Sure it makes me feel hungry, although I've just dined.
"Well, Patrick, my boy, you're a fisherman clever!
Such a dainty repast a monarch saw never;
Sure it makes me feel hungry, although I've just dined.
But as eating two dinners seems greedy inclined,
I will just call this tea; but I'm not such a baste
As to eat all myself—you must each have a taste.
Come here, Mike, we're old friends, you must sit on my knee;
And pray girls, get chairs, quick; they are near cold I see;
For the time I should come your ma guessed so near right,
They were out of the pot ere I came within sight.
But pray what's this black stuff? Pat, you rogue, come confess,
For I'm sure it was you made this horrible mess.
What! 'tis fish-sauce, you say? 'Twill a source prove of pain,
And will beckon the trout to your mouth back again."
Now all are supplied,
But when you divide
What is small 'mong a number, there's not much a-piece.
'Twas a sum, Murphy thought,
In division called short.
He had multiplied rather, if they'd so increase.
But skill failed to contrive;—
So the two into five
Went only just once and none over.
While the girls from each other
Cast sly looks at their mother,
Whose thoughts to the cupboard run over.
Shall we eat it or leave it? their eyes seemed to say,
Quite forgetting that looks will their secrets betray.
While in vain the poor dame may nod, frown, or may wink,
For whatever she means they can none of them think.
Meanwhile the poor friar half stifled remains,
And gives vent to his thoughts in the following strains:—
"O, cruel Miss Fortune, my dinner thus stealing!
I wish that I never had thought of concealing.
O do spare but a tail for one mouthful, I pray thee!
I could relish roast jackass, without sauce or gravy,
I so hungry have got; while this cupboard's so close,
That I'm speckled with dew like a morn-gathered rose.
I would quickly escape, if it were not for shame.
Let me see if I cannot some good excuse frame,
As a cure for this terrible fasting.
Can I make it appear that for something I've sought?
But, O dear me, I fear that I here shall find naught
Save the cats and myself who just past in.
But, hark! some one's speaking—I'll hear what they're saying,
I may chance get off free by a moment's delaying.
"A delicious repast
This," said Murphy; "when last
I was feasted on trout was in good O'Neal's time.
I considered him then
Among wisest of men,
Till he drowned him in drink, which I thought quite a crime.
For, pray, who in his senses would be after leaving
Such a family sweet at his loss to be grieving?
Sure, though I am single, and have not much wealth,
I would give all the world for such treasures myself.
Now, dear Mistress O'Neal, you've a very snug home,
'Tis a thousand of pities you live all alone
With no male to protect you. I know a young fellow
Who the place of your slave would supply very well. O
He's just the right size; is not ugly, very.
Has a voice for a song; is lively and merry.
Can hedge, ditch, reap, and sow; can attend to a farm;
While his heart is so soft he a flea would not harm.
Then he dotes upon children, from Pat's age to Mike's,
And those sweet babes of your'n are the sort that he likes.
Sure you'll take him at once on my recommendation;
For although he's ne'er been in a like situation,
He has made it his business to please all the ladies;
Ev'ry wish, although nonsense, directly obeyed is."
Then her hands clasping tight, on his knees down he plumped,
(While the echoing walls cried to hear the floor thumped),
Saying, "Sweetest of angels! my darling! my deary!
Do just listen a moment, I pray thee, and hear me.
For you know that of nectar you are the sweet essence,
Those who fail to admire you, than none sure have less sense.
'Tis myself is the slave in whose praise I was speaking,
Who, when wedded to you, would be prouder than the king.
Then consent to be mine—dearest one, don't say No,
Or I out of my senses shall certainly go."
Now the good dame the whole,
From the depth of her soul,
Believed—-and her feelings could scarcely control
(She, 'tis true, had preferred
That the monk had not heard,
For where he was hid he must catch ev'ry word),
But, much pleased altogether,
She was pondering whether
To escape out of hearing if she could endeavour.
