They are seated at last; and like smoke disappear
They are seated at last; and like smoke disappear
The rich haunches of venison, and all the good cheer.
Yea, as swift as a lion runs after his prey,
The legs of the roebuck are cutting away
Down the throat of the monarch; in spite of his teeth,
They rush rapidly on just his large eyes beneath.
Then dame Lion brought forward some wine like champagne,
And—believe me—that no one was asked twice in vain:
Like a torrent it flowed through their mouths, while their eyes
Round are rolling with rapture, delight, and surprise.
"How delicious! enchanting! what capital stuff!
It has only one fault—that you can't drink enough
At a draught, for the fumes seem to fizz up one's nose,
And dispute with your breath for the passage like foes."
Thus spake the Count Panther; but, too busy to speak,
The rest nodded assent, and their glass again seek.
They ne'er had fall'n in with that liquor before,
And Fate had determined they never should more.
For drinking they sat, till so drunk, they're not able
To keep on their seats—so rolled under the table;
Where some Indians out early next morning them found,
Who with clubs dashed their brains out to manure the ground.
And, thus, ever since (to these animals' shame)
They made beasts of themselves,—Beast has been their name.
As 'tis likely all this
You will skip o'er and miss,
As remote from the subject before ye;
I a few facts will lay
Now before you, which may
Form excuse for this turn of the story.
First, I think it is rude to remark what folks eat,
So I mended my pen while they cut up the meat;
And this tale copied out, which I thought might apply
To events that were passing close under my eye.
But my strain I'll resume when they come to dessert,
And will note down their jokes, which no feelings can hurt.
For who'd like a reporter on paper with ink
To note all that you eat, and write down what you drink?
Of the number of slices it takes you to fill?
Just as if he of parcels was making a bill!
No, although—like all authors—I know each one's taste;
What they thought, too; yea, dream't! still I will not now waste
Your time or your patience by piece-meal retailing
Who in this capacity showed greatest of feeling.
Suffice it to say, like the beasts in the fable,
They tucked in the victuals as long as they're able;
Then applied to the bottle to fill up the chinks,
While each mouth to the bridegroom and would-be bride drinks.
"And now, pray, Mr. Murphy, we'll have your excuse;
No excuse to get off, sir, you'll find of much use,"
Uncle Jonas exclaimed, as he shook his old head,
Just to make it appear he knew more than he said.
"Here's my niece has but eaten the third of a dinner,—
Oh, this love it will make e'en the fattest one thinner!
She seems vexed with us all, p'rhaps with you not the least,
Though I rather believe it is most with the priest."
"Well," said Murphy, "I meant through the forest to run
To look out for old Peter, when dinner was done.
But before I set out I will frankly declare
What detained me so late, though 'tis quite an affair
Of a delicate nature——wait—p'rhaps it's best not
To go talking about it—'tis better forgot—
She may think it unmanly, unjust, or unkind
If I spread it abroad, so you please must not mind
These few words I've just said; I'll be back here ere long,
And will favour you then with a comical song."
"Oh, oh!" said the farmer, and glanced a sly wink;
"There's some gal in the gale then, you'd have us to think.
We shall soon have a breeze, and a tempest will blow,
If what's up in the wind you don't presently show.
Pray be seated, there is no such great haste for the priest,
Till we're satisfied all on this subject at least.
What! oh, dear me! quick—water, she's fainting away!"
He cried out, as the dame 'gainst his arm her head lay.
While he knew, by the bye, just as much what to do,
As a pig does of making an Irish stew.
"No, no, brandy is better!" O'Flanagan said;
"Raise her head!" whispered Clare. "Lay her down here!" said Ted.
"Here's my salts," said Miss Riley, who twice had searched o'er
Both her pockets, then strewed the contents on the floor.
"Or some vinegar, p'rhaps, if applied to her brow
Might her senses revive, which seem slumbering now,"
Exclaimed Mrs. Maguire; "poor, dear thing! she, indeed,
Must have ate or drank something which has disagreed."
"Warm her feet," said Miss Delhay; "and loosen her dress;
If took out in the air she'd be better, I guess."
Said her aunt, Mrs. Jonas, "Come, Murphy, lead her;
And, Patrick, you run for a doctor to bleed her."
