The humour of Ireland

by Unknown

DARBY DOYLE’S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC.

I tuck the road, one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an’ got up to the Cove safe an’ sound. There I saw many ships with big broad boords fastened to ropes, every one ov them saying, “The first vessel for Quebec.” Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager; this one siz she’ll be first, and that one siz she’ll be first. At any rate I pitched on one that was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax the fare, who shou’d come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould townsman ov my own.

“Och, is it yoorself that’s there, Ned?” siz I; “are ye goin’ to Amerrykey?”

“Why, an’ to be shure,” sez he; “I’m mate ov the ship.”

“Meat! that’s yer sort, Ned,” siz I; “then we’ll only want bread. Hadn’t I betther go and pay my way?”

“You’re time enough,” siz Ned; “I’ll tell you when we’re ready for sea—leave the rest to me, Darby.”

“Och, tip us your fist,” siz I; “you were always the broath of a boy; for the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a bite to ate.” So, my jewel, Ned brought me to where there was right good stuff. When it got up to three o’clock I found myself mighty weak with hunger. I got the smell ov corn-beef an’ cabbage that knock’d me up entirely. I then wint to the landlady, and siz I to her, “Maybee your leddyship ’id not think me rood by axin iv Ned an’ myself cou’d get our dinner ov that fine hot mate that I got a taste ov in my nose?” “In throath you can,” siz she (an’ she look’d mighty pleasant), “an’ welkim.” So my darlin’ dish and all came up. “That’s what I call a flaugholoch[8] mess,” siz I. So we ate and drank away.

“MANY’S THE SQUEEZE NED GAVE MY FIST.”

Many’s the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to leave it all to him, and how comfortable he’d make me on the voyage. Day afther day we spint together, waitin’ for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to grow very light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther dinner—

“Darby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow—you’d betther go on boord an’ pay your way.”

“Is it jokin’ you are, Ned?” siz I; “shure you tould me to leave it all to you.”

“Ah! Darby,” siz he, “you’re for takin’ a rise out o’ me; shure enough, ye were the lad that was never without a joke—the very priest himself couldn’t get over ye. But, Darby, there’s no joke like the thrue one. I’ll stick to my promise; but, Darby, you must pay your way.”

“Oh, Ned,” siz I, “is this the way you’re goin’ to threat me afther all? I’m a rooin’d man; all I cou’d scrape together I spint on you. If you don’t do something for me, I’m lost. Is there no place where you cou’d hide me from the captin?”

“Not a place,” siz Ned.

“An’ where, Ned, is the place I saw you comin’ up out ov?”

“Oh, Darby, that was the hould where the cargo’s stow’d.”

“An’ is there no other place?” siz I.

“Oh, yes,” siz he, “where we keep the wather casks.”

“An’ Ned,” siz I, “does any one live down there?”

“Not a mother’s soul,” siz he.

“An’ Ned,” siz I, “can’t you cram me down there, and give me a lock ov straw an’ a bit?”

“Why, Darby,” siz he (an’ he look’d mighty pittyfull), “I must thry. But mind, Darby, you’ll have to hide all day in an empty barrel, and when it comes to my watch, I’ll bring you down some prog; but if you’re diskiver’d, it’s all over with me, an’ you’ll be put on a dissilute island to starve.”

“Oh, Ned,” siz I, “leave it all to me.”

“Never fear, Darby, I’ll mind my eye.”

When night cum on I got down into the dark cellar, among the barrels; poor Ned fixt a place in a corner for me to sleep, an’ every night he brought me down hard black cakes and salt mate. There I lay snug for a whole month. At last, one night, siz he to me, “Now, Darby, what’s to be done? we’re within three days’ sail ov Quebec; the ship will be overhauled, and all the passengers’ names called over; if you are found, you’ll be sould as a slave for your passage money.” “An’ is that all that frets you, my jewel?” siz I; “can’t you leave it all to me? In throath, Ned, I’ll never forget your hospitality, at any rate. But what place is outside ov the ship?” “Why, the sea, to be shure,” siz he. “Och! botheration,” siz I. “I mean what’s the outside ov the ship?” “Why, Darby,” siz he, “part of it’s called the bulwark.” “An’ fire an’ faggots!” siz I, “is it bulls work the vessel along?” “No, nor horses,” siz he, “neither; this is no time for jokin’; what do you mean to do?” “Why, I’ll tell you, Ned; get me an empty meal-bag, a bottle, an’ a bare ham-bone, and that’s all I’ll ax.” So, begad, Ned look’d very queer at me; but he got them for me, anyhow. “Well, Ned,” siz I, “you know I’m a great shwimmer; your watch will be early in the mornin’; I’ll jist slip down into the sea; do you cry out, ‘There’s a man in the wather,’ as loud as you can, and leave all the rest to me.” Well, to be shure, down into the sea I dropt without as much as a splash. Ned roared out with the hoarseness ov a brayin’ ass, “A man in the sea! a man in the sea!” Every man, woman, and child came running up out ov the hole, the captain among the rest, who put a long red barrel like a gun to his eye—gibbet me, but I thought he was for shootin’ me! down I dived. When I got my head over the wather agen, what shou’d I see but a boat rowin’ to me, as fast as a throut after a pinkeen. When it came up close enough to be heard, I roared out: “Bad end to yees, for a set ov spalpeen rascals, did ye hear me at last?” The boat now run ’pon the top ov me; down I dived agen like a duck afther a frog, but the minnit my skull came over the wather, I was gript by the scruff ov the neck and dhragged into the boat. To be shure, I didn’t kick up a row—“Let go my hair, ye blue divils,” I roared; “it’s well ye have me in your marcy in this dissilute place, or by the powthers I’d make ye feel the strinth of my bones. What hard look I had to follow yees, at all, at all—which ov ye is the masther?” As I sed this every mother’s son began to stare at me, with my bag round my neck, an’ my bottle by my side, an’ the bare bone in my fist. “There he is,” siz they, pointin’ to a little yellow man in a corner ov the boat. “May the—— rise blisthers on your rapin’ hook shins,” siz I, “you yallow-lookin’ monkey, but it’s a’most time for you to think ov lettin’ me into your ship—I’m here plowin’ and plungin’ this month afther ye: shure I didn’t care a thrawneen was it not that you have my best Sunday clothes in your ship, and my name in your books. For three sthraws, if I don’t know how to write, I’d leave my mark on your skull;” so sayin’, I made a lick at him with the ham-bone, but I was near tumblin’ into the sea agen. “An’ pray, what is your name, my lad?” siz the captin. “What’s my name! What ’id you give to know?” siz I; “ye unmannerly spalpeen, it might be what’s your name, Darby Doyle, out ov your mouth—ay, Darby Doyle, that was never afraid or ashamed to own it at home or abroad!”

“An’, Mr. Darby Doyle,” siz he, “do you mean to persuade us that you swum from Cork to this afther us?”

“This is more ov your ignorance,” siz I—“ay, an’ if you sted three days longer and not take me up, I’d be in Quebec before ye, only my purvisions were out, and the few rags of bank-notes I had all melted into paste in my pocket, for I hadn’t time to get them changed. But stay, wait till I get my foot on shore, there’s ne’er a cottoner in Cork iv you don’t pay for leavin’ me to the marcy ov the waves.”

All this time the blue chaps were pushin’ the boat with sticks through the wather, till at last we came close to the ship. Every one on board saw me at the Cove but didn’t see me on the voyage; to be sure, every one’s mouth was wide open, crying out “Darby Doyle.”

“The—— stop your throats,” siz I, “it’s now you call me loud enough,” siz I; “ye wouldn’t shout that way when ye saw me rowlin’ like a tub in a mill-race the other day fornenst your faces.”

When they heard me say that, some of them grew pale as a sheet—every thumb was at work till they a’most brought the blood from their forreds. But, my jewel, the captin does no more than runs to the book, an’ calls out the names that paid, and them that wasn’t paid—to be shure, I was one ov them that didn’t pay. If the captin looked at me before with wondherment, he now looked with astonishment. Nothin’ was tawk’d ov for the other three days but Darby Doyle’s great shwim from the Cove to Quebec. One sed, “I always knew Darby to be a great shwimmer.” “Do ye remimher,” siz another, “when Darby’s dog was nigh been dhrownded in the great duck hunt, whin Darby peeled off an’ brought in the dog, an’ made afther the duck himself, and swam for two hours endways; an’ do ye remimber whin all the dogs gather round the duck at one time; whin it wint down how Darby dived afther it,—an’ sted below while the creathur was eatin’ a few frogs, for she was weak an’ hungry; an’ whin everybody thought he was lost, up he came with the duck by the leg in his kithogue” (left hand). Begar, I agreed to all they sed, till at last we got to Amerrykey. I was now in a quare way; the captin wouldn’t let me go till a friend of his would see me. By this time, my jewel, not only his friends came, but swarms upon swarms, starin’ at poor Darby.

At last I called Ned. “Ned, avic,” siz I, “I want to go about my bisness.” “Be asy, Darby,” siz he; “haven’t ye your fill ov good atin’, an’ the captin’s got mighty fond ov ye entirely.” “Is he, Ned?” siz I; “but tell us, Ned, are all them crowd ov people goin’ to sea?” “Augh, ye omadhaun,”[9] siz Ned, “sure they are come to look at you.” Just as he said this a tall yallow man, with a black curly head, comes and stares me full in the face. “You’ll know me agen,” siz I, “bad luck to yer manners an’ the school-masther that taught ye.” But I thought he was goin’ to shake hands with me when he tuck hould ov my fist and opened every finger, one by one, then opened my shirt and look’d at my breast. “Pull away, ma bouchal”[10] siz I, “I’m no desarthur, at any rate.” But never an answer he made, but walk’d down into the hole where the captin lived. “This is more ov it,” siz I; “Ned, what could that tallah-faced man mean?” “Why,” siz Ned, “he was lookin’ to see if your fingers were webbed, or had ye scales on your breast.” “His impidence is great,” siz I; “did he take me for a duck or a bream? But, Ned, what’s the meanin’ ov the boords acrass the stick the people walk on, and the big white boord up there?” “Why, come over and read,” siz Ned. But, my jewel, I didn’t know whether I was stannin’ on my head or my heels when I saw in great big black letthers:—

The Greatest Wondher of the World

to be seen here!

A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver!

He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey!!

Proved on oath by ten of the Crew and twenty Passengers.

Admittance—Half a Dollar.