So she said, "Mr. Murphy, if outside you'll walk,
On the subject you've mentioned we'll have a short talk,
Though I cannot afford a man-servant to keep—
It would ruin me quite!" But her plan was too deep
For poor Murphy to guess; who, not knowing her reason,
Thought she lov'd some one else, and despising such treason
Cried, "Oh, treat me not falsely; my love is most true,
And I never will love any other than you.
Oh, I cannot thus leave you—I will not depart
Till you say, 'I am thine!' thou delight of my heart!
O 'tis cruel to keep me thus long in suspense;
Your mistaking my meaning is all a pretence.
But you women delight so to bother and tease us,
When your study should be to make much of and please us;
Like an angler ere landing his fish plays about
Just for sport, when he knows he might pull him straight out.
But remember, there's many a good fish been lost
By the snap of a line, which a dinner has cost."
"That is meant sure, for me," thought the friar; "no doubt.
How I wish the good dame could have coaxed the chap out!
For 'tis plain as my face, she's in love with the man;
And he jealous may grow, while do all that I can
I much trouble may find in him undeceiving.
Those fellows are often so hard of believing!"
But not long could poor Peter discov'ry put off,
For he's all at once seized with a tickling cough,
Which to strangle he tries, but in vain; though he pokes
His red fist in his mouth till he very nigh chokes;
For escape it would find, like a boiler of steam:
Wherein water expands to such size that 'twould seem
It must verily burst, when the safety-valve opes
And the vapour unfettered from darkness elopes.
So it was with the monk; had his cough not dispersed,
Sure his lungs from the pressure had certainly burst.
"Hush!" said Murphy; "what's that?"
"Oh, 'tis naught but the cat,"
Said the dame, while her voice seemed confusing:
"She has been there all day,
And is most like at play
With her kittens, who are so amusing."
But the cough was repeated,
And the dame felt defeated,
While quick Murphy tore open the door;
Crying, "Come out, you sinner!
Can such charms as yours win her,
While I love from my very heart's core?
But I'll make you pay dear
For thus listening here."
And he raised up his foot for a kick.
When the dame rushed between,
Or a struggle there'd been
Which on hearing would turn your heart sick.
For, though choking, could Peter scarce utter a word,
Of which Murphy enraged not a syllable heard,
But he took up his hat to be gone.
"For your sake, dame, I spare
That old wretch, but take care
That I never him catch out alone.
For, as sure as I live,
Such a hiding I'll give,
As shall make him feel sore in each bone."
Then he turned on his heel and went out of the door;
When, recov'ring his voice, Peter called to implore
Him a moment to stop, as he wished to explain
How in such a position by chance he became.
"Which as soon as I've done I shall surely expect
You'll apologize, too, for your want of respect."
Murphy turned and re-turned,
With a frown sat him down,
And a glance which bespoke great attention.
"Sir, proceed; but take heed.
To deceive, I believe
Is your plan, and your present intention."
(But, alas! when a thing we much wish to be true,
We are apt to believe it is really so, too.
So the news Murphy heard was so sweet to his ear
That of present detection the monk had no fear.)
"Hush, hush, unbeliever!" the friar exclaimed;
"Such terms, in my presence, should ne'er once be named.
For of Mary's a monk I've the honour to be;
Which, if not so enraged, by my dress you might see.
Now although there's no reason why I should explain,
Still, as 'tis for your good, if you choose to remain
I will tell all I know, when with pleasure you'll find,
That instead of a foe I am friendly inclined.
First, your love from its source and beginning I've traced,
Which on Widow O'Neal for her beauty was placed,
Till the various graces which decked out her mind,
To obtain her esteem made you feel more inclined;
While you felt in your heart you would rather have died,
Than ere chance to behold her another man's bride.
Now, is it not so? Yes, I see by those eyes;
No wonder at first they are filled with surprise,
To hear me your thoughts and your actions disclose,
But we monks know far more than you mortals suppose,
And that what I affirm is correct, hear, and know,
For the thoughts of your heart at this moment I'll show.