"Oh, the wretch that I am! what a baste of a feller
Thus to tease her to death, when I might as well tell her.
It's no fault of my own if the girls will admire.
Sure I cannot look ugly because I desire?
Oh, pray come to, my dearest! my angel, revive!
Do but squeeze out a smile, just to show you're alive.
If you're not quite well soon, and my folly forgive,
I shall ne'er more be happy as long as I live."
Then she opened her eyes, cast them down to the ground,
Rolled them slowly about, and in tones most profound
Said, "There's not much the matter, I only was grieving
For fear that dear Murphy had been a-deceiving.
But I'm much better now, and quite able to hear
What he wished to explain when I first was took queer."
Oh, the wiles of the fair sex! What tricks they will try
To beguile us poor men! With a tear in their eye
They can crush Opposition without e'er a word,
Though he wear a long tongue, and is armed with a sword.
Yea, kingdoms have crumbled, washed away by a tear—
A deep sigh sent an army to a premature bier.
Twice a kiss has released condemned captives from death;
While a frown often robs from a hero his breath.
Many heads once were broke when Meg Dogharty cried,
And fair Chloe won lovers whenever she sighed.
And pray who has not felt the sweet force of a smile
Your heart from you stealing, though on guard all the while,
All your senses o'er-turning, and making your brain
Like a teetotum spun by Miss Pleasure and Pain?
But the brute of a man who can firmly persist
'Gainst the feminine tear and a sigh to resist,
Leaves the fair one no weapons to urge her complaint
But to go in hysterics, or have a good faint.
But stop, pray where am I? I've been straying again!
That I'm quite off my beat appears perfectly plain.
Like the dog I take with me when walking about,
Who will run down each turning, first in and then out.
Thus, when but three miles past 'neath these two feet of mine,
I am certain his four feet have traversed o'er nine;
So this quill of wild goose, if the straight path it went,
Might save more of your patience than thirty per cent.
"Well," said Murphy, "you know," (and his fair bride he placed
In a chair, while he bustled his arm round her waist;
But perceiving a sore throat blow in at the door,
He just twisted his arm round her neck like a boa.)
"Well," he said; "you know"—but he could not get farther.
Oh, truly, the subject seems delicate rather.
"Stop, 'tis really too bad thus your time to be wasting,
When I'm sure the sweet whisky you'd be after tasting.
'Tis a beautiful spirit, will cure melancholy;
And can make even grief to look pleasant and jolly."
Then continued he thus, in a still lower tone,
"Dearest! Much-better-half, 'tis no fault of my own,
But I'd rather explain to yourself quite alone."
"No, no, no!" cried each voice; "we will have it, sir, now."
And they clapped, stamped, and made such a terrible row,
That poor Murphy soon saw he no rest there should find
Till confessed, so thus spoke forth in accents resigned.
"Well my friends, you must know,
About eight years ago
I first went as a lad to old Donolly's farm;
Where I've been ever since,
And, the truth not to mince,
Am thought well-behaved, clever, and quite free from harm.
Now of girls he has two,
Pretty fair ones to view,
With such figures I'm sure can surpassed be by none.
But they both of them thought
(Which their eyes soon me taught),
That I'd make for their father an excellent son.
Now what could a man do?
He can't marry wives two,
And in truth I myself wanted neither.
So I hunted about,
And a lover found out,
Whom I gave a broad hint might have either.
But the other poor girl would each offer refuse,
Till the young man decided 'twas worse than no use
To solicit her hand, and considered it mine,
Though I two or three times did the honour decline;
Then her father had made up his mind I should do,
While poor Joan on that point seemed quite satisfied too;
Though I never the slightest encouragement gave,
But was only polite—as I always behave.
I can but remember one time that I kissed her,
And then sure the pleasure was shared by her sister.
Just of late, since I fixed on this dame for my bride,
I have fled from her presence, and ever have tried
To show plain as might be—though I could not be rude—
That her love was misplaced, and would prove of no good.
Now I lived in the house, and you'll therefore suppose
That she saw I was fed, and looked after my clothes;
Sewing on truant buttons, and giving a darn
To the rents—for that stitching I never could learn.