“Bloody wars! Ned,” siz I, “does this mean your humble sarvint?” “Divil another,” siz he. So I makes no more ado, than with a hop, skip, and jump gets over to the captin, who was now talkin’ to the yallow fellow that was afther starin’ me out ov countenance. “Pardon my roodness, your honour,” siz I, mighty polite, and makin’ a bow,—at the same time Ned was at my heels—so risin’ my foot to give the genteel scrape, shure I scraped all the skin off Ned’s shins. “May bad luck to your brogues,” siz he. “You’d betther not curse the wearer,” siz I, “or—— ” “Oh, Darby!” siz the captin, “don’t be unginteel, an’ so many ladies and gintlemen lookin’ at ye.” “The never another mother’s soul shall lay their peepers on me till I see sweet Inchegelagh agen,” siz I. “Begar, ye are doin’ it well. How much money have ye gother for my shwimmin’?” “Be quiet, Darby,” siz the captin, an’ he look’d very much frickened; “I have plenty, an’ I’ll have more for ye if ye do what I want ye to do.” “An’ what is it, avic?” siz I. “Why, Darby,” siz he, “I’m afther houldin’ a wager last night with this gintleman for all the worth ov my ship, that you’ll shwim agen any shwimmer in the world; an’ Darby, if ye don’t do that, I’m a gone man.” “Augh, give us your fist,” siz I; “did ye ever hear ov Paddies disheving any man in the European world yet—barrin’ themselves?” “Well, Darby,” siz he, “I’ll give you a hundred dollars; but, Darby, you must be to your word, an’ you shall have another hundred.” So sayin’, he brought me down into the cellar; but, my jewel, I didn’t think for the life of me to see sich a wondherful place—nothin’ but goold every way I turn’d, an’ Darby’s own sweet face in twenty places. Begar, I was a’most ashamed to ax the gintleman for the dollars. “But,” siz I to myself agen, “the gintleman has too much money, I suppose, he does be throwin’ it into the sea, for I often heard the sea was much richer than the land, so I may as well take it, anyhow.” “Now, Darby,” siz he, “here’s the dollars for ye.” But, begar, it was only a bit of paper he was handin’ me. “Arrah, none ov yer thricks upon thravellers,” siz I; “I had betther nor that, an’ many more ov them, melted in the sea; give me what won’t wash out ov my pocket” “Why, Darby,” siz he, “this is an ordher on a marchant for the amount.” “Pho, pho!” siz I, “I’d sooner take your word nor his oath,” lookin’ round mighty respectful at the goold walls. “Well, Darby,” siz he, “ye must have the raal thing.” So, by the powthers, he reckoned me out a hundred dollars in goold. I never saw the like since the stockin’ fell out of the chimley on my aunt and cut her forred. “Now, Darby,” siz he, “ye are a rich man, and ye are worthy ov it all—sit down, Darby, an’ take a bottle ov wine.” So to please the gintleman I sat down. Afther a bit, who comes down but Ned. “Captin,” siz he, “the deck is crowded; I had to block up the gangway to prevint any more from comin’ in to see Darby. Bring him up, or blow me if the ship won’t be sunk.” “Come up, Darby,” siz the captin, lookin’ roguish pleasant at myself. So, my jewel, he handed me up through the hall, as tendher as if I was a lady, or a pound ov fresh butther in the dog days.

“I WAS MADE TO PEEL OFF BEHIND A BIG SHEET.”

When I got up, shure enough I couldn’t help starin’; sich crowds of fine ladies and yallow gintlemen never was seen before in any ship. One ov them, a little rosy-cheeked beauty, whispered the captin somethin’, but he shuk his head, and then came over to me. “Darby,” siz he, “I know an Irishman would do anything to please a lady.” “In throth you may say that with your own ugly mouth,” siz I. “Well, then, Darby,” siz he, “the ladies would wish to see you give a few sthrokes in the sea.” “Och, an’ they shall have them, an’ welkim,” siz I. “That’s a good fellow,” siz he; “now strip off.” “Decency, captin,” siz I; “is it in my mother-naked pelt before the ladies? Bad luck to the undacent brazen-faced—but no matther! Irish girls for ever, afther all!” But all to no use. I was made to peel off behind a big sheet, and then I made one race an’ jump’d ten yards into the wather to get out of their sight. Shure enough, every one’s eyes danced in their head, while they look’d on the spot where I went down. A thought came into my head while I was below, how I’d show them a little divarsion, as I could use a great many thricks on the wather. So I didn’t rise at all till I got to the other side, an’ every one run to that side; then I took a hoult ov my two big toes, an’ makin’ a ring ov myself, rowled like a hoop on the top ov the wather all round the ship. I b’leeve I opened their eyes! Then I yarded, back swum, an’ dived, till at last the captin made signs for me to come out so I got into the boat an’ threw on my duds. The very ladies were breakin’ their necks runnin’ to shake hands with me. “Shure,” siz they, “you’re the greatest man in the world!!” So for three days I showed off to crowds ov people, though I was fryin’ in the wather for shame.

At last the day came that I was to stand the tug. I saw the captin lookin’ very often at me. At last, “Darby,” siz he, “are you any way cow’d? The fellow you have to shwim agenst can shwim down watherfalls an’ catharacts.” “Can he, avic?” says I; “but can he shwim up agenst them? Wow, wow, Darby, for that. But, captin, come here; is all my purvisions ready? don’t let me fall short ov a dhrop ov the raal stuff above all things.” An’ who should come up while I was tawkin’ to the captin but the chap I was to shwim with, an’ heard all I sed. Begar! his eyes grew as big as two oysther-shells. Then the captin called me aside. “Darby,” siz he, “do you put on this green jacket an’ white throwsers, that the people may betther extinguish you from the other chap.” “With all hearts, avic,” siz I; “green for ever! Darby’s own favourite colour the world over; but where am I goin’ to, captin?” “To the swhimmin’ place, to be shure,” siz he. “Divil shoot the failers an’ take the hindmost,” siz I; “here’s at ye.” I was then inthrojuiced to the shwimmer. I looked at him from head to foot. He was so tall he could eat bread an’ butther over my head—with a face as yallow as a kite’s foot. “Tip us the mitten, ma bouchal” siz I (but, begad, I was puzzled. “Begar,” siz I to myself, “I’m done. Cheer up, Darby. If I’m not able to kill him, I’ll fricken the life out ov him.”) “Where are we goin’ to shwim to?” But never a word he answered. “Are ye bothered, neighbour?” “I reckon I’m not,” siz he, mighty chuff. “Well, then,” siz I, “why didn’t ye answer your betthers? What ’ud ye think if we shwum to Keep Cleer or the Keep ov Good Hope?” “I reckon neither,” siz he agen, eyein’ me as if I was goin’ to pick his pockets. “Well, then, have ye any favourite place?” siz I. “Now, I’ve heard a great deal about the place where poor Boney died; I’d like to see it, if I’d any one to show me the place; suppose we wint there?” Not a taste ov a word could I get out ov him, good or bad. Off we set through the crowds ov ladies and gintlemen. Sich cheerin’ an’ wavin’ ov hats was never seen even at Dan’s[11] enthry; an’ then the row ov purty girls laughin’ an’ rubbin’ up agenst me, that I could har’ly get on. To be shure, no one could be lookin’ to the ground, an’ not be lookin’ at them, till at last I was thript up by a big loomp ov iron stuck fast in the ground with a big ring to it. “Whoo, Darby!” siz I, makin’ a hop an’ a crack ov my finger, “you’re not down yet.” I turn’d round to look at what thript me.

“What d’ye call that?” siz I to the captin, who was at my elbow.

“Why, Darby,” siz he, “that’s half an anchor.”

“Have ye any use for it?” siz I.

“Not in the least,” siz he; “it’s only to fasten boats to.”

“Maybee you’d give it to a body,” siz I.

“An’ welkim, Darby,” siz he; “it’s yours.”

“God bless your honour, sir,” siz I, “it’s my poor father that will pray for you. When I left home the creather hadn’t as much as an anvil but what was sthreeled away by the agint—bad end to them. This will be jist the thing that’ll match him; he can tie the horse to the ring, while he forges on the other part. Now, will ye obleege me by gettin’ a couple ov chaps to lay it on my shoulder when I get into the wather, and I won’t have to be comin’ back for it afther I shake hands with this fellow.”

Begar, the chap turned from yallow to white when he heard me say this. An’ siz he to the gintleman that was walkin’ by his side—

“I reckon I’m not fit for the shwimmin’ to-day—I don’t feel myself.”

“An’, murdher an’ Irish, if you’re yer brother, can’t you send him for yerself, an’ I’ll wait here till he comes. Here, man, take a dhrop ov this before ye go. Here’s to yer betther health, and your brother’s into the bargain.” So I took off my glass, and handed him another; but the never a dhrop ov it he’d take. “No force,” siz I, “avic; maybee you think there’s poison in it—well, here’s another good luck to us. An’ when will ye be able for the shwim, avic?” siz I, mighty complisant.

“I reckon in another week,” siz he.

So we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow went home, took the fever, then began to rave. “Shwim up catharacts!—shwim to the Keep ov Good Hope!—shwim to St Helena!—shwim to Keep Cleer!—shwim with an anchor on his back!—Oh! oh! oh!”

I now thought it best to be on the move; so I gother up my winners; and here I sit undher my own hickory threes, as indipindent as any Yankee.

Thomas Ettingsall (17—–1850?).

ST. PATRICK AND THE SNAKES.

ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!

A fig for St. Denis of France—

He’s a trumpery fellow to brag on;

A fig for St. George and his lance,

Which spitted a heathenish dragon;

And the saints of the Welshman or Scot

Are a couple of pitiful pipers;

Both of whom may just travel to pot,

Compared with that patron of swipers,

St Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

He came to the Emerald Isle

On a lump of a paving stone mounted;

The steamboat he beat by a mile,

Which mighty good sailing was counted.

Says he, “The salt water, I think,

Has made me most fishily thirsty;

So bring me a flagon of drink

To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye—

Of drink that is fit for a saint.”

He preached, then, with wonderful force,

The ignorant natives a’ teaching;

With a pint he washed down his discourse,

“For,” says he, “I detest your dry preaching.”

The people, with wonderment struck,

At a pastor so pious and civil,

Exclaimed—“We’re for you, my old buck!

And we pitch our blind gods to the divil,

Who dwells in hot water below!”

This ended, our worshipful spoon

Went to visit an elegant fellow,

Whose practice, each cool afternoon,

Was to get most delightfully mellow

That day, with a black-jack of beer,

It chanced he was treating a party;

Says the Saint—“This good day, do you hear,

I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty!

So give me a pull at the pot!”

The pewter he lifted in sport

(Believe me, I tell you no fable),

A gallon he drank from the quart,

And then placed it full on the table.

“A miracle!” every one said,

And they all took a haul at the stingo;

They were capital hands at the trade,

And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo,

The pot still frothed over the brim!

Next day, quoth his host, “’Tis a fast,

And I’ve naught in my larder but mutton;

And on Fridays, who’d make such repast,

Except an unchristian-like glutton?”

Says Pat, “Cease your nonsense, I beg,

What you tell me is nothing but gammon;

Take my compliments down to the leg,

And bid it come hither a salmon!”