You are thinking why I,
In a cupboard should fly,
When a dinner I'd got
Of nice trout, smoking hot.
It looks as if I should be blamed.
But so certain I was, and convinced in my mind,
That the question to pop you felt strongly inclined,
Which should make you despair, or else happy for life
(I just mean about making this good dame your wife),
That I thought I had better slip out of the way,
Lest my presence might check what you wished so to say:
It is true I regretted my dinner to lose,
But to cross all my plans I at once did refuse;
For an in'trest I take
In the match, for her sake,
For I'm positive sure she a good wife will make.
And as now on that point you seem both resolved quite,
I am ready this moment your hands to unite,
For your hearts by each other have long been held tight."
"Oh, forgive me! dear father," cried Murphy, with glee:
"Thus your acts to mistake, what a fool I must be!
Sure your pardon I crave for the words that I might
In my flurry have said, in the moment of fright;
It was catching you hid made me think all not right,
But upon that head now I am satisfied quite.
Still I fear, though I'm anxious my fate to unite
With this beautiful dame, that it can't be to-night;
For the dress is not bought which I meant to provide her,
And the friends are not asked she would fain have beside her.
Then, besides, there's not whisky enough in the house
To intoxicate more than a newly-weaned mouse:
But the day after next, if my charmer is willing,
I will snap, for her eyes are than fish-hooks more killing.
Oh, then say, dearest, say,
Will it suit you that day,
From O'Neal into Murphy to change?
But if you would delay
I will cheerful obey—
For I would not your plans disarrange."
Now the widow scarce knew
What on earth she should do,
There was nothing, she thought, to prevent it;
And although she had rather have been all alone,
Than the state of her heart 'fore another to own,
Still refusing he might think she meant it.
And the chance would be gone,
Which her hopes had upborne,
For a twelvemonth and some few days more.
So she said, "If you please, sir, I find on reflection,
That I really have not got the slightest objection,
But I could not be ready before;
For a bit of a party we must have at night,
As there's many I've promised I would then invite,
Who, neglected, would feel very sore.
I should next week have liked, but had rather a fear
That with washing or baking it might interfere,
So we'll make it the day you wished for."
She had scarcely said this,
When a good hearty kiss
Flew plump on her lips ripe as cherry;
While an arm round her waist
At the moment was placed,—
She did not dislike it much very.
Then the friar took leave,
While the good people grieve
That he of his meal was bereft;
For he'd not been the least fed,
Though in fancy he feasted
(As that now was all that was left)
On the banquet to come,
When he'd surely make one
Of the guests on the grand bridal day:
When right good farm-house cheer,
With prime ale and strong beer,
And proof whisky, would make all hearts gay.
'Twas a day of days,
And birds to its praise
Their very best lays
Sung out.
While the sheep and cows,
Who their carols rouse
O'er the meadows, browse
About.
Not a cloud was seen
The bright sun between
And the pastures green,
When forth
The good widow crept,
Who had scarcely slept,
Though 'twas bright thoughts kept
Sleep off.
She was up with the sun,
As there's much to be done,
And great numbers of things to provide
For the grand bridal meal
(Ere her fate she may seal),
But in showing her skill feels much pride.
There's the butter to make,
All the new bread to bake,
And a very large plum-cake beside;
While she'd think with much dread
She's not properly wed
If aught ill to that cake should betide.
Yea, she has quite a doubt
If a marriage without
Would be legal, if lawyers it tried.
Now Jonas the miller (her uncle) for dower
Had sent her a sack of the best wheaten flour;
So on tarts, puddings, pies, she may work away fast
As she likes, for materials her time out will last.
She is rambling now
To look after the cow,
Who of course to a distance would stray.
But she did not get cross,
Though of time thus there's loss,
For p'rhaps Murphy might chance come that way.
He had toiled away fast,
For the day or two past,
To make the house fit for his bride.
As he felt quite inclined,
And had made up his mind,
That there 'twould be best to reside.