Now it happened to-day,
That I happened to say
That p'rhaps it might happen I should be away;
For some old friends of mine
Had just asked me to dine
To give my opinion on some foreign wine.
To m' Sarah, m' deary, of course I alluded,
And though speaking a figure of speech only true did.
But the maiden appeared
As if something she feared;
And, somehow—I cannot tell why,
I felt quite nervous too,
And tried all I could do
To shun the sad turn of her eye.
Now I told you she took of my raiment the care,
So I mentioned I wanted my best clothes to wear.
When—can you believe it?—she would not give them out
She declared, till I told her what I was about.
There was something not right she could readily see,
And she ne'er did expect such behaviour from me.
One she much had respected and highly esteemed,
Till my manner of late, which quite bearish she deemed
Well, I tried all I knew
(While I thought, love, of you),
To escape from her questions by no means a few.
But I found each plan vain,
Till at length I spoke plain,—
'Then know, I am going a fair bride to obtain.'
'O the monster! the wretch!' she exclaimed with such fury,
That I'm sure any justice and impartial jury,
Had she killed me, would say 'twas manslaughter.
As it was, from the fear she some rash act might do,
To my heels out of sight like an arrow I flew,
Truly grieved I was thus forced to thwart her.
Still returning, I lingered some moments about,
To catch hold of some maid, if perchance one came out,
Who would fetch me my clothes, for I wished to appear
To the greatest advantage, when coming up here;
But just as I had made up my mind to depart,
She stepp'd forth, and I scarcely had time back to start,
Ere she drew near the spot where I stood;
And, overwhelmed by despair, on the bank's mossy side
She flung herself down, and most piteously cried.
'Oh, poor dear! 'twill,' I thought, 'do her good.'
She had buried her face in her hands from my view,
Yet I saw a tear trickle her long fingers through,—
How I wished I her grief could assuage!
But I feared all the means I the pow'r had to try,
Which her sorrows could soothe, or her bitter tears dry,
Might p'rhaps also rekindle her rage:
So I kept snug concealed there as still as a mouse,
Till she sobbed out the very last tear;
Then just waited to see her safe into the house,
And made double-quick haste to get here.
So, my friends, you perceive that no blame I can own,
I felt sure the excuse for the fault would atone;
With your leave I will go now and fetch Mr. Peter,
Cruel Fate has perplexed me, but still I'll defeat her."
"Stop," said Flanagan John, "little Patrick will go,—
Every turn in the wood he from instinct must know;
And besides, I've been waiting I don't know how long,
For the treat you just promised—a comical song."
"Well," said Murphy, "I fear I'm not equal at present,
And a molar he eased with the quill of a pheasant;
"Not quite wound up, I mean, for a comical strain,
Though not long in key doleful I mean to remain.
But if Pat, my young namesake, my son that's to be,
Will just trouble himself after Peter to see,
And Maguire will oblige with the part instrumental,
I will try what I can in a song sentimental."
"With the greatest of pleasure," said Patrick, "I'm sure,"
As he bolted without hat or cap through the door;
Though he tarried outside till the singing was done,
And then swift as the deer on his errand he run.
But quick, look, he returns,—he is after some spree;
I can tell by his eyes, they are sparkling with glee:
See, he enters the house by a window behind,—
He will play them some trick, we shall presently find.
Per-ling, pling—twang, twang, twang, went the fiddle strings soon,
As Maguire screwed them up to the requisite tune;
Though he scarce knows the song, he with grief must declare;
So that Murphy politely first whistles the air;
And then, after a prelude of Maguire's composing,
To the following words his melodious voice flows in:
"As rambling forth one morning,
Whilst the birds were sweetly singing,
I chanced to meet fair Kitty,
Who her milk-pails home was bringing;
She pretended not to see me,
And was hastening away,
When I hurried quickly after her,
And said, "Sweet maiden, stay—
For I love you fondly, dearly,
Most tenderly, sincerely!
And than a king more happy you can make me if you choose!"
But the maid seemed scarce to hear me;
Oh! she loves me not, I feared me;
For she only shook her little head and said it was no use.