And the leg most politely complied!

You’ve heard, I suppose, long ago,

How the snakes, in a manner most antic,

He marched to the County Mayo,

And trundled them into th’ Atlantic.

Hence, not to use water for drink,

The people of Ireland determine:

With mighty good reason, I think,

Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin,

And vipers and such other stuff!

Oh! he was an elegant blade

As you’d meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper!

And though under the sod he is laid,

Yet here goes his health in a bumper!

I wish he was here, that my glass

He might by art magic replenish;

But since he is not—why, alas!

My ditty must come to a finish,

Because all the liquor is out.

William Maginn, LL.D. (1793–1842).

THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY.

A MOORE-ISH MELODY.

The last lamp of the alley

Is burning alone!

All its brilliant companions

Are shivered and gone;

No lamp of her kindred,

No burner is nigh

To rival her glimmer

Or light to supply.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To vanish in smoke,

As the bright ones are shattered,

Thou too shalt be broke:

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy globe o’er the street,

Where the watch in his rambles

Thy fragments shall meet.

Then home will I stagger

As well as I may,

By the light of my nose, sure,

I’ll find out the way;

When thy blaze is extinguished,

Thy brilliancy gone,

Oh! my beak shall illumine

The alley alone!

William Maginn, LL.D.

“I’LL NOT LEAVE THEE, THOU LONE ONE.”

THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS.

Alas! how we are changed as we progress through the world! That breast becomes arid which once was open to every impression of the tender passion. The rattle of the dice-box beats out of the head the rattle of the quiver of Cupid; and the shuffling of the cards renders the rustling of his wings inaudible. The necessity of looking after a tablecloth supersedes that of looking after a petticoat; and we more willingly make an assignation with a mutton-chop than with an angel in female form. The bonds of love are exchanged for those of the conveyancer; bills take the place of billets; and we do not protest, but are protested against, by a three-and-sixpenny notary. Such are the melancholy effects of age.

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There are few objects on which men differ so much as in regard to blue-stockings. I believe that the majority of literary men look upon them as entirely useless. Yet a little reflection will serve us to show the unphilosophical nature of this opinion. There seems, indeed, to be a system of exclusive appropriation in literature, as well as in law, which cannot be too severely reprobated. A critic of the present day cannot hear a young woman make a harmless observation on poetry or politics without starting; which start, I am inclined to think, proceeds from affectation, considering how often he must have heard the same remark made on former occasions. Ought the female sex to be debarred from speaking nonsense on literary matters any more than the men? I think not. Even supposing that such privilege was not originally conferred by a law of Nature, they have certainly acquired right to it by the long prescription. Besides, if commonplace remarks were not daily and nightly rendered more commonplace by continual repetition, even a man of original mind might run the hazard of occasionally so far forgetting himself and his subject as to record an idea which, upon more mature deliberation, might be found to be no idea at all. This, I contend, is prevented by the judicious interference of the fair sex.

⁂

Don’t marry any woman hastily at Brighton or Brussels without knowing who she is, and where she lived before she came there. And whenever you get a reference upon this or any other subject, always be sure and get another reference about the person referred to.

⁂

Don’t marry any woman under twenty; she is not come to her wickedness before that time; nor any woman who has a red nose at any age; because people make observations as you go along the street. “A cast of the eye”—as the lady casts it upon you—may pass muster under some circumstances; and I have even known those who thought it desirable; but absolute squinting is a monopoly of vision which ought not to be tolerated.

⁂

Don’t on any account marry a “lively” young lady; that is, in other words, a “romp”; that is, in other words, a woman who has been hauled about by half your acquaintance.

⁂

On the very day after your marriage, whenever you do marry, take one precaution. Be cursed with no more troubles for life than you have bargained for. Call the roll of all your wife’s even speaking acquaintance; and strike out every soul that you have—or fancy you ought to have—or fancy you ever shall have—a glimpse of dislike to. Upon this point be merciless. Your wife won’t hesitate—a hundred to one—between a husband and a gossip; and if she does, don’t you. Be particularly sharp upon the list of women; of course, men—you would frankly kick any one from Pall Mall to Pimlico who presumed only to recollect ever having seen her. And don’t be manœuvred out of what you mean by cards or morning calls, or any notion of what people call “good breeding.” ... Never dispute with her where the question is of no importance; nor, where it is of the least consequence, let any earthly consideration ever once induce you to give way.

⁂

Few pieces of cant are more common than that which consists in re-echoing the old and ridiculous cry of “variety is charming,” “toujours perdrix,” etc., etc., etc. I deny the fact. I want no variety. Let things be really good, and I, for one, am in no danger of wearying of them. For example, to rise every day about half after nine—eat a couple of eggs and muffins, and drink some cups of genuine sound, clear coffee—then to smoke a cigar or so—read the Chronicle—skim a few volumes of some first-rate new novel, or perhaps pen a libel or two in a slight sketchy vein—then to take a bowl of strong, rich, invigorating soup—then to get on horseback, and ride seven or eight miles, paying a visit to some amiable, well-bred, accomplished young lady, in the course of it, and chattering away an hour with her,

“Sporting with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neœra’s hair,”

as Milton expresses it—then to take a hot-bath, and dress—then to sit down to a plain substantial dinner, in company with a select party of real good, honest, jolly Tories—and to spend the rest of the evening with them over a pitcher of cool Chateau-Margout, singing, laughing, speechifying, blending wit and wisdom, and winding up the whole with a devil, and a tumbler or two of hot rum-punch. This, repeated day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year, may perhaps appear, to some people, a picture pregnant with ideas of the most sickening and disgusting monotony. Not so with me, however. I am a plain man. I could lead this dull course of uniform, unvaried existence for the whole period of the Millennium. Indeed, I mean to do so.

⁂

When a man is drunk, it is no matter upon what he has got drunk.

⁂

In whatever country one is, one should choose the dishes of the country. Every really national dish is good—at least, I never yet met with one that did not gratify my appetite. The Turkish pilaws are most excellent—but the so-called French cookery of Pera is execrable. In like manner, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding is always a prime feast in England, while John Bull’s Fricandeaux soufflées, etc., are decidedly anathema. What a horror, again, is a Bifsteck of the Palais Royal! On the same principle—(for all the fine arts follow exactly the same principles)—on the same principle it is, that while Principal Robertson, Dugald Stewart, Dr. Thomas Brown, and all the other would-be English writers of Scotland, have long since been voted tame, insipid, and tasteless diet, the real haggis-bag of a Robert Burns keeps, and must always keep, its place.

⁂

The next best thing to a really good woman is a really good-natured one. The next worst thing to a really bad man (in other words, a knave) is a really good-natured man (in other words, a fool).

“WINDING UP THE WHOLE WITH A DEVIL, AND A TUMBLER OR TWO OF HOT RUM-PUNCH.”

A married woman commonly falls in love with a man as unlike her husband as is possible—but a widow very often marries a man extremely resembling the defunct. The reason is obvious.

⁂

If you meet with a pleasant fellow in a stage-coach, dine and get drunk with him, and, still holding him to be a pleasant fellow, hear from his own lips at parting that he is a Whig—do not change your opinion of the man. Depend on it, he is quizzing you.

⁂

The safety of women consists in one circumstance—men do not possess at the same time the knowledge of thirty-five and the blood of seventeen.

⁂

If prudes were as pure as they would have us believe, they would not rail so bitterly as they do. We do not thoroughly hate that which we do not thoroughly understand.

⁂

Few idiots are entitled to claver on the same form with the bibliomaniacs; but, indeed, to be a collector of anything, and to be an ass, are pretty nearly equivalent phrases in the language of all rational men. No one collects anything of which he really makes use. Who ever suspected Lord Spencer, or his factotum, little Dibdin, of reading? The old Quaker at York, who has a museum of the ropes at which eminent criminals have dangled, has no intention to make an airy and tassel-like termination of his own terrestrial career—for that would be quite out of character with a man of his brims. In like manner, it is now well known that the three thousand three hundred and thirty-three young ladies who figure on the books of the Seraglio have a very idle life of it, and that, in point of fact, the Grand Seignior is a highly respectable man. The people that collect pictures, also, are, generally speaking, such folk as Sir John Leicester, the late Angerstein, and the like of that. The only two things that I have any pleasure in collecting are bottles of excellent wine and boxes of excellent cigars—articles, of the first of which I flatter myself I know rather more than Lord Eldon does of pictures; and of the latter whereof I make rather more use than old Mustapha can be supposed to do of his 3333 knick-knacks in petticoats—or rather, I beg their ladyships’ pardon, in trousers.

⁂

As to the beautiful material adaptation of cold rum and cold water, that is beyond all praise, and indeed forms a theme of never-ceasing admiration, being one of Nature’s most exquisite achievements. Sturm has omitted it, but I intend to make a supplement to his Reflections when I get a little leisure.

William Maginn, LL.D.

THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS.

Jerry Mahony, arrah, my jewel, come let us be off to the fair,

For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be there;

Say they, “The whole Mahony faction we’ll banish ’em out clear and clean;”

But it never was yet in their breeches their bullaboo words to maintain.

There’s Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,

’Twould make your mouth water to see him just giving a bit of a stroke;

There’s Corney, the bandy-legged tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff,

Who’d fight though the black blood was flowing like butter-milk out of his buff.

There’s broken-nosed Bat from the mountain—last week he burst out of jail—

And Murty, the beautiful Tory, who’d scorn in a row to turn tail;

Bloody Bill will be there like a darling—and Jerry—och! let him alone

For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone!

And Tim, who’d served in the Militia, has his bayonet stuck on a pole;

Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order—a neat sort of tool on the whole;

A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;

But I think that a man is more handy who fights, as I do, with a flail.

We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by iligant men,

Who battered the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;

To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of their talk,

We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk.

After cutting out work for the sexton by smashing a dozen or so,

We’ll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery’s go;

In gallons we’ll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day,

When mustering again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

William Maginn, LL.D.

DANIEL O’ROURKE.

People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well: he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he, at the time that he told me the story, with grey hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff.

“I am often axed to tell it, sir,” said he, “so that this is not the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts, in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before Bonaparte or any such was ever heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen after all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a body a little, to be sure, and maybe give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end, and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often in a year, but now it’s another thing; no matter for that, sir, for I’d better be telling you my story. Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen—a lovely young couple they were, though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost. And so as I was crossing the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenogh, I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I, ‘I’ll be drowned now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island.

“I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I began to scratch my head, and sing the Ullagone[12]—when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ says I; ‘I hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings you here, Dan?’ says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I; ‘only I wish I was safe home again.’ ‘Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?’ says he. ‘’Tis, sir,’ says I, so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a minute’s thought, ’though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who ’tends mass well, and never flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields—my life for yours,’ says he, ‘so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog.’ ‘I am afraid,’ says I, ‘your honour’s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before?’ ‘’Pon the honour of a gentleman,’ says he, putting his right foot on his breast, ‘I am quite in earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog—besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.’