"Sure this morning he's late,"
Thought the dame, as a gate
She approached which led into a lane,
When a voice loud in song
Was heard strolling along;
Oh, she thought it a beautiful strain!
"Oh, my love she is merry,
And beautiful, very;
Her lips are as red as a ripe juicy cherry.
"Her neck than snow's whiter,
Her eyes than stars brighter,
Her step than the gentle gazelle's is far lighter.
"Her fine sculptured nose is
Surrounded with roses,
And tulips, whose sweetness fresh beauty discloses.
"Than the lark her voice sweeter,
Yea, so perfect 's each feature,
She is without doubt a most beautiful creature."
"Oh, good morning, dear Murphy," the dame cried with pleasure,
As she stept into sight when he finished the measure,
"A most beautiful song that, and sung with much feeling;
Quite enraptured, all care from my heart it seemed stealing,
Like the music of birds, which will sometimes come creeping
O'er our dreams in that state betwixt waking and sleeping."
"Ah, you've listening been! I myself have betrayed,
And the praises you've heard of a beautiful maid.
Now, as oft I've heard said by those proverb-wise elves,
That sly listeners never hear good of themselves,
It could ne'er have been you to whose praise I sung out:
But I see by that smile that there lingers a doubt,
And you still think 'tis you from the kind of description.
Well, 'tis true you seem made after such a prescription;
But it does not do justice, as I can assure ye.
I'll remand you till eve, when assemble the jury,
And then if this gown that I've bought you'll appear in,
The verdict of guilty I'm certain of hearing:
For all of your guests will of envy be dying,—
The women, because you their charms are out-vieing;
The men, 'cause I've won you while vain they were trying."
Then on they walked,
And blithely talked
Of happiness in store.
The cow soon caught
Was homeward brought,—
Her rambling days are o'er;
For Murphy all the hedges patched,
The wicket swung and firmly latched,
As it had hung before.
The rotten roof with great dispatch
Received an outer coat of thatch,
While boards soon frame a door.
And time he in the garden found
To sort the bed from paths around,
And with the weeds wage war.
Meanwhile the hours onward rolled,
The clock the time had often told,
The dame her cooking had completed,
The pots and pans had all retreated,
The house in ev'ry point seemed righted,
Naught's out of place but those invited,
Just to witness the sticking of two soles together,
Tight as e'er gutta percha has stuck unto leather.
Now although 'tis not late
The dame likes not to wait,
It puts her in such a great fidget;
There is nothing to do
She can put her hand to,
Or her fever would crawl to each digit.
The fair maidens for hours
Had been decking with flow'rs
The kitchen, and made it look gay
As a ribbon-clad sweep
Who from chimneys may creep
To dance round a green (first of May).
'Tis a quarter to five,
And the guests fast arrive,
And each with him some present brings:
One a roast pig had got,
One a goose smoking hot,
And numbers of other nice things.
There were rabbits and hares,
And prime roast-ducks in pairs,
And pigeons delightfully cooked.
Like a pic-nic it seemed,
But might well have been deemed
A banquet, so noble it looked.
But a fear rising lest
Some nice girl might like best
To hear how the bride than the victuals were dress'd,
In few words I'll express,
Although feminine dress
Is out of my line I must really confess;
For when I've had a look, it
Has but been to hook it,—
I never then thought I might chance have to book it.
So I beg you'll excuse
Me if strange terms I use,—
Such a trifling request you will scarcely refuse.
Now the gown Murphy gave her,
That expense he might save her,
Though not quite bran new, still looked elegant rather,
Of a sky-coloured blue,
Without flounces, 'tis true,
And being scanty in skirt rather tight round her drew;
It was smothered with bows,
Which descended in rows
From her fine swelling chest to her neat little toes,
Just like scarlet-runners,—
Love, sure, they had won hers,
If at the beginning had been but for fun hers.
At the top it was low,
That her neck it might show,
As white as a turnip or two-days'-back snow.
Then her rather red face
embedded in lace,
With large green rosette, garnished to heighten each grace.