"Oh thou fairest, brightest, flower,
That e'er bloomed in beauty's bower!
Than the nightingale's sweet melody I much prefer your voice;
Then, dear maid, be not thus cruel,
I can bear neglect from you, ill.
As I've banished all your rivals to allow you the first choice."
"Oh, you men do so deceive, sir,
That your vows I'll not believe, sir,
For you tell each girl she's pretty, that you roaming chance to meet;
Then, besides, some other fellow
P'rhaps may love me quite as well oh,
Who has vowed to be my slave through life, and thrown him at my feet."
"I will challenge ev'ry other,
Who presumes to be your lover,
Though I kill a man each morning, not a minikin care I;
Sure, I'll perforate the river,
Though the thought it makes me shiver,
For without you as I cannot live, 'tis pleasant so to die.
For my heart I know you'll break it,
Though my love you ne'er can shake it,
'Tis more deeply rooted than yon oak that rears its head on high;
Though the stem of hope is shivered,
And each branch of pleasure withered,
Yet it clings unto the earth still firm,—so, to my love, will I."
"Will you promise ne'er to tease me,
And do all you can to please me,
If I take you for the better, though I know 'twill be for worse?
Are you sure you love me truly?
Well, I cannot think that you lie,
But remember 'tis yourself I wed, and not your gilded purse."
"Bravo! bravo! capital song,
Very good length, and nothing too long;
Lots of fine feeling and plenty of sense,
Comical rather, and of int'rest immense."
It was Flanagan John
Sang this snatch of a song,
Though the tune he was far from correct in;
But he's one that don't care,
And will do and can dare
What he likes, without ever reflecting.
"Let's encore it!—Encore!"
"No," said Murphy, "no more,
I must really the pleasure decline;
'Tis now some lady's turn,
They such pretty songs learn,
When their voices to singing incline.
Ask the fairy-like May,
Who with Samuel Delhay
In a corner like two birds are caged.
Here, my sweet pretty Miss,
May I ask for a kiss,
When those sweet lips are quite disengaged?"
"Oh, for shame!"
Said the dame,
"Dearest Murphy, you really should never
Say such things,
For it brings
A deep tint to the fairest cheek ever.
But I'm sure Miss Maguire will oblige with a song,
I have heard her fine voice, though some time ago, long;
When a child she was, under my care."
"Well," said Jerry Maguire,
"She has at my desire
Set her voice to an enchanting air;
Which with pleasure she'll sing,
'Tis exactly the thing,
Will amuse our old friend sitting there."
"Oh, do sing, dearest May,"
Whispered Samuel Delhay;
"Pray oblige us," said every guest;
"Now then, May, don't be shy,"
Said her brother, "when I
Can assist if you aid should request."
"And," said Murphy, "I, too,
Will be sure to clap you,
If you will but oblige with your best."
"I will try my best style,"
She replied with a smile;
"If you'll promise you'll not be offended.
Nor will go so far wrong,
As to think that my song
As a close to your tale is intended."
"Dear, what can the girl mean?
'Twill be presently seen,"
Muttered he as the promise he gave.
Then her voice mounted high,
As a lark in the sky,
As she warbled each beautiful stave.
Ev'ry ear it arrests, ev'ry whisper soon dropt,
Even breathing that moment appeared to be stopt.
While each bosom seem'd touched by the soft, thrilling strain,
And few eyes quite unwashed to the end could remain.
The good dame as she hears
Gently melts into tears
As she thinks of disconsolate Joan.
Who, heart-broken and sad,
Or from grief nearly mad,
Is bewailing her hard fate alone.
The words simply are these,
Which fair May sang to tease
Mr. Murphy, though it she'll not own.
"Oh, my beautiful flow'ret has faded,
Is drooping its once joyous head;
For the bee with its sweetness has laded
His wings and away with it fled.
And the fierce, cruel wind, it hath broken
The stem which the bright blossom fed;
While the leaves by their sad looks have spoken
Their grief for the kind parent dead.
So my heart's fondest hope has been slighted,
Ev'ry joy has been stolen from me.
I am drooping, am with'ring, am blighted;
But the wreck of life shattered you see.