“It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. ‘I thank your honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll take your kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the thrick he was going to serve me. Up—up—up, God knows how far up he flew. ‘Why then,’ said I to him—thinking he did not know the right road home—very civilly, because why? I was in his power entirely; ‘sir,’ says I, ‘please your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.’

“‘Arrah, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up off a cowld stone in a bog.’ ‘Bother you,’ said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. ‘Where in the world are you going, sir?’ says I to him. ‘Hold your tongue, Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and don’t be interfering with the business of other people.’ ‘Faith, this is my business, I think,’ says I. ‘Be quiet, Dan,’ says he; so I said no more.

“At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way [drawing the figure thus

on the ground with the end of his stick].

“‘Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘I’m tired with this long fly; I had no notion ’twas so far.’ ‘And, my lord, sir,’ said I, ‘who in the world axed you to fly so far—was it I? did not I beg and pray and beseech you to stop half-an-hour ago?’ ‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’ says he; ‘I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘Is it sit down on the moon?’ said I; ‘is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I’d fall off in a minute, and be kilt and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver, so you are.’ ‘Not at all, Dan,’ said he; ‘you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that’s sticking out of the side of the moon, and ’twill keep you up.’ ‘I won’t then,’ said I. ‘May be not,’ said he, quite quiet. ‘If you don’t, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a fine way,’ said I to myself, ‘ever to have come along with the likes of you;’ and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.

“When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, ‘Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he, ‘I think I’ve nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year’ (’twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say), ‘and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.’

“‘Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?’ says I. ‘You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard.’ ’Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this—sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before—I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there walks—who do you think, but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush.

“‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he; ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, thank your honour,’ said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’ ‘What brought you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that he had fled me up to the moon.

“‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, ‘you must not stay here.’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis much against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back?’ ‘That’s your business,’ said he; ‘Dan, mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m doing no harm,’ says I, ‘only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’ ‘That’s what you must not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodging; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a long way.’ ‘I’m by myself, Dan,’ says he; ‘but you’d better let go the reaping-hook.’ ‘And with your leave,’ says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won’t let go—so I will.’ ‘You had better, Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why, then, my little fellow,’ says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, ‘there are two words to that bargain; and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like.’ ‘We’ll see how that is to be,’ says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.

“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and whap! it came in two. ‘Good morning to you, Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; ‘I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.’ I had not time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. ‘God help me!’ says I, ‘this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I am now sold fairly.’ The word was not out of my mouth when, whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else how should they know me? The ould gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, ‘Is that you, Dan?’ ‘The same,’ said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment, and, besides, I knew him of ould. ‘Good morrow to you,’ says he, ‘Daniel O’Rourke; how are you in health this morning?’ ‘Very well, sir,’ says I, ‘I thank you kindly,’ drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. ‘I hope your honour’s the same.’ ‘I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel,’ says he. ‘You may say that, sir,’ says I. ‘And where are you going all the way so fast?’ said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. ‘Dan,’ said he, ‘I’ll save you; put out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I’ll fly you home.’ ‘Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,’ says I, though all the time I thought within myself that I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.

“I WAS TUMBLING OVER AND OVER, AND ROLLING AND ROLLING.”

“We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. ‘Ah! my lord,’ said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, ‘fly to land if you please.’ ‘It is impossible, you see, Dan,’ said he, ‘for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia.’ ‘To Arabia!’ said I, ‘that’s surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose; why then, to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.’ ‘Whist, whist, you fool,’ said he, ‘hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.’

“Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind; ‘Ah! then, sir,’ said I, ‘will you drop me on the ship, if you please?’ ‘We are not fair over her,’ said he. ‘We are,’ said I. ‘We are not,’ said he; ‘if I dropped you now you would go splash into the sea.’ ‘I would not,’ says I; ‘I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.’ ‘If you must, you must,’ said he; ‘there, take your own way;’ and he opened his claw, and, faith, he was right—sure enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night’s sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon my whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying—’twas a voice I knew too—‘Get up, you drunken brute, off o’ that;’ and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me—for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. ‘Get up,’ said she again; ‘and of all places in the parish would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure enough I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down in the same spot again, I know that.”

William Maginn, LL.D.

THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR.

Oh! ’twas Dermot O’Nowlan McFigg,

That could properly handle a twig,

He went to the Fair,

And kicked up a dust there,

In dancing the Donnybrook Jig,

With his twig,

Oh! my blessing to Dermot McFigg!

When he came to the midst of the Fair,

He was all in a paugh for fresh air,

For the Fair very soon

Was as full as the moon,

Such mobs upon mobs as were there,

Oh! rare,

So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.

The souls, they came crowding in fast,

To dance while the leather would last,

For the Thomas Street brogue

Was there much in vogue,

And oft with a brogue the joke passed,

Quite fast,

While the Cash and the Whisky did last!

But Dermot, his mind on love bent,

In search of his sweetheart he went;

Peep’d in here and there,

As he walked thro’ the Fair,

And took a small taste in each tent,

As he went,

Och! on Whisky and Love he was bent.

And who should he spy in a jig,

With a Meal-man so tall and so big,

But his own darling Kate

So gay and so neat;

Faith, her partner he hit him a dig,

The pig,

He beat the meal out of his wig!

Then Dermot, with conquest elate,

Drew a stool near his beautiful Kate;

“Arrah! Katty,” says he,

“My own Cushlamachree,

Sure the world for Beauty you beat,

Complete,

So we’ll just take a dance while we wait!”

The Piper, to keep him in tune,

Struck up a gay lilt very soon,

Until an arch wag

Cut a hole in his bag,

And at once put an end to the tune

Too soon,

Oh! the music flew up to the moon!

To the Fiddler says Dermot McFigg,

“If you’ll please to play ‘Sheela na gig,’

We’ll shake a loose toe

While you humour the bow,

To be sure you must warm the wig

Of McFigg,

While he’s dancing a neat Irish jig!”

But says Katty, the darling, says she,

“If you’ll only just listen to me,

It’s myself that will show

Billy can’t be your foe,

Tho’ he fought for his Cousin, that’s me,”

Says she,

“For sure Billy’s related to me!

“For my own cousin-german, Ann Wild,

Stood for Biddy Mulrooney’s first child,

And Biddy’s step-son,

Sure he married Bess Dunn,

Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild

A child

As ever at mother’s breast smiled.

“And maybe you don’t know Jane Brown,

Who served goat’s whey in sweet Dundrum town,

’Twas her uncle’s half-brother

That married my mother,

And bought me this new yellow gown,

To go down,

When the marriage was held in Miltown!”

“By the Powers, then,” says Dermot, “’tis plain,

Like a son of that rapscallion Cain,

My best friend I’ve kilt,

Tho’ no blood it is spilt,

And the devil a harm did I mean,

That’s plain,

But by me he’ll be ne’er kilt again!”

Then the Meal-man forgave him the blow,

That laid him a-sprawling so low,

And being quite gay,

Asked them both to the play,

But Katty, being bashful, said “No,”

“No!” “No!”

Yet he treated them all to the show!

Charles O’Flaherty (1794–1828).

THE NIGHT-CAP.

Jolly Phœbus his car to the coach-house had driven,

And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;

He gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,

And rubbed them and littered them up for the night.

Then down to the kitchen he leisurely strode,

Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea;

He swore he was tired with that damned up-hill road,

He’d have none of her slops or hot water, not he.

So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen

Well filled with the nectar Apollo loves best,

(From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen);

And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.

His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,

For his bed, faith, ’twas dampish, and none of the best;

All above him the clouds their bright-fringed curtains drew,

And the tuft of his night-cap lay red in the west.

Thomas Hamblin Porter (fl. 1820).

KITTY OF COLERAINE.

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,

When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,

And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain.

“Oh! what shall I do now?—’twas looking at you, now!

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er see again;

’Twas the pride of my dairy—O Barney McCleary,

You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!”

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,

That such a misfortune should give her such pain;

A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,

She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again.

’Twas hay-making season—I can’t tell the reason—

Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain;

For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Anonymous.

“I SAT DOWN BESIDE HER, AND GENTLY DID CHIDE HER.”

GIVING CREDIT.

In due time it was determined that Peter, as he understood poteen, should open a shebeen-house. The moment this resolution was made, the wife kept coaxing him until he took a small house at the cross-roads before alluded to, where, in the course of a short time, he was established, if not in his line, yet in a mode of life approximating to it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would permit. The cabin which they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and a room at each end of it, in one of which was their own humble chaff bed, with its blue quilted drugget cover; in the other stood a couple of small tables, some stools, a short form, and one chair, being a present from his father-in-law. These constituted Peter’s whole establishment, so far as it defied the gauger. To this we must add a five-gallon keg of spirits hid in the garden and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he bottled, overnight, as much as was usually drunk the following day; and from the tobacco, which was also kept underground, he cut, with the same caution, as much as to-morrow’s exigencies might require. This he kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never think of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and pennyworths, ounces, or half-ounces, according as it might be required; and, as he had it without duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his neighbours soon brought him a large increase of custom.

Peter’s wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant, good-humoured man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of amusement were of a high order, considering his station in life and his want of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, to bring both the young and the old to his house during the long winter nights, in order to hear the fine racy humour with which he related his frequent adventures and battles with excisemen. In the summer evenings he usually engaged a piper or fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance by which he not only rendered himself popular, but increased his business.

In this mode of life the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and Ellish was the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to give them credit. Many plans were, with great skill and forethought, devised to obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board was first procured, on which they got written with chalk—

“No credit giv’n—barrin’ a thrifle to Pether’s friends.”

Before a week passed after this intimation, the number of “Pether’s friends” increased so rapidly that neither he nor Ellish knew the half of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him: the drinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him and Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his firmest resolutions too often gave way before the open flattery with which he was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to bear the brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons were seen approaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to expect an attack upon his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept his eye to the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the road, he immediately slipped into bed, and lay close, in order to escape them. In the meantime they enter.

“God save all here! Ellish, agra machree, how are you?”

“God save you kindly! Faix, I’m middlin’, I thank you, Condy; how is yourself, an’ all at home?”

“Devil a heartier, barrin’ my father, that’s touched wid a loss of appetite afther his meals—ha, ha, ha!”

“Musha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but you’re your father’s son, anyway; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth, whether you’re jokin’ or not, I’d be sarry to hear of anything to his disadvantage, dacent man. Boys, won’t yees go down to the other room?”

“HE KEPT HIS EYE TO THE WINDOW, AND IF THEY TURNED FROM THE DIRECT LINE OF THE ROAD, HE SLIPPED INTO BED.”

“Go way wid yees, boys, till I spake to Ellish here about the affairs o’ the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the contints o’ the book, you do; Pether doesn’t stand it half so well. How is he, the thief?”