But a bright crimson shawl
Was her pride above all,
Whose folds graceful descended the ground down to fall.
The young ladies in white
Will appear towards night,
Their frocks from the mangle are not yet dry quite.
So like grubs they appear,
Till through starching they're clear,
And then prouder than butterflies up their heads rear.
With sweet roses entwined
They their fair brows will bind,
To make most of themselves they are really inclined.
Little Michael was drest
Out in his very best,
With a pinafore over, lest they might be messed.
He had watched with great int'rest the good things provided,
And much longed for the time when they should be divided.
"O you beautiful creature!" said Flannagan Ted,
"How I wish it was me, and not Murphy instead;
I quite think we must fight till there's one of us kilt,
Unless he runs away that no blood may be spilt."
"Oh, the false, faithless man!" cried a beauty beside him;
"When I thought him so true, sure his words have belied him!
To speak so in my presence,—oh, really, 'tis shocking!
How often do men seem our best feelings mocking!'
But the good dame replied, with a kind-hearted smile,
"'Twas but flattery, Clare, his heart's your's all the while."
Yet the beautiful maid still continued to pout,
Till a loud, smacking kiss, rubbed the wrinkles all out.
Look! there's old Farmer Jonas arrived in his cart,
With a pair of twin daughters and wife dressed so smart,
Whose plump cheeks are so covered with ribbons and bows,
That like owl from out ivy appears each peak'd nose.
That the maidens were fair is a fib I can't tell you,
And, what was most strange, 'twas a fact they both well knew,
For their eyes tow'rds each other were friendly inclined,
While their locks would bring carrots at once to your mind.
But their tempers were sweet as the extract of bees,
And where'er they might go they were certain to please.
The old farmer himself is a jovial fellow,
With a loud, pealing laugh, as melodious and mellow
As the music of calves when for mammy they bellow.
In stature he's stumpy, approaching to fat,
With a very broad face and a still broader hat,
Which, perched all on one side, like an avalanche sat;
And so brightly would twinkle his little black eyes
(When he uttered his jokes, which would often arise)
That like di'monds they gleamed of first water and size.
His good lady, however, was quite his reverse,—
She was scraggy and lanky, and, what was far worse,
For ever was teased with a terrible cough,
That threatened each moment to carry her off.
Now old Jonas was richer than any around,
He'd a farm and a mill—besides acres of ground,
Where the ripe, waving corn, like an ocean appears,
While than even King Midas he boasts longer ears;
And like to that fabulous monarch of old,
Whatever he touch'd was transformed into gold.
No harm to his horses there ever befel,
And his cattle had never at all felt unwell.
His crops were all good, and increased fast his store;—
Thus contented he lives, nor once wishes for more.
By all ranks he is held in the greatest esteem;
Which is justly his due, as will presently seem,
For his house, always open, scarce wanted a door,
And was styled a depôt for the wants of the poor.
"Dear Uncle, to see you it gives me much pleasure,
The present you sent me was really a treasure,"
The young widow exclaimed, as a kiss on her brow
Was descending, as light as a bird on a bough.
"Dearest Aunt and sweet cousins, I felt it most kind,
That the state of my wardrobe you still kept in mind,
For without those fair garments, though hidden from view,
I had sorely been puzzled whatever to do:
They're a beautiful fit, though the hooks will not meet;
Still the gown fastened over them keeps all things neat."
Now they all are arrived but the bridegroom and priest,
But of guests at a wedding they form not the least;
And the dame gets more anxious her true love to see,
Who had left to adorn, but had promised to be
Back in less than no time—but his word had not kept.
She was angry and vexed, and had certainly wept,
But she would not her friends should suppose her infirm,
And so tries to explain why he does not return.
Which, while she is doing, I'll try and describe
The friends of the bridegroom as well as the bride.
There is Jerry Maguire
(Who has brought, by desire,
His fiddle to strike up a dance),
He has long, curly hair,
Which delights ev'ry fair,
Who at him oft cast a sly glance.
