WIDOW MACHREE
“Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! widow machree:
'Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown,
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your hair,
With that close cap you wear—
'Tis destroying your hair
Which should be flowing free:
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone! widow machree.
“Widow machree, now the summer is come,
Och hone! widow machree;
When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum!
Och hone! widow machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares—
Why even the bears
Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,
Och hone! widow machree.
“Widow machree, and when winter comes in,
Och hone! widow machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! widow machree,
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kittle sings songs
Full of family glee,
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit you sup—
Och hone! widow machree.
“And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld,
Och hone! widow machree,
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld,
Och hone! widow machree.
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled,
Could you sleep in your bed,
Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, 'Och hone! widow machree.'
“Then take my advice, darling widow machree,
Och hone! widow machree,
And with my advice, 'faith I wish you'd take me,
Och hone! widow machree.
You'd have me to desire
Then to sit by the fire;
And sure hope is no liar
In whispering to me
That the ghosts would depart,
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machree.”
The singer was honoured with a round of applause, and his challenge for another lay was readily answered, and mirth and music filled the night and ushered in the dawn of the day which was to witness the melancholy sight of the master of an ample mansion being made the tenant of the “narrow house.”
In the evening of that day, however, the wail rose loud and long; the mirth which “the waking” permits had passed away, and the ulican, or funeral cry, told that the lifeless chief was being borne from his hall. That wild cry was heard even by the party who were waiting to make their horrid seizure, and for that party the stone-laden coffin was sent with a retinue of mourners through the old iron gate of the principal entrance, while the mortal remains were borne by a smaller party to the river inlet and placed on the raft. Half an hour had witnessed a sham fight on the part of O'Grady's people with the bailiffs and their followers, who made the seizure they intended, and locked up their prize in an old barn to which it had been conveyed, until some engagement on the part of the heir should liberate it; while the aforesaid heir, as soon as the shadows of evening had shrouded the river in obscurity, conveyed the remains, which the myrmidons of the law fancied they possessed, to its quiet and lonely resting-place. The raft was taken in tow by a boat carrying two of the boys, and pulled by four lusty retainers of the departed chief, while Gustavus himself stood on the raft, astride over the coffin, and with an eel-spear, which had afforded him many a day's sport, performed the melancholy task of guiding it. It was a strangely painful yet beautiful sight to behold the graceful figure of the fine boy engaged in this last sad duty; with dexterous energy he plied his spear, now on this side and now on that, directing the course of the raft, or clearing it from the flaggers which interrupted its passage through the narrow inlet. This duty he had to attend to for some time, even after leaving the little inlet; for the river was much overgrown with flaggers at this point, and the increasing darkness made the task more difficult.
In the midst of all this action not one word was spoken, even the sturdy boatmen were mute, and the fall of the oar in the rowlock, the plash of the water, and the crushing sound of the yielding rushes as the “watery bier” made its way through them were the only sounds which broke the silence. Still Gustavus betrayed no emotion; but by the time they reached the open stream, and that his personal exertion was no longer required, a change came over him. It was night,—the measured beat of the oars sounded like a knell to him—there was darkness above him and death below, and he sank down upon the coffin, and plunging his face passionately between his hands, he wept bitterly. Sad were the thoughts that oppressed the brain and wrung the heart of the high-spirited boy. He felt that his dead father was escaping, as it were, to the grave,—that even death did not terminate the consequences of an ill-spent life. He felt like a thief in the night, even in the execution of his own stratagem, and the bitter thoughts of that sad and solemn time wrought a potent spell over after-years; that one hour of misery and disgrace influenced the entire of a future life.
On a small hill overhanging the river was the ruin of an ancient early temple of Christianity, and to its surrounding burial-ground a few of the retainers had been despatched to prepare a grave. They were engaged in this task by the light of a torch made of bog-pine, when the flicker of the flame attracted the eye of a horseman who was riding slowly along the neighbouring road. Wondering what could be the cause of light in such a place, he leaped the adjoining fence and rode up to the grave-yard.
“What are you doing here?” he said to the labourers. They paused and looked up, and the flash of the torch fell upon the features of Edward O'Connor. “We're finishing your work,” said one of the men with malicious earnestness.