“Throth, he’s not well to-day, in regard of a smotherin’ about the heart he tuck this morning, afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself on the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him—God be praised for all his marcies!”

“Thin, upon my solevation, I’m sorry to hear it, and so will all at home, for there’s not in the parish we’re sittin’ in a couple that our family has a greater regard an’ friendship for than him an’ yourself. Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued down Bartle Meegan’s throath that you and Biddy Martin war the two portliest weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I was near quarrellin’ wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase I tuck my modher’s part, as I had good right to do.”

“Thrath, I’m thankful to you both, Condy, for your kindness.”

“Oh, the sarra taste o’ kindness was in it all, Ellish, ’twas only the thruth; an’ as long as I live I’ll stand up for that.”

“Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall?”

“Indeed, thin, but middlin’, not gettin’ her health: she’ll soon give the crow a puddin’, anyway; thin, Ellish, you thief, I’m in for the yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me?”

“Why, thin, I can’t say I do. Who are they, Condy?”

“Why, one o’ thim’s a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent boy, indeed—him wid the frieze jock upon him, an’ the buckskin breeches. The other three’s from Teenabraighera beyant. They’re related to my brother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife’s brother-in-law’s uncle. They’re come to this neighbourhood till the ’Sizes, bad luck to them, goes over; for, you see, they’re in a little throuble.”

“The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys!”

“I brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows; an’ Ellish, avourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth is, you see, that when we left home none of us had any notion of dhrinkin’, or I’d a put a something in my pocket, so that I’m taken at an average.—Bud-an’-age—how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, that goor-soon, when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don’t think there’s a finer child in Europe of his age, so there isn’t.”

“Indeed, he’s a good child, Condy. But, Condy, avick, about givin’ credit:—by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy in the parish, it ud be to yourself. It was only last night that I made a promise against doin’ sich a thing for man or mortual. We’re a’most broken an’ harrish’d out o’ house an’ home by it; an’ what’s more, Condy, we intend to give up the business. The landlord’s at us every day for his rint, an’ we owe for the two last kegs we got, but hasn’t a rap to meet aither o’ thim; an’ enough due to us if we could get it together: an’ whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that’s what ails Pether, although he doesn’t wish to let an to any one about it.”

“Well, but you know I’m safe, Ellish?”

“I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself; an’ should have what you want wid a heart an’ a half, only for the promise I made an my two knees last night aginst givin’ credit to man or woman. Why the dickens didn’t you come yistherday?”

“Didn’t I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an’ that I wished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish; don’t disgrace me afore my sisther’s bachelor an’ the sthrange boys that’s to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn’t for the best cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an’ besides, there’s a cleeveenship atween your family an’ ours.”

“Condy, avourneen, say no more: if you were fed from the same breast wid me, I couldn’t, nor wouldn’t break my promise. I wouldn’t have the sin of it an me for the wealth o’ the three kingdoms.”

“Bedad, you’re a quare woman; an’ only that my regard for you is great entirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you’re dacent still.”

He then left her, and joined his friends in the little room that was appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he related the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter and Ellish.

“Boys,” said he, “she’s too many for us! St. Pether himself wouldn’t make a hand of her. Faix, she’s a cute one. I palavered her at the rate of a hunt, an’ she ped me back in my own coin, wid dacent intherest—but no whisky!—Now to take a rise out o’ Pether. Jist sit where yees are, till I come back.”

He then left them enjoying the intended “spree,” and went back to Ellish.

“Well, I’m sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you’d refuse my father’s son sich a thrifle, I wouldn’t believe them. It’s not wid Pether’s knowledge you do it, I’ll be bound. But bad as you thrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at any rate.”

As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into the room where Peter lay.

“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, at this hour o’ the day?”

“Eh? What’s that—who’s that? Oh!”

“Why, thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”

“Oh!—oh! Eh? Is that Condy?”

“All that’s to the fore of him. What’s asthray wid you, man alive?”

“Throth, Condy, I don’t know rightly. I went out, wantin’ my coat, about a week ago, an’ got cowld in the small o’ the back: I’ve a pain in it ever since. Be sittin’.”

“Is your heart safe? You have no smotherin’ or anything upon it?”

“Why, thin, thank goodness, no; it’s all about my back an’ my hinches.”

“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an alloverness ails you, you shkaimer o’ the world wide. ’Tis the oil o’ the hazel, or a rubbin’ down wid an oak towel, you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an’ by that, I’ll flail you widin an inch o’ your life.”

“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”

“No, no, faix; I’ve found you out: Ellish is afther tellin’ me that it was a smotherin’ on the heart; but it’s a pain in the small o’ the back wid yourself. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take the stick to you!”

“Why, thin, all sorts o’ fortune to you, Condy—ha, ha, ha!—but you’re the sarra’s pet, for there’s no escapin’ you. What was that I hard atween you an’ Ellish?” said Peter, getting up.

“The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into the wrong side o’ the sacret afore you die. Go an’ get us a pint o’ what you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.

“Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose you must give it to thim. Give it—give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin’ll you pay me for this?”

“Never fret yourself about that; you’ll be ped. Honour bright, as the black said whin he stole the boots.”

“Now, Pether,” said the wife, “sure it’s no use axin me to give it, afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I’ll have no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we’ll soon get out of it altogether, for myself’s sick an’ sore of it, dear knows!”

Peter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday, which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant at Condy’s success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after pint followed in rapid succession.

Every additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from Ellish; and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations deepened. When the night was far advanced they departed, after having first overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest friendship, promising that in future she exclusively should reap whatever benefit was to be derived from their patronage.

In the meantime Condy forgot to perform his promise. The next Sunday passed, but Peter was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at mass, or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month afterwards—an instance of ingratitude which mortified his creditor extremely. The latter, who felt that it was a take in, resolved to cut short all hopes of obtaining credit from them in future. In about a week after the foregoing hoax he got up a board, presenting a more vigorous refusal of score than the former. His friends, who were more in number than he could possibly have imagined, on this occasion were altogether wiped out of the exception. The notice ran to the following effect:—

“Notice to the Public, and to Pether Connell’s friends in particular—Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got or given in this house, while there is stick or stone of it together, barrin’ them that axes it has the ready money.

“Pether x Connell, his mark.

“Ellish x Connell, her mark.”

William Carleton (1794–1869).

BRIAN O’LINN.

Brian O’Linn was a gentleman born,

His hair it was long and his beard unshorn,

His teeth were out and his eyes far in—

“I’m a wonderful beauty,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was hard up for a coat,

He borrowed the skin of a neighbouring goat,

He buckled the horns right under his chin—

“They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Linn;

Brian O’Linn had no breeches to wear,

He got him a sheepskin to make him a pair,

With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in—

“They are pleasant and cool,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no hat to his head,

He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,

He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin—

“’Twill pass for a feather,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shirt to his back,

He went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack.

He puckered a meal-bag under his chin—

“They’ll take it for ruffles,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shoes at all,

He bought an old pair at a cobbler’s stall,

The uppers were broke and the soles were thin—

“They’ll do me for dancing,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no watch for to wear,

He bought a fine turnip and scooped it out fair,

He slipped a live cricket right under the skin—

“They’ll think it is ticking,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was in want of a brooch,

He stuck a brass pin in a big cockroach,

The breast of his shirt he fixed it straight in—

“They’ll think it’s a diamond,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went a-courting one night,

He set both the mother and daughter to fight—

“Stop, stop,” he exclaimed, “if you have but the tin,

I’ll marry you both,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went to bring his wife home,

He had but one horse, that was all skin and bone—

“I’ll put her behind me, as nate as a pin,

And her mother before me,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn and his wife and wife’s mother,

They all crossed over the bridge together,

The bridge broke down and they all tumbled in—

“We’ll go home by water,” says Brian O’Linn!

Anonymous.

THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE.

Did yir honor ever hear of the wager ’tween the goose and the turkey? Oncet upon a time an ould cock-turkey lived in the barony of Brawny, or, let me see, was it in Inchebofin or Tubbercleer? faix, an’ it’s meself forgets that same at the present writin’,—but Jim Gurn—you know Jim Gurn, yir honor, Jim Gurn the nailer that lives hard by,—him that fought his black-and-tan t’other day ’gainst Tim Fagan’s silver hackle,—oh! Jim is the boy that’ll tell ye the ins and outs of it any day yir honor wud pay him a visit, ’caze Jim’s in the way of it. Well, as I was relatin’, the turkey was a parson’s bird, and as proud as Lucifer, bein’ used to the best of livin’; while the gander was only a poor commoner, for he was a Roman,[13] and oblidged to live upon what he could get by the roadside. These two fowls, yir honor, never could agree anyhow,—never could put up their horses together on any blessed p’int,—till one day a big row happened betune them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeplechase across the country, day and dark, for twenty-four hours. Well, to my surprise,—though I wasn’t there at the time, but Jim Gurn was, who gave me the whole history,—to my surprise, the turkey didn’t say no to it, but was quite agreeable to it, all of a suddent; so away they started from Jim Gurn’s dunghill one Sunday after mass, for the gander wouldn’t stir a step afore prayers. Well, to be sure, to give the divil his due, the turkey took the lead in fine style, and was soon clane out of sight; but the gander kept movin’ on, no ways downhearted, after him. About nightfall it was his business to pass through an ould archway across the road; and as he was stoopin’ his head to get under it,—for yir honor knows a gander will stoop his head under a doorway if it was only as high as the moon,—who should he see comfortably sated in an ivy-bush but the turkey himself, tucked in for the night. The gander, winkin’ to himself, says, “Is it there ye are, honey?”—but he kept never mindin’ him for all that, but only walked bouldly on to his journey’s end, where he arrived safe and sound next day, afore the turkey was out of his first sleep; ’caze why, ye see, sir, a goose or a gander will travel all night; but in respect of a turkey, once the day falls in, divil another inch of ground he’ll put his futt to, barrin’ it’s to roost in a tree or the rafters of a cow-house! Oh! maybe the parson’s bird wasn’t ashamed of himself! Jim Gurn says he never held his head up afterward, though to be sure he hadn’t long to fret, for Christmas was nigh at hand, and he had to stand sentry by the kitchen fire one day without his body-clothes till he could bear it no longer; so they dished him entirely. Them that ett him said he was as tough as leather, no doubt from the grief; but divil’s cure to him! what business had he to be so proud of himself, the spalpeen?

Joseph A. Wade (1796–1845).

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 air,

With that close cap you wear—

It’s 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 speak, they wish,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, when the winter comes in,

Och hone, Widow Machree,

To be poking the fire, all alone, is a sin,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

Why the shovel and tongs,

To each other belongs,

And the kettle 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 told,

Och hone, Widow Machree,

But you’re keeping some poor divil out in the cold?