He is not very tall,
Yet looks down upon all,
And considers himself just the thing,
In his rough, white frock coat,
Green cravat round his throat,
And broad collar turned down o'er each wing.
His young sister's there too
(Quite a picture to view),
A sweet, rosy-cheeked, plump, little maid,
Who appears rather shy,
And will cast down her eye
When she's spoke to, as if she's afraid.
Close beside her there sat,
Full of kind, friendly chat,
Her young cousins, the Misses Delhay,
With their big brother Sam,
Who, quite certain I am,
Is in love with Maguire's sister May.
For attention he paid her,
Such presents oft made her,
And ever was close by her side,
While the mother oft winks,
When she's asked how she thinks
Pretty May would look dressed like a bride.
In a corner remote,
Where each look she may note,
At this very moment she's sitting,
And attention scarce pays
To what old Jonas says,
Who is rather fidgetty getting.
For she scarcely had spoke,
Though a pun and a joke
On the bride and the wedding he made;
So for fear they'd be lost,
He uprose—the room crossed,
And them safe to the widow conveyed;
Who said, "Dear me, how funny!" and laughed till she cried
With a fit of convulsions, which nigh cracked her side
(As a prelude to draw all attention).
"I must tell it them, uncle, although you say nay."
"And screw up your dear mouth in that comical way?"
"'Tis is a great deal too good not to mention."
"I've a riddle to ask, though against me the jest,—
Why are you all betrayed, and not one e'er a guest?
What, can none of you guess? Why, through those who so late are,
There is nowhere a guest, for each person's a waiter!"
"What a dreadful bad pun!" whispered Samuel Delhay,
As his red lips approached nigh the ear of fair May;
But perceiving he's watched, he could do nothing more,
Than just smile for a moment, and them back withdraw.
But I now must return without further delay,
To describe all the guests of the grand wedding day.
There is tall Miss O'Riley,
In a queerish old style she
Appears to be made; by the cut of her phiz
Though a spinster,—'tis sure,
She can flirting endure;
Her age when truth calculates right is
Forty—but, O dear me, pray what am I about?
I shall get by the fair sex kicked certainly out;
I should only have said what is true, by the bye,
That though out of her teens she has ne'er got a tie.
But pray who is that beauty of very great size,
Who can't sit on one chair though she struggling tries,
With large gooseberry eyes, and complexion as sallow
As a half-melted dip of inferior tallow?
By her beak her I know, which is long and red, rather—
She is spouse to the man who is Flanagan's father.
Now, O'Flanagan's self is as brown as a berry,
Tallish, stout-built, ferocious, and fightable, very;
For no fray could you name in which he hadn't been,
While where'er he may go his shillaly is seen
Tucked under his arm, whence in less than a minute
It would leap to his hand, and deal blows ere quite in it.
He is partial to racing, to gambling, to liquor,
Can the value of horses than dealers tell quicker;
Can run, wrestle, and fight, any man in the village,
And, when safe from detection, objects not to pillage;
I don't housebreaking mean, but just causing a sheep
To have unpleasant dreams, and to walk in its sleep.
Now, although much disliked by most people, yet still,
Go wherever you may, there you certainly will
Meet O'Flanagan John—though he's only invited
Just to keep his wrath cool, which oft boils when he's slighted;
And like steam must find vent in some malice-fraught trick,
Or will burst into flame like a smould'ring rick.
His son, Flanagan Ted, is a nice little feller,
At least, so says Clare—and pray, who should know weller?
He is tall, handsome, well-made, and folks say they never
Have beheld a young man more polite, or so clever.
Near, of course, to his side,
Sat his young future bride,
Who seems much inclined to be jealous.
Speaks he but to another,
She her thoughts can scarce smother,
And sighs like a pair of new bellows.
Her old father and brother are somewhere about,—
With O'Flanagan talking, I have not a doubt,
Of the state of the crops, for of him land they rent,
(Not, p'rhaps, over well-tilled, but of wondrous extent),
Near O'Flanagan Lodge, which are fixed by entail,
Or, through winds often raised, they ere now had set sail.