“My work?” repeated Edward.
“Yes,” returned the man, more sternly than before—“this is the grave of O'Grady.”
The words went like an ice-bolt through Edward's heart, and even by the torchlight the tormentor could see his victim grew livid.
The fellow who wounded so deeply one so generally beloved as Edward O'Connor was a thorough ruffian. His answer to Edward's query sprang not from love of O'Grady, nor abhorrence of taking human life, but from the opportunity of retort which the occasion offered upon one who had once checked him in an act of brutality.
Yet Edward O'Connor could not reply—it was a home thrust. The death of O'Grady had weighed heavily upon him; for though O'Grady's wound had been given in honourable combat, provoked by his own fury, and not producing immediate death; though that death had supervened upon the subsequent intractability of the patient; yet the fact that O'Grady had never been “up and doing” since the duel tended to give the impression that his wound was the remote if not the immediate cause of his death, and this circumstance weighed heavily on Edward's spirits. His friends told him he felt over keenly upon the subject, and that no one but himself could entertain a question of his total innocence of O'Grady's death; but when from the lips of a common peasant he got the answer he did, and that beside the grave of his adversary, it will not be wondered at that he reeled in his saddle. A cold shivering sickness came over him, and to avoid falling he alighted and leaned for support against his horse, which stooped, when freed from the restraint of the rein, to browse on the rank verdure; and for a moment Edward envied the unconsciousness of the animal against which he leaned. He pressed his forehead against the saddle, and from the depth of a bleeding heart came up an agonised exclamation.
A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder as he spoke, and, turning round, he beheld Mr. Bermingham.
“What brings you here?” said the clergyman.
“Accident,” answered Edward. “But why should I say accident?—it is by a higher authority and a better—it is the will of Heaven. It is meant as a bitter lesson to human pride: we make for ourselves laws of honour, and forget the laws of God!”
“Be calm, my young friend,” said the worthy pastor; “I cannot wonder you feel deeply—but command yourself.” He pressed Edward's hand as he spoke and left him, for he knew that an agony so keen is not benefited by companionship.
Mr. Bermingham was there by appointment to perform the burial service, and he had not left Edward's side many minutes when a long wild whistle from the waters announced the arrival of the boat and raft, and the retainers ran down to the river, leaving the pine-torch stuck in the upturned earth, waving its warm blaze over the cold grave. During the interval which ensued between the departure of the men and their reappearance, bearing the body to its last resting-place, Mr. Bermingham spoke with Edward O'Connor, and soothed him into a more tranquil bearing. When the coffin came within view he advanced to meet it, and began the sublime burial-service, which he repeated most impressively. When it was over, the men commenced filling up the grave. As the clods fell upon the coffin, they smote the hearts of the dead man's children; yet the boys stood upon the verge of the grave as long as a vestige of the tenement of their lost father could be seen; but as soon as the coffin was hidden, they withdrew from the brink, and the younger boys, each taking hold of the hand of the eldest, seemed to imply the need of mutual dependence:—as if death had drawn closer the bond of brotherhood.
There was no sincerer mourner at that place than Edward O'Connor, who stood aloof, in respect for the feelings of the children of the departed man, till the grave was quite filled up, and all were about to leave the spot; but then his feelings overmastered him, and, impelled by a torrent of contending emotions, he rushed forward, and throwing himself on his knees before Gustavus, he held up his hands imploringly, and sobbed forth, “Forgive me!”
The astonished boy drew back.
“Oh, forgive me!” repeated Edward—“I could not help it—it was forced on me—it was—”
As he struggled for utterance, even the rough retainers were touched, and one of them exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. O'Connor, it was a fair fight!”
“There!” exclaimed Edward—“you hear it! Oh, give me your hand in forgiveness!”
“I forgive you,” said the boy, “but do not ask me to give you my hand to-night.”
“You are right” said Edward, springing to his feet—“you are right—you are a noble fellow; and now, remember my parting words, Gustavus:—Here, by the side of your father's grave, I pledge you my soul that through life and till death, in all extremity, Edward O'Connor is your sworn and trusty friend.”