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,

Come to 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 stir up 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.

Samuel Lover (1797–1868).

BARNEY O’HEA.

Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,

I know you won’t,

I know you won’t,

Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

It makes me outrageous when you’re so contagious—

You’d better look out for the stout Corney Creagh!

For he is the boy that believes me his joy;—

So you’d better behave yourself, Barney O’Hea.

Impudent Barney—

None of your blarney,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

I hope you’re not going to Bandon fair,

To Bandon fair,

To Bandon fair,

For sure I’m not wanting to meet you there,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

For Corney’s at Cork, and my brother’s at work,

And my mother sits spinning at home all the day;

So no one will be there, of poor me to take care,

And I hope you won’t follow me, Barney O’Hea.

Impudent Barney—

None of your blarney,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

But as I was walking up Bandon Street,

Just who do you think ’twas myself should meet

But impudent Barney O’Hea!

He said I look’d killin’,

I call’d him a villain,

And bid him that minute get out of my way.

He said I was jokin’,

And look’d so provokin’,—

I could not help laughing with Barney O’Hea!

Impudent Barney—

’Tis he has the blarney,

Impudent Barney O’Hea!

He knew ’twas all right when he saw me smile,

For he is the rogue up to every wile,

Is impudent Barney O’Hea!

He coax’d me to choose him,

For, if I’d refuse him,

He swore he’d kill Corney the very next day;

So for fear ’twould go further,

And—just to save murther—

I think I must marry that mad-cap O’Hea.

Botherin’ Barney—

’Tis he has the blarney

To make a girl Misthress O’Hea!

Samuel Lover.

MOLLY CAREW.

Och hone, and what will I do?

Sure, my love is all crost

Like a bud in the frost,

And there’s no use at all in my going to bed;

For ’tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head;

And ’tis all about you,

My sweet Molly Carew—

And indeed ’tis a sin and a shame;

You’re complater than Nature

In every feature,

The snow can’t compare

With your forehead so fair;

And I rather would see just one blink of your eye

Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky—

And by this and by that,

For the matter of that,

You’re more distant by far than that same!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

I’m alone in this world without you.

Och hone! but why should I spake

Of your forehead and eyes,

When your nose it defies

Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme?

Tho’ there’s one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime.

And then for your cheek!

Throth, ’twould take him a week

Its beauties to tell as he’d rather.

Then your lips! oh, Machree!

In their beautiful glow

They a patthern might be

For the cherries to grow.

’Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know—

For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago;

But at this time o’ day,

’Pon my conscience, I’ll say,

Such cherries might tempt a man’s father!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

I’m alone in this world without you.

Och hone! by the man in the moon,

You taze me all ways,

That a woman can plaze,

For you dance twice as high with that thief Pat Magee,

As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me,

Tho’ the piper I bate,

For fear the ould chate

Wouldn’t play you your favourite tune;

And when you’re at mass

My devotion you crass,

For ’tis thinking of you

I am, Molly Carew;

While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,

That I can’t at your sweet purty face get a peep:

Oh! lave off that bonnet,

Or else I’ll lave on it

The loss of my wandherin’ sowl!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

Och hone, like an owl,

Day is night, dear, to me, without you!

Och hone! don’t provoke me to do it;

For there’s girls by the score

That love me—and more;

And you’d look very quare if some morning you’d meet

My wedding all marchin’ in pride down the sthreet;

Throth, you’d open your eyes,

And you’d die with surprise,

To think ’twasn’t you was come to it!

And, faith, Katty Naile,

And her cow, I go bail,

Would jump if I’d say,

“Katty Naile, name the day.”

And tho’ you’re fair and fresh as a morning in May,

While she’s short and dark like a cowld winther’s day,

Yet if you don’t repent

Before Easther, when Lent

Is over I’ll marry for spite;

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

And when I die for you,

My ghost will haunt you every night.

Samuel Lover.

HANDY ANDY AND THE POSTMASTER.

“Ride into the town, and see if there’s a letter for me,” said the Squire one day to our hero.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know where to go?”

“To the town, sir.”

“But do you know where to go in the town?”

“No, sir.”

“And why don’t you ask, you stupid fellow?”

“Sure, I’d find out, sir.”

“Didn’t I often tell you to ask what you’re to do when you don’t know?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why don’t you?”

“I don’t like to be throublesome, sir.”

“Confound you!” said the Squire, though he could not help laughing at Andy’s excuse for remaining in ignorance.

“Well,” continued he, “go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, where they sell gunpowder.”

“You’re right for once,” said the Squire; for his Majesty’s postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. “Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for me. Remember,—not gunpowder, but a letter.”

“Yes, sir,” said Andy, who got astride of his hack and trotted away to the post-office. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said—

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“Who do you want it for?” said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life; so Andy thought the coollest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“And who do you want it for?” repeated the postmaster.

“What’s that to you?” said Andy.

The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell what letter to give unless he told him the direction.

“The directions I got was to get a letther here—that’s the directions.”

“Who gave you those directions?”

“The masther.”

“And who’s your master?”

“What consarn is that o’ yours?”

“Why, you stupid rascal! if you don’t tell me his name, how can I give you a letter?”

“You could give it if you liked; but you’re fond of axin’ impident questions, bekase you think I’m simple.”

“Go along out o’ this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself to send such a messenger.”

“Bad luck to your impidence,” said Andy; “is it Squire Egan you dar’ to say goose to?”

“Oh, Squire Egan’s your master, then?”

“Yes; have you anything to say agin it?”

“Only that I never saw you before.”

“Faith, then, you’ll never see me agin if I have my own consint.”

“I won’t give you any letter for the Squire unless I know you’re his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?”

“Plenty,” said Andy; “it’s not every one is as ignorant as you.”

Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the Squire’s letter. “Have you one for me?”

“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one—“four pence.”

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop with his letter.

“Here’s a letter for the Squire,” said the postmaster; “you’ve to pay me elevenpence postage.”

“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?”

“For postage.”

“To the divil wid you! Didn’t I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? and now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing. Do you think I’m a fool?”

“No, but I’m sure of it,” said the postmaster.

“Well, you’re welkim to be sure, sure;—but don’t be delayin’ me now; here’s fourpence for you, and gi’ me the letther.”

“Go along, you stupid thief!” said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.

While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers, and saying, “Will you gi’ me the letther?”

He waited for above half-an-hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the postmaster, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence.

The Squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.

“There is, sir,” said Andy.

“Then give it to me.”

“I haven’t it, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wouldn’t give it to me, sir.”

“Who wouldn’t give it to you?”

“That ould chate beyant in the town—wanting to charge double for it.”

“Maybe it’s a double letter. Why the devil didn’t you pay what he asked, sir?”

“Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It’s not a double letther at all; not above half the size o’ one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence.”

“You’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun; and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter.”

“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my face for fourpence apiece.”

“Go back, you scoundrel! or I’ll horsewhip you; and if you’re longer than a hour, I’ll have you ducked in the horsepond!”

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.

“I’m come for that letther,” said Andy.

“I’ll attend to you by-and-by.”

“The masther’s in a hurry.”

“Let him wait till his hurry’s over.”

“He’ll murther me if I’m not back soon.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy’s eye caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter; so while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the great man’s pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the Squire’s presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding three letters over his head, while he said, “Look at that!” he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the Squire, saying—

“Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour the worth o’ your money, anyhow!”

Samuel Lover.

THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE.

There was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife, and av coorse they had childhre, and plenty of them, and small blame to them, so that the poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers to the bone a’most to get them the bit and the sup, but he didn’t begridge that, for he was an industherous craythur, as I said before, and it was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.

Well, it was one mornin’ that his wife called to him, “Come here,” says she, “jewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it’s ready.” But he never minded her, but wint an workin’. So in a minit or two more, says she, callin’ out to him agin, “Arrah, lave off slavin’ yourself, my darlin’, and ate your bit o’ brekquest while it is hot.”

“Lave me alone,” says he, and he dhruv the shuttle fasther nor before. Well, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and says she, coaxin’ him like, “Thady, dear,” says she, “the stirabout will be stone cowld if you don’t give over that weary work and come and ate it at wanst.”

“I’m busy with a patthern here that is brakin’ my heart,” says the waiver; “and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won’t quit”

“Oh, think of the iligant stirabout that ’ill be spylte intirely.”

“To the divil with the stirabout,” says he.

“God forgive you,” says she, “for cursin’ your good brekquest.”

“Ay, and you too,” says he.

“Throth, you’re as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,” says the poor wife; “and it’s a heavy handful I have of you when you are cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow cowld, and not a one o’ me ’ill ax you agin;” and with that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed, and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know, is only nath’ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout; and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow—for you see, it was in the hoighth o’ summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them.

“Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,” says the waiver, “would no place sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?” And with that, bein’ altogether cruked-tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o’ stirabout, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at the one blow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he counted the carcases one by one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them.

“HE KEM HOME IN THE EVENIN’, AFTHER SPENDIN’ EVERY RAP HE HAD.”

Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin’ in him, when he seen the slaughther he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as the very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he’d do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was squarin’ up into their faces and sayin’, “Look at that fist! that’s the fist that killed threescore and tin at one blow—Whoo!”

With that all the neighbours thought he was crack’d, and faith, the poor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin’, afther spendin’ every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin’ about the place, and lookin’ at his hand every minit.

“Indeed, an’ your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,” says the poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin’ home. “You had betther wash it, darlin’.”

“How dar’ you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?” says he, going to bate her.

“Well, it’s nat dirty,” says she.

“It is throwin’ away my time I have been all my life,” says he; “livin’ with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin’ but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two o’ the siven champions o’ Christendom.”

“Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,” says the wife, “sure, what’s that to uz?”

“Don’t put in your prate,” says he, “you ignorant sthrap,” says he. “You’re vulgar, woman—you’re vulgar—mighty vulgar; but I’ll have nothin’ more to say to any dirty snakin’ thrade again—divil a more waivin’ I’ll do.”

“Oh, Thady, dear, and what’ll the children do then?”

“Let them go play marvels,” says he.

“That would be but poor feedin’ for them, Thady.”

“They shan’t want for feedin’,” says he, “for it’s a rich man I’ll be soon, and a great man too.”

“Usha, but I’m glad to hear it, darlin’, though I dunna how it’s to be; but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.”

“Don’t talk to me of any bed but the bed o’ glory, woman,” says he, lookin’ mortial grand.

“Oh! God sind we’ll all be in glory yet,” says the wife, crossin’ herself; “but go to sleep, Thady, for this present.”

“I’ll sleep with the brave yit,” says he.

“Indeed, an’ a brave sleep will do you a power o’ good, my darlin’,” says she.

“And it’s I that will be the knight!” says he.

“All night, if you plaze, Thady,” says she.

“None o’your coaxin’,” says he. “I’m detarmined on it, and I’ll set off immediately and be a knight arriant.”

