wife
Of as stupid a man as e'er lived out a life!
Now the eight are but four, for a pair forms but one;
They have each one been halved, so they all are undone.
Though the ladies of course (now pray don't make a jest of it),
As the bettermost half, have for ever the best of it.
Having two votes to one in nigh every dispute,
And as much more to say if their words you compute.
See, the bridegrooms are kissing their beautiful brides,
Who a kiss too receive from the Abbot besides.
All but Dame Donoghue, who by chance seems forgot;
Or, perhaps, he had thought he had much rather not.
Then the Abbot and train prepare to go;
They fall into ranks in a double row;
While the chief, at their head, walks on before,
Without ere a word or a syllable more.
But old Peter just tarries behind to state
Why the Abbot had come there, and why so late.
He had noticed the monk who was rambling out,
And, inquiring, had learnt all the facts about.
When to Peter's surprise he declared his mind,
That to marry the couple he felt inclined.
"I was very much vexed that he tarried so late,
As I feared that for me you might probably wait.
For I know very well, without being told twice,
That when victuals are tepid they're not very nice.
But I now must be gone; he will miss me, I fear;
Though 'twould pleasure me much to await awhile here."
Then young Patrick O'Neal out of pity, or jest,
Took the half of a duck, which with onions was drest,
And to old Peter gave it, unseen by the rest;
Who declared he of boys was undoubted the best.
Then he passed through the door and was soon with the throng
Who by torchlight were marching the forest along.
And 'twas lucky he did; for the Abbot inquired
After him, who to walk by his side he desired.
When a lecture he gave which the folly proved quite
Of rich dainties employing to cure appetite.
"They're the seed," he remarked, "of nigh ev'ry disease
Which frail mortals invent, them to rob of their ease.
What is gout, may I ask, but these victuals condensed
And forced into the blood to create pain intense?
Then, just look at your teeth; when compared with a brute,
They're surpassed quite as much as a flower does its root.
One is even, as smooth, and as white as a nut;
While the other is jagged, and blacker than soot.
Slow decaying away, from the poisonous food,
Which, to pleasure the palate, the victims have chewed.
Still, in spite the result, as of sense quite bereft,
They persist, like the lunatics lately I've left.
I can't drive the foul smell from my nose," he exclaimed;
"The effluvia such hold on my sense has obtained."
Then weeks and weeks rolled slowly by,
And nothing strange had met the eye.
The birds had ris'n every morn,
And frightened been from off the corn.
The bees had sipped the flow'ry juice,
Preparing it for private use.
The sheep had parted with their fleece;
They held it on uncertain lease.
The fruit had all been plucked, or fell,
And made more ill than tongue can tell.
The golden grain by reapers' care,
Had strewn the rich fields everywhere;
And filled the barns with Nature's store,
For winter's use when summer's o'er.
For Autumn's sunny days are past,
And gloomy clouds are gathering fast.
While northern gales assail the trees,
Their treasures scattering to the breeze.
Poor Peter, through unlucky fate,
Has not been fishing out of late.
He cannot fly that fearful dream,
Which in the dusky night will seem
To float before his slumb'ring gaze
To fright his heart, and thoughts amaze.
The Abbot fills him, too, with fear;
He fancies he is always near,
He cannot from his presence get,
But feels like some one dunn'd for debt.
And trembles when he meets those eyes
That love to catch him by surprise.
But dogs can't always watchful keep;
Most wide-awake men sometimes sleep;
And Peter gains a short respite
From thoughts which needlessly affright.
For really he was watched by none,
Save what his conscience may have done.
O day of bliss! O joyful day!
The Abbot hastens far away,
And comes not back till morrow's night!
Old Peter seems delighted quite.
"I will dine and will sup too off Jack," said he;
"Nicely lined with veal stuffing. What joy! what glee!
Let me see, where's my tackle? In yonder hole;
I must catch a few gudgeon and have a troll.
O I know a snug spot where the river runs deep,
And there I will be ere they wake from their sleep.
I will see that their breakfast is nicely made,
And that, also, the reckoning's duly paid.
The morn was dull when Peter rose;
And stormy, like the north wind blows;
While the dark sky too plainly shows
Ere long there will be rain.
"But still," thinks he; "I'll go in spite;
'Twill sharpen up their appetite,
And make them all the better bite;
Such chance to lose gives pain.
I tarry may a month or more,
Till Christmas comes perchance, before
I shall another day secure;
If so, I'll go again.
Then, with what food he could procure,
He hurried through the Abbey door;
But oft looked back to make quite sure;
His fears were really vain.
Pray, angling reader, was it ne'er your fate,
When fish were biting to be short of bait?
Have you ne'er roked about in terra-firma
To find a grub, a chrysalis, a worm—or
For e'en a grasshopper searched o'er a field
Which would not e'en a caterpillar yield,
While droves of perch, impatient to be hooked,
Have vainly round for some temptation looked?
Now, in such a position was poor Peter placed;
He had flown to the river in very great haste.
Still, although he had sought out a gravelly nook,
But a pair of young gudgeons approached near his hook.
In the space of an hour—so a trimmer he set;
While he tried, though in vain, a few others to get.
"There's a bite! there's a bite! see the reel how it turns!"
He exclaimed, and his face with excitement fierce burns,
"Ah, it now has stopt short! 'tis to pouch it," he thought;
"Look! 'tis running again, and the fellow is caught!"
But, alas! when he struck, to his grief and dismay
He discovered, the jack had his bait torn away.
"O how foolish," he said; "it was of me to throw
That fine gudgeon away! I might guess 'twould be so.
I detest using live bait, you're certain to lose them,
For it seems the fish think they're put to amuse them,
And away he will drag them, or into bits chews them—
Just avoiding the hook, which might stick in their teeth.
Oh, their cunning it really surpasses belief!
One would think they were brought up from birth as a thief.
But I'll try trolling now, as they seem on the feed,
They must swallow the hook if the bait they then heed.
But vain his hope, though time away
Skips fast; the fish admire delay,
And scarce to him attention pay.
Perchance, his want of skill they saw,
And from destruction quick withdraw
To where they may their lives insure.
'Tis but midday, yet darkness shrouds the sky,
For clouds of blackness furiously roll by.
The watery sun has fled, but not to rest—
Behind a cloud which overflows the West—
The distant thunder strikes the list'ning ear,
And streams of lightning pour down far and near.
Yet still dame Nature grasps the slippery rains,
Who, struggling, long to scour the dusty plains.
But all these signs of tempest are forgot
As soon as seen, or p'rhaps are heeded not,
By our friend Peter, for behold his line
Gently unrolls and cleaves a watery mine.
With patient, anxious, fate-imploring look,
He trembling hopes that now his laden hook
May sink low down into the dark abyss,
Midst fishes' entrails, where it cannot miss
Its deadly hold; and where, till life shall fly,
The barbèd hook immoveable may lie.
But, oh! his chicks he counts before they're hatched,
For by his foe, in skill, he's more than matched,
(The scaly monster,) who at length of line,
The close acquaintance sharply does decline.
He tugged, it pulled, but all, alas! was vain,
For one on t'other not an inch could gain.
First Peter, winding, thought his foe waxed faint,
But quickly Jack untwisting—cried, "I aint."
Thus passed an hour, but still he keeps the water,
Though Peter stormed, and vowed he'd give no quarter
When land he reached; but Jack thought all this fun,
And cried "No quarter! I'll 'scape whole or none."
Then the friar, impatient, began to use force,
When his line snapt in two, as a matter of course.