Now O'Donoghue senior's a cunning, shrewd man,
Who had sketched out his life to the following plan:—
"Just take care of your money when once, 'tis obtained;
For a penny when saved is a penny well gained."
He is short, ugly, shrivelled, and bowed down with care;
What is styled a spare man, or a man all could spare.
He is harsh, much despised by the people around,
For the lab'rers in him a severe master found.
And the poor never called, for they knew 'twas no use,
As he gave naught away but a show'r of abuse.
It was not quite respect made him seek for his daughter
Such a partner for life, but he wisely had taught her
His favourite maxim of—Get all you can;
For 'tis money alone manufactures the man.
Young O'Donoghue, too,
Is a bit of a screw,
For he wears an old coat which has never been new.
The plain English of which is,
That, in spite of their riches,
'Twas a pair and a half of his father's old breeches.
He has shouldered two legs—for the tails split another;
While his back took a seat which his neck too will cover.
Now they're all introduced but a queer little man,
With broad nose, bushy hair, and complexion like tan;
Who a foreigner seems, quite a fresh importation,
An exotic transplanted from some foreign nation.
"But what has delayed them?"
Uncle Jonas exclaimed;
"Some harm has waylaid them;
Or they're to be blamed.
For I hoped ere this time to have given away
This good dame, who I fear on my hands still must stay.
I bestowed her before, but just like a bad penny
She returns to my pocket, though welcome as any.
For of her and the children it must be allowed
I with justice have reason to be truly proud."
"We had better begin,
Food thus spoilt becomes sin,"
Exclaimed Flanagan John, with a ravenous grin;
"For, believe when I say,
Scarce a toothful to-day
I have eat, that I honour to all things might pay.
I now too feel quite sinking,
While I cannot help thinking
They've mistook the day." He continued by winking;
When his speech was cut short by a loud joyful shout
From young Patrick O'Neal, who had kept the look-out.
"Here is Murphy a-coming! Hurrah! hurrah!
Our mother's young husband! Our handsome new Pa!"
"Oh, I'm covered with blushes, one heap of confusion;
Sure to pop in so late appears quite an intrusion.
But I thought of a proverb which Truth conveys over,
Which says, 'Coming, though late, is still better than never.'
But you all will forgive, my excuse when you've heard—
Yet just now on that subject I'll speak not a word;
I've delayed you too long—for the present at least.
When you're fed, I'll tell all. But, pray, where is the priest?
I can't see his dear face. What! forgotten to call?
Oh then, sure, by good luck, I'm not last after all."
"Oh," said Jonas, "like you
He some excuse too
Most likely will give us for coming so late.
But as hunger grows stronger,
We will tarry no longer,
For hunger will not for a priest even wait."
"Stay, for him I'll atone,
'Tis no fault of his own,"
Said Murphy; I'm certain he'd choose
(From the little I know),
Through great dangers to go,
Than such a superb banquet lose."
Who has never beheld when an old lady slips
On the pavement of wood, which her toe upward trips,
A dense crowd bustle round, quick as bees to a hive,
While in vain she, though fainting, for fresh air may strive?
Or when, at the close of a hot summer's day,
As the sun tints the lake with his bright crimson ray,
Who has never remarked how the fishes will rise
If you throw in some bread, while to seize on the prize
They will upset each other, and splutter about,
Till their heads and their tails from the river peep out?
So exactly it was at the time I am speaking,
Ev'ry one for himself is the best place out seeking,
Taking care a nice dish shall stand nearly before him,
With some fair one by side he would fain have adore him.
Now a passage to quote from an elegant Poet,
Whose name I can't tell, for I really don't know it;
It is not from Byron, or Chaucer, or Pope,
Or Milton, or Cowper, and I therefore must hope
You won't search through their writings to find it—
Let me see, is it Shakespeare's? no, 'tis n't his either;
Nor More's, Prior's, Dryden's—of theirs it is neither.