“A what?” says she.

“A knight arriant, woman.”

“Lord, be good to me! what’s that?” says she.

“A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,” says he; “goin’ round the world for sport, with a swoord by his side, takin’ whatever he plazes for himself; and that’s a knight arriant,” says he.

Well, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and he got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o’ tin clothes like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and that he was very partic’lar about bekase it was his shield, and he went to a frind o’ his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield in big letthers:—

“I’M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,

THAT KILL’D THREESCORE AND TIN

AT A BLOW.”

“When the people sees that” says the waiver to himself, “the sorra one will dar’ for to come near me.”

And with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for him, “for,” says he, “it will make an illigant helmet;” and when it was done, he put it on his head, and his wife said, “Oh, murther, Thady, jewel; is it puttin’ a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by way iv a hat?”

“Sartinly,” says he, “for a knight arriant should always have a weight an his brain.”

“But, Thady, dear,” says the wife, “there’s a hole in it, and it can’t keep out the weather.”

“It will be the cooler,” says he, puttin’ it an him; “besides, if I don’t like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o’ sthraw, or the like o’ that.”

“The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin’ up,” says she.

“Every helmet has a spike stickin’ out o’ the top of it,” says the waiver, “and if mine has three, it’s only the grandher it is.”

“Well,” says the wife, getting bitther at last, “all I can say is, it isn’t the first sheep’s head was dhress’d in it”

“Your sarvint, ma’am,” says he; and off he set.

Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by, where the miller’s horse was grazin’, that used to carry the ground corn round the counthry. “This is the idintical horse for me,” says the waiver; “he is used to carryin’ flour and male, and what am I but the flower o’ shovelry in a coat o’ mail; so that the horse won’t be put out iv his way in the laste.”

But as he was ridin’ him out o’ the field, who should see him but the miller. “Is it stalin’ my horse you are, honest man?” says the miller.

“No,” says the waiver; “I’m only goin’ to exercise him,” says he, “in the cool o’ the evenin’; it will be good for his health.”

“Thank you kindly,” says the miller; “but lave him where he is, and you’ll obleege me.”

“I can’t afford it,” says the waiver, runnin’ the horse at the ditch.

“Bad luck to your impidince,” says the miller, “you’ve as much tin about you as a thravellin’ tinker, but you’ve more brass. Come back here, you vagabone,” says he. But he was too late; away galloped the waiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing he could do was to go to the King o’ Dublin (for Dublin was a grate place thin, and had a king iv its own). Well, he was four days goin’ to Dublin, for the baste was not the best, and the roads worse, not all as one as now; but there was no turnpikes then, glory be to God! When he got to Dublin, he wint sthrait to the palace, and whin he got into the coortyard he let his horse go and graze about the place, for the grass was growin’ out betune the stones; everything was flourishin’ thin in Dublin, you see. Well, the king was lookin’ out of his dhrawin’-room windy for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but the waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sate, undher the windy—for, you see, there was stone sates all round about the place, for the accommodation o’ the people—for the king was a dacent obleeging man; well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay down an one o’ the sates, just undher the king’s windy, and purtended to go asleep; but he took care to turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an it. Well, my dear, with that, the king calls out to one of the lords of his coort that was standin’ behind him, howldin’ up the skirt of his coat, accordin’ to rayson, and says he: “Look here,” says he, “what do you think of a vagabone like that, comin’ undher my very nose to sleep? It is thrue I’m a good king,” says he, “and I ’commodate the people by havin’ sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and contimplation of seein’ me here, lookin’ out o’ my dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin; but that is no rayson they are to make a hotel o’ the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at all?” says the king.

“Not a one o’ me knows, plaze your majesty.”

“I think he must be a furriner,” says the king, “bekase his dhress is outlandish.”

“And doesn’t know manners, more betoken,” says the lord.

“I’ll go down and circumspect him myself,” says the king; “folly me,” says he to the lord, wavin’ his hand at the same time in the most dignacious manner.

Down he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and when he wint over to where the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his shield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord, “Bedad,” says he, “this is the very man I want.”

“For what, plaze your majesty?” says the lord.

“To kill the vagabone dhraggin, to be sure,” says the king.

“Sure, do you think he could kill him,” says the lord, “whin all the stoutest knights in the land wasn’t aiquil to it, but never kem back, and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver?”

“Sure, don’t you see there,” says the king, pointin’ at the shield, “that he killed threescore and tin at one blow; and the man that done that, I think, is a match for anything.”

So, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shoulder for to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and the king says to him, “God save you,” says he.

“God save you kindly,” says the waiver, purtendin’ he was quite onknownst who he was spakin’ to.

“Do you know who I am,” says the king, “that you make so free, good man?”

“No, indeed,” says the waiver, “you have the advantage o’ me.”

“To be sure I have,” says the king, moighty high; “sure ain’t I the King o’ Dublin?” says he.

“‘SURE, DON’T YOU SEE THERE,’ SAYS THE KING, ‘THAT HE KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT ONE BLOW.’”

The waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the king, and says he, “I beg God’s pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk; plaze your holiness, I hope you’ll excuse it.”

“No offince,” says the king; “get up, good man. And what brings you here?” says he.

“I’m in want o’ work, plaze your riverence,” says the waiver.

“Well, suppose I give you work?” says the king.

“I’ll be proud to sarve you, my lord,” says the waiver.

“Very well,” says the king. “You killed threescore and tin at one blow, I undherstan’,” says the king.

“Yis,” says the waiver; “that was the last thrifle o’ work I done, and I’m afeard my hand ’ll go out o’ practice if I don’t get some job to do at wanst.”

“You shall have a job immediately,” says the king. “It is not threescore and tin or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin’ the counthry and ruinatin’ my tinanthry wid aitin’ their powlthry, and I’m lost for want of eggs,” says the king.

“Throth, thin, plaze your worship,” says the waiver, “you look as yellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.”

“Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,” says the king. “It will be no throuble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn’t betther worth your while, for he isn’t worth fearin’ at all; only I must tell you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage in that.”

“Oh, I don’t value it in the laste,” says the waiver, “for the last threescore and tin I killed was in a soft place.”

“When will you undhertake the job, thin?” says the king.

“Let me be at him at wanst,” says the waiver.

“That’s what I like,” says the king; “you’re the very man for my money,” says he.

“Talkin’ of money,” says the waiver, “by the same token, I’ll want a thrifle o’ change from you for my thravellin’ charges.”

“As much as you plaze,” says the king; and with the word he brought him into his closet, where there was an owld stockin’ in an oak chest, burstin’ wid goolden guineas.

“Take as many as you plaze,” says the king; and sure enough, my dear, the little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld with them.

“Now I’m ready for the road,” says the waiver.

“Very well,” says the king; “but you must have a fresh horse,” says he.

“With all my heart,” says the waiver, who thought he might as well exchange the miller’s owld garron for a betther.

And maybe it’s wondherin’ you are that the waiver would think of goin’ to fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him, when he was purtendin’ to be asleep, but he had no sich notion; all he intended was—to fob the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains and a good horse. But you see, cute as the waiver was, the king was cuter still; for these high quality, you see, is great desaivers; and so the horse the waiver was an was larned on purpose; and sure, the minit he was mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the divil a toe he’d go but right down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin’ evermore, until at last the waiver seen a crowd o’ people runnin’ as if owld Nick was at their heels, and they shoutin’ a thousand murdhers, and cryin’—“The dhraggin, the dhraggin!” and he couldn’t stop the horse nor make him turn back, but away he pelted right forninst the terrible baste that was comin’ up to him; and there was the most nefaarious smell o’ sulphur, savin’ your presence, enough to knock you down; and, faith, the waiver seen he had no time to lose; and so he threw himself off the horse and made to a three that was growin’ nigh-hand, and away he clambered up into it as nimble as a cat; and not a minit had he to spare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and he devoured the horse body and bones, in less than no time; and then he began to sniffle and scent about for the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye an him, where he was, up in the three, and says he, “You might as well come down out o’ that,” says he, “for I’ll have you as sure as eggs is mate.”

“Divil a fut I’ll go down,” says the waiver.

“Sorra care I care,” says the dhraggin; “for you’re as good as ready money in my pocket this minit, for I’ll lie undher this three,” says he, “and sooner or later you must fall to my share;” and sure enough he sot down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail, afther the heavy brekquest he made that mornin’ (for he ate a whole village, let alone the horse), and he got dhrowsy at last, and fell asleep; but before he wint to sleep he wound himself all round about the three, all as one as a lady windin’ ribbon round her finger, so that the waiver could not escape.

Well, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, by the snorin’ of him—and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o’ thunder—that minit the waiver began to creep down the three, as cautious as a fox; and he was very nigh hand the bottom, when a thievin’ branch he was dipindin’ an bruk, and down he fell right a top o’ the dhraggin; but if he did, good luck was an his side, for where should he fall but with his two legs right acrass the dhraggin’s neck, and, my jew’l, he laid howlt o’ the baste’s ears, and there he kept his grip, for the dhraggin wakened and endayvoured for to bite him; but, you see, by rayson the waiver was behind his ears he could not come at him, and, with that, he endayvoured for to shake him off; but not a stir could he stir the waiver; and though he shuk all the scales an his body, he could not turn the scale agin the waiver.

“‘I’LL GIVE YOU A RIDE THAT ’ILL ASTONISH YOUR SIVEN SMALL SENSES, MY BOY.’”

“Och, this is too bad intirely,” says the dhraggin; “but if you won’t let go,” says he, “by the powers o’ wildfire, I’ll give you a ride that ’ill astonish your siven small senses, my boy;” and, with that, away he flew like mad; and where do you think did he fly?—bedad, he flew sthraight for Dublin, divil a less. But the waiver bein’ an his neck was a great disthress to him, and he would rather have had him an inside passenger; but, anyway, he flew and he flew till he kem slap up agin the palace o’ the king; for, bein’ blind with the rage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains out—that is, the small thrifle he had, and down he fell spacheless. An’ you see, good luck would have it, that the King o’ Dublin was looking out iv his dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin, that day also, and whin he seen the waiver ridin’ an the fiery dhraggin (for he was blazin’ like a tar barrel), he called out to his coortyers to come and see the show.

“By the powdhers o’ war here comes the knight arriant,” says the king, “ridin’ the dhraggin that’s all a-fire, and if he gets into the palace, yiz must be ready wid the fire ingines,” says he, “for to put him out.”

But when they seen the dhraggin fall outside, they all run downstairs and scampered into the palace-yard for to circumspect the curosity; and by the time they got down, the waiver had got off o’ the dhraggin’s neck; and runnin’ up to the king, says he—

“Plaze your holiness, I did not think myself worthy of killin’ this facetious baste, so I brought him to yourself for to do him the honour of decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first, before I allowed him the liberty for to dar’ to appear in your royal prisince, and you’ll obleege me if you’ll just make your mark with your own hand upon the onruly baste’s neck.” And with that, the king, sure enough, dhrew out his swoord and took the head aff the dirty brute, as clane as a new pin.