Never more shall the sun by its brightness
Illumine my dark gloomy fate;
Nor can peace to my spirit bring lightness,
For he comes to this bosom too late."
Now to scatter the gloom
Which pervaded the room,
Murphy piles all the chairs into heaps.
Flings his arm round the dame
(Declares he's not to blame),
And with her to the room's centre creeps.
While Maguire struck up soon
Such a capital tune,
That like magic each youth forward leaps
To the side of some fair,
Who, with pleasure, steps where
She in dancing can best show her feats.
In and out,
Round about,
It appears quite a riddle.
Hands across,
Turn of course,
And then rush down the middle.
Back again,
Pleasant pain!
Sure he'll wear out his fiddle.
"Quicker play!"
"Scrape away!"
Cries each pair as they pass by;
As whirling
And twirling
They still swifter and fast fly;
And in spite,
Though fagged quite,
Who can keep up the last try.
Till whizzy
And dizzy
They sink into a seat;
If they aint
Fit to faint
In a terrible heat.
When to cool,
As by rule,
To some draught they retreat.
Where the fair one imbibes such a delicate chill
That her frame is refreshed; but ere morning she will
Find the thoroughfare stopped in her organ of smell;
With a rising blockade in the thorax as well.
While her forehead of snow into pieces seems splitting,
As the pain ev'ry moment is worse and worse getting.
And her bright eyes are streaming regret for the folly
Which has garnished her lungs with a feeling like holly;
And has changed her sweet voice, as a matter of course,
From the nightingale's tone to sound dreadfully hoarse.
"Oh, how funny it seems to one not fond of dancing,
To see women and men just like animals prancing!
Roaming forwards and back like two bears in a cage,
And then galloping round as if put in a rage.
Working harder—I'll bet ten young pigs to a sow,
Than they've been all day long at the tail of the plough."
"Stop!" I fancy I hear some fair maiden exclaim,
In a tone full of ire strongly mixed with disdain.
"'Tis some horrid old man has been writing this tale,
Who will make his remarks, though so stupid and stale."
Now, kind reader, of this I must beg to assure you,
That 'twas Flanagan muttered those words placed before you.
Rat-a-tat! "Who is that?" Murphy cried; "pray come in."
And a priest walked inside who had listening been.
How the widow's heart beat as he stept up to greet her!
He was very much like, still he was not old Peter.
"Sure I'm in for it now," Murphy inwardly thought;
"I would fly, but must own I've been quite fairly caught.
No I aint!—'tis but Pat, though in clever disguise;
He may cheat his old Mother's, but not these young eyes.
But I'll not spoil the fun; I'm reprieved by his aid.
Ah! his voice, as I feared, has the secret betrayed;
And the good little dame appears quite in a pet.
P'rhaps she'll wait longer still for a young bridegroom yet!
For I rather repent having scouted poor Joan,
She is prettier far, though I don't like her home.
Still a second-hand wife, and four babes ready made,
Must be popped in the scale and against that be weighed.
"Now, Murphy," cried Flanagan, "your comical song!
Why, you look black as if all on earth had gone wrong!
Come, I'll bet what you like I can guess what you thought
(If you did take the trouble to meditate aught),
'Tis a bother, I own, and you well may look blue
(Still you're quite green enough if your friends all speak true).
Oh, I fear you are out both of temper and tune,
But I'll give you a song which shall banish care soon."
Then he whetted his whistle, and clearing his voice,
In a very gruff tone sang this ditty so choice:—
"Oh, those that like, let them be sad,
For my part I'll be merry.
A life like theirs would drive me mad,
So I'll be jolly, very.
If Cupid should catch hold of me,
And from my love me sever,
And into woe would turn my glee,
Shall he succeed?—no, never!
If valued friends prove false, unkind,
When any scrape I get in;
I'll drive their memory from my mind,
And thus no sorrow let in.
If Miss Fortune should use me ill,
And steal my only penny,
Contentedly I'll jog on still,
Though Landladies may bore for rent,
And duns may loudly bellow;
I'll tell them, though my money's spent,
I'm still a jolly fellow.
For love in sparkling wine I'll drown
All care and melancholy;
They are but fools who sigh and frown;
For my part I'll be jolly."
Then again the wild dance
Does each young toe entrance.