Where can I have read it? I cannot remember,
I might waste all my time from Spring to December,
In trying to think—so don't mind it.
But I've heard that you ought,
When you borrow a thought,
Just to mention the place whence you brought it.
Still, although this seems right,
'Tis not possible quite,
To kill even a flea till you've caught it.
The quotation I'd note
Was a fable one wrote,
As a means to convey information.
Like a sandwich, between
May a moral be seen,
Wrapped up in a pleasant narration.
Once the Lion invited to hunt and to dine,
And to taste a few skins of his favourite wine,
All his friends of the forest—who said they'd be there,
In the sports of the chase and the victuals to share;
Then the cunning fox scampered the country around,
Just to stop up the holes, and survey well the ground;
While the wolves have agreed to act dogs for the day,
And the jackall has orders to search out for prey.
There's his highness, Lord Camel, and Sir Grisly Bear,
With his tall Polish friend, who continues to wear
That long warm furry mantle, which looks just like snow,
And descends in short flakes till it wraps round each toe.
Majors Leopard and Tiger, just fresh from Bombay,
Of the proud native corps, have, undoubted, the sway,
Who would rather prefer to lie dead on the field
Than retreat from the foe, or the slightest point yield.
Count Panther and young Lord Hyena together
Are chatting, and making remarks on the weather;
The Count thinks it will rain, though at present 'tis clear;
While Lord Hyena laughs at the very idea.
The Grand Sultan Elephant cannot go out
To the hunt, as he has an attack of the gout;
But says of objections he has not the least
To come in at the death, and make one at the feast.
Now before they set out, just by way of a lunch,
Of bread and of buffalo each takes a hunch;
With strong bottled stout of Dame Lion's own brewing,
From wild roots extracted, by boiling or stewing.
"To the chase!" cried the king; "to the chase! to the chase!
Time is running along at a steam-engine pace;
Some hours will be left still for eating and drinking,
At the close of the day, when old Sol is a-sinking."
"Swift away, then, away! to the forest away!"
Exclaims each noble guest; "let us banish delay."
Mr. Jackall just then of some prey caught the scent,
And the wolves, too, appeared on some sport all intent;
So away they dash over the tall mountain's brow;
Tally-ho! tally-ho! they are in the chase now;
With roaring and yelling the woods are resounding,
O'er hedges and ditches like wild steeds they're bounding,
Through forests, through brushwood, through brambles, and brier,
No danger can daunt, no fatigue can them tire;
Till a beautiful deer lies defunct on the ground,
While the wolves are lip-smacking and howling around.
The next moment young Reynard aroused from its lair,
From just under their noses, a splendid large hare;
Who scampers away over two or more fields,
When his life to the fangs of his deadly foe yields.
Tally-ho! tally-ho! two fine bucks are now seen,
One has taken the water, the other the green.
In pursuit they divide—in a dish such a pair
Would for even a monarch be delicate fare.
Through the stream, o'er the glade, up the hill's rugged side,
Down the vale, o'er the plain, like Niagara's tide,
On, resistless, they roll; till their furious speed
Has o'ertaken their victims; and now they must bleed.
Like the torrent they fell, and quite spent on the ground,
Overthrown and downcast they expired with a bound.
Hunting thus they continued, till good old dame Eve
Tucked her sun up in bed, as a hint they should leave.
She's expecting a neighbour to call—Mistress Night;
So to make sure he's safe she has put out his light.
Then they give o'er the chase, and search out for the track
Which shall lead to the cave, while each wolf on his back
Swings a buck, or a fawn, or a bundle of hares,
And like light'ning back home to dame Lion repairs;
Who dissects the rich dainties, and spreads out the board,
And most anxiously waits the return of her lord.
Mr. Reynard had two or three visits to pay,
So he made an excuse from the party to stray.
Truly generous friends, those of his may be thought,
Did we judge from the geese, fowls, and ducks that he brought.
Still he feels much annoyed that he so long has tarried,
And lays all the fault on the birds that he carried.