Then again the wild dance
Does each young toe entrance,
And p'rhaps many an old one beside.
There's antique Miss O'Riley
Has coaxed Donoghue slily
Just to waltz, which he ne'er before tried.
For she chatted so pretty,
And talked, oh, so witty,
That he guessed at her age rather wide.
But the maiden soon found
She must drag him right round,
For he could not his steps at all guide.
While his arms stuck out still,
Like the sails of a mill—
How young Flanagan laughed till he cried!
And called out, "Take care, Tom, what sweet words you are saying;
For the breach of a promise you'll not like the paying."
"What are breaches of promise?" said Donoghue laughing,
Who was not so well versed as his friend was in chaffing.
"Oh," said Flanagan Ted, who was comical rather,
"They are breeches you'll get when worn out by your father."
"Oh, look, Mother!" cried Pat; "all the wood seems on fire;
It was first but a spark, but it now rises higher.
We shall surely get burnt, for 'tis coming this way:
What a flare-up to finish a grand bridal day!"
But the dame felt depressed
In her feelings, and guessed
He was only a-joking again.
So that no heed she took,
No, not even a look,
Although calling he still would remain.
Like the boy that we read of in old Æsop's fable,
He has jested till none to believe him are able.
"Come, niece, give us some punch,
And of cake a slight hunch,
May it taste as it looks, so uncommonly nice,
That I've wished for some long,
But I feared 'twould be wrong,
And might p'rhaps be thought greedy to ask for a slice.
All the dancers, 'tis clear,
Very hungry appear,
And would much be refreshed by that snow-looking ice;
While some hot whisky will
Perhaps warm up the chill
They imbibed at the draught by not taking advice."
'Twas old Jonas thus spoke,
Half in earnest, half joke,
The good dame from her rev'rie to rouse.
But the lady felt sad,
And thought just cause she had
For the grief which her spirit allows.
Still the punch she prepared,
Though she sharply declared
She had rather not cut up the cake;
For the event it should grace
Had not yet taken place,
And much trouble it took her to make.
"Hark! what voices are those?"
Murphy cried, as he rose
And went to look out at the door.
But soon entered again,
And admitted a train
Of monks, about twenty or more.
All in darkness arrayed,
With their heads in a shade,
Although each one a flaming torch bore.
At the head of the band
Marched the Abbot so grand,
Whom the beaux lowly bend soon before.
For him ev'ry one knows
As his very best clothes,
And his mitre so gorgeous he wore.
Which seemed covered with gold,
Then made sticky and rolled
Among jewels to spangle it o'er;
And which glittered so bright
As they shot back the light,
That most folks the real gems took them for.
Now young Patrick had noticed this monkish array,
As amid the dark forest it wended its way;
But as no one would answer the first time he spoke,
He considered that p'rhaps it might be a good joke
If the crew on the party came unawares in
As they're dancing, or drinking: things deemed a great sin
By the Abbot, he knows—who had vexed been right sore
When he stumbled on much the same party before.
And truly it did cause a little confusion,
For the liquors just mixed in the greatest profusion
Filled the air with a grateful perfume.
But as for the present they're too hot for drinking,
The ladies were sniffing the odour, and thinking,
When he first had stept into the room;
Though some rather too bold were near choked, by the bye,
And got burnt in their fright, till a tear leaves each eye,
Which their temper does rather consume.
But how sudden the spirits have vanished from sight!
Far more rapid, I'm certain, than conjuring quite.
For the Abbot, in spite of the scent, is believing
That his nose plays him false, and has been him deceiving.
Not the shade of a cork can he anywhere see,
Though the kettle is boiling—it may be for tea.
But I often have seen the same trick played before
When I was but a young one, about half a score,
As my ma has been mending some portion of dress,
(What the garment might be I will leave you to guess).
If a loud double-knock has been heard at the door,
Quick as thought the said garment has rolled to the floor;
And been under the sofa kicked out of the way,
Till the visit has ended the guest came to pay.
Now no one had spoken,
Till silence was broken
By the Abbot, who said,—
"Friends, I'm come to unite
By the conjugal rite
The young pair who would wed.
But, pray, which is the bridegroom, and which is the bride?—
Are you firmly resolved, then, to have your fates tied
In a very tight knot, which you neither can sever,
Though you're sick of each other, as folks must get ever?
As the poet so justly has said, (who so wise?)
'In the best-ordered families rows will arise.'
So I'll wait a few moments, just out of humanity,
Till you've thought o'er again what may prove quite insanity.
Now, young bridegroom, just think—are you feeling quite sure
That for life you the ways of this dame can endure;
And with joy hear her chatter from morning till night
(About nothing at all, mind,)—with unfeigned delight?
For Plato remarks, 'That he ne'er in his life
Heard an orator speak half so much as his wife.
She would prate when she woke, and still chattering keep
Until night, and would even then talk in her sleep.'
Now, could you bear this to the end of your days,
Supposing that always she spoke to your praise?
Which by no means the case is, as sages declare,
(For of course in such matters we priests have no share).
Now I somewhere have read, but where, by mishap,
Can't remember at present—the fair are a trap
Made to catch the poor men, just like so many birds,
With a few pretty looks and a lot of sweet words,
Which persuade them to think they would not mind it much,
And they yield as a prey to the feminine clutch.
When, lo!—but I'll not track this sad history farther;
Than e'er marry myself I would really die rather."
"Sour grapes! sour grapes!" whispered Jonas, "'tis plain.
But how lucky that single he still can remain!
Sure I married have been thirty years, and ne'er found
The discomforts with which the said state does abound."
"Very likely," was Flanagan's smothered reply;
"But I've found all he said more than true by the bye;
So it is, after all, but a matter of taste,
And it really seems foolish so much time to waste.
But that Murphy is mad there is less than no doubt,
Or he would the young wife, not the old one seek out.
For I've seen the fair damsel of whom he was speaking,
As pretty a girl as you'd find, though far seeking;
With such beautiful eyes, such a sweet little nose;
And such neat little ankles, and delicate toes:
That, though t'other's your niece, sir, you fain must agree
He must have some good reasons, or lunatic be.
Sure I felt much surprised when I heard he was going
To marry dame Neale, for I thought he was sowing
All the seeds of affection in little Joan's heart.
But most likely they've quarrelled, and settled to part."
"Hush," said Jonas; "the Abbot is speaking again;
That a screw has got loose appears perfectly plain.
How I wish I could speak with the dame all alone!
I should learn rather more, then, concerning poor Joan.
But he seems in a hurry to marry them, now,—
I've a good mind to stop him, but don't like a row."
"Then you really intend
Both your fortunes to blend
Into one;
And promise you'll never
From each other sever
Till life 's done?
When as, sir, from your youth you will most like survive,
To provide for these babes will you promise to strive?
For, deprived of their ma, if I right understand,
Most young ladies are likely to stick long on hand.
Unless (and I here must the failings unfold
Of the world), all their pockets are stuffed full of gold;
When all other attractions—O thought most distressing!
Are considered no more than the regular blessing
Which the milkman bestows after measuring out
The pale chalk-coloured fluid he carries about.
Yes! sweet temper and truth are of little avail
When proud Wealth takes his seat in the opposite scale.
As the proverb declares, which we all so well know,
That 'tis money alone that the mare makes to go.
But of course, sir, 'twas nothing at all of this kind
Which has thus to stern fate made you meekly resigned!
It was love—purely love, caused your heart to prefer,
From all others to flee, and reside here with her.
But what's this I hear?
Who dares interfere,
With such racket and unseemly noise?
Mr. Bridegroom go, see,
(We will tarry for thee),
Please to flog 'em if 'tis your two boys."
Then not one of them spoke,
Though all thought 'twas some joke
Of that monkey, young Patrick O'Neale,
Till the urchin they saw
Fast asleep on the floor,
Where he fled in the hopes to conceal
The disguise he still wore,
For he felt more and more
That the wrath of the Abbot he'd feel.
"Let me go! let me go!" cried a voice from without;
And up many arose from their seats to rush out,
When a female dashed through, cast her eyes swift around,
And exhausted fell down, overwhelmed, to the ground,
At the feet of the dame, who was too much affected
To afford the assistance the fair one expected.