Well, there was great rejoicin’ in the coort that the dhraggin was killed; and says the king to the little waiver, says he—

“You are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would be no use for to knight you over again; but I will make you a lord,” says he.

“O Lord!” says the waiver, thunderstruck like at his own good luck.

“I will,” says the king; “and as you are the first man I ever heer’d tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called Lord Mount Dhraggin,” says he.

“And where’s my estates, plaze your holiness?” says the waiver, who always had a sharp look-out afther the main chance.

“Oh, I didn’t forget that,” says the king. “It is my royal pleasure to provide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of all the dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this out,” says he.

“Is that all?” says the waiver.

“All!” says the king. “Why, you ongrateful little vagabone, was the like ever given to any man before?”

“I b’lieve not, indeed,” says the waiver; “many thanks to your majesty.”

“But that is not all I’ll do for you,” says the king; “I’ll give you my daughter too, in marriage,” says he.

Now, you see, that was nothin’ more than what he promised the waiver in his first promise; for, by all accounts, the king’s daughter was the greatest dhraggin ever was seen....

Samuel Lover.

BELLEWSTOWN HILL.

If a respite ye’d borrow from turmoil or sorrow,

I’ll tell you the secret of how it is done;

’Tis found in this statement of all the excitement

That Bellewstown knows when the races come on.

Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,

Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,

In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,

And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!

On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion,

It Banagher bangs, by the table o’ war!

From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity

Jogging along on an ould jaunting-car.

Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,

Its jigging and jumping to mollify still;

Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly,

From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.

In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,

Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;

While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,

Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.

More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky,

But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.

Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,—he’d jump up ecstatic,

At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill.

Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,

In chattering groups that the quality dine;

Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,

In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.

And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having”

’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.

All we read in the pages of pastoral ages

Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.

Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,

From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,

There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!

To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.

And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet,

The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still;

Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)

Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.

But hark! there’s a shout—the horses are out,—

’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!

To old Crock-a-Fatha, the people that dot the

Broad plateau around are all for a view.

“Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow!

Success to the green! faith, we’ll stand by it still!”

The uplands and hollows they’re skimming like swallows,

Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.

Anonymous.

“FROM THE COACH OF THE QUALITY, DOWN TO THE JOLLITY JOGGING ALONG ON AN OULD JAUNTING-CAR.”

THE PEELER AND THE GOAT.

A Bansha Peeler wint wan night

On duty and pathrollin, O,

An’ met a goat upon the road,

And tuck her for a sthroller, O.

Wud bay’net fixed he sallied forth,

And caught her by the wizzen, O,

And then he swore a mighty oath,

“I’ll send you off to prison, O.”

GOAT.

“Oh, mercy, sir!” the goat replied,

“Pray let me tell my story, O!

I am no Rogue, no Ribbonman,

No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O;

I’m guilty not of any crime

Of petty or high thraison, O,

I’m badly wanted at this time,

For this is the milking saison, O.”

PEELER.

It is in vain for to complain

Or give your tongue such bridle, O;

You’re absent from your dwelling-place,

Disorderly and idle, O.

Your hoary locks will not prevail,

Nor your sublime oration, O,

You’ll be thransported by Peel’s Act,

Upon my information, O.

GOAT.

No penal law did I transgress

By deeds or combination, O,

I have no certain place to rest,

No home or habitation, O.

But Bansha is my dwelling-place,

Where I was bred and born, O,

Descended from an honest race,

That’s all the trade I’ve learned, O.

PEELER.

I will chastise your insolince

And violent behaviour, O;

Well bound to Cashel you’ll be sint,

Where you will gain no favour, O.

The Magistrates will all consint

To sign your condemnation, O;

From there to Cork you will be sint

For speedy thransportation, O.

GOAT.

This parish an’ this neighbourhood

Are paiceable an’ thranquil, O;

There’s no disturbance here, thank God!

And long may it continue so.

I don’t regard your oath a pin,

Or sign for my committal, O,

My jury will be gintlemin

And grant me my acquittal, O.

PEELER.

The consequince be what it will,

A peeler’s power I’ll let you know,

I’ll handcuff you, at all events,

And march you off to Bridewell, O.

An’ sure, you rogue, you can’t deny

Before the judge or jury, O,

Intimidation with your horns,

And threatening me with fury, O.

GOAT.

I make no doubt but you are dhrunk

Wud whisky, rum, or brandy, O,

Or you wouldn’t have such gallant spunk

To be so bould or manly, O.

You readily would let me pass

If I had money handy, O,

To thrate you to a potheen glass—

Oh! it’s thin I’d be the dandy, O.

Jeremiah O’ Ryan (17— –1855).

THE LOQUACIOUS BARBER.

He had scarcely taken his seat before the toilet, when a soft tap at the door, and the sound of a small squeaking voice, announced the arrival of the hair-cutter. On looking round him, Hardress beheld a small, thin-faced, red-haired little man, with a tailor’s shears dangling from his finger, bowing and smiling with a timid and conciliating air. In an evil hour for his patience, Hardress consented that he should commence operations.

“The piatez were very airly this year, sir,” he modestly began, after he had wrapped a check apron about the neck of Hardress, and made the other necessary arrangements.

“Very early, indeed. You needn’t cut so fast.”

“Very airly, sir—the white-eyes especially. Them white-eyes are fine piatez. For the first four months I wouldn’t ax a better piatie than a white-eye, with a bit o’ bacon, if one had it; but after that the meal goes out of ’em, and they gets wet and bad. The cups arn’t so good in the beginnin’ o’ the saison, but they hould better. Turn your head more to the light, sir, if you plase. The cups, indeed, are a fine substantial, lasting piatie. There’s great nutriment in’em for poor people, that would have nothin’ else with them but themselves, or a grain o’ salt. There’s no piatie that eats better, when you have nothin’ but a bit o’ the little one (as they say) to eat with a bit o’ the big. No piatie that eats so sweet with point.”

“With point?” Hardress repeated, a little amused by this fluent discussion of the poor hair-cutter upon the varieties of a dish which, from his childhood, had formed almost his only article of nutriment, and on which he expatiated with as much cognoscence and satisfaction as a fashionable gourmand might do on the culinary productions of Eustache Ude. “What is point?”

“ON LOOKING ROUND HIM, HARDRESS BEHELD A SMALL, THIN-FACED, RED-HAIRED LITTLE MAN.”

“Don’t you know what that is, sir? I’ll tell you in a minute. A joke that them that has nothin’ to do, an’ plenty to eat, make upon the poor people that has nothin’ to eat, and plenty to do. That is, when there’s dry piatez on the table, and enough of hungry people about it, and the family would have, maybe, only one bit o’ bacon hanging up above their heads, they’d peel a piatie first, and then they’d point it up at the bacon, and they’d fancy that it would have the taste o’ the mait when they’d be aitin’ it after. That’s what they call point, sir. A cheap sort o’ diet it is (Lord help us!) that’s plenty enough among the poor people in this country. A great plan for making a small bit o’ pork go a long way in a large family.”

“Indeed it is but a slender sort of food. Those scissors you have are dreadful ones.”

“Terrible, sir. I sent my own over to the forge before I left home, to have an eye put in it; only for that, I’d be smarter a deal. Slender food it is, indeed. There’s a deal o’ poor people here in Ireland, sir, that are run so hard at times, that the wind of a bit o’ mait is as good to ’em as the mait itself to them that would be used to it. The piatez are everythin’; the kitchen[14] little or nothin’. But there’s a sort o’ piatez (I don’t know did your honour ever taste ’em) that’s gettin’ greatly in vogue now among ’em, an’ is killin’ half the country,—the white piatez, a piatie that has great produce, an’ requires but little manure, and will grow in very poor land; but has no more strength nor nourishment in it than if you had boiled a handful o’ sawdust and made gruel of it, or put a bit of a deal board between your teeth and thought to make a breakfast of it. The black bulls themselves are better; indeed, the black bulls are a deal a better piatie than they’re thought. When you’d peel ’em, they look as black as indigo, an’ you’d have no mind to ’em at all; but I declare they’re very sweet in the mouth, an’ very strengthenin’. The English reds are a nate piatie, too; and the apple piatie (I don’t know what made ’em be given up), an’ the kidney (though delicate o’ rearing); but give me the cups for all, that will hould the meal in ’em to the last, and won’t require any inthricket tillage. Let a man have a middling-sized pit o’ cups again the winter, a small caish[15] to pay his rent, an’ a handful o’ turf behind the doore, an’ he can defy the world.”

“You know as much, I think,” said Hardress, “of farming as of hair-cutting.”

“Oyeh, if I had nothin’ to depend upon but what heads comes across me this way, sir, I’d be in a poor way enough. But I have a little spot o’ ground besides.”

“And a good taste for the produce.”

“’Twas kind father for me to have that same. Did you ever hear tell, sir, of what they call limestone broth?”

“Never.”

“’Twas my father first made it. I’ll tell you the story, sir, if you’ll turn your head this way a minute.”

Hardress had no choice but to listen.

“My father went once upon a time about the country, in the idle season, seeing would he make a penny at all by cutting hair, or setting razhurs and penknives, or any other job that would fall in his way. Well an’ good—he was one day walking alone in the mountains of Kerry, without a hai’p’ny in his pocket (for though he travelled a-foot, it cost him more than he earned), an’ knowing there was but little love for a county Limerick man in the place where he was, on being half perished with the hunger, an’ evening drawing nigh, he didn’t know well what to do with himself till morning. Very good—he went along the wild road; an’ if he did, he soon sees a farmhouse at a little distance o’ one side—a snug-looking place, with the smoke curling up out of the chimney, an’ all tokens of good living inside. Well, some people would live where a fox would starve. What do you think did my father do? He wouldn’t beg (a thing one of our people never done yet, thank heaven!) an’ he hadn’t the money to buy a thing, so what does he do? He takes up a couple o’ the big limestones that were lying on the road in his two hands, an’ away with him to the house. ‘Lord save all here!’ says he, walkin’ in the doore. ‘And you kindly,’ says they. ‘I’m come to you,’ says he, this way, looking at the two limestones, ‘to know would you let me make a little limestone broth over your fire, until I’ll make my dinner?’ ‘Limestone broth!’ says they to him again; ‘what’s that, aroo?’ ‘Broth made o’ limestone,’ says he; ‘what else?’ ‘We never heard of such a thing,’ says they. ‘Why, then, you may hear it now,’ says he, ‘an’ see it also, if you’ll gi’ me a pot an’ a couple o’ quarts o’ soft water.’ ‘You can have it an’ welcome,’ says they. So they put down the pot an’ the water, an’ my father went over an’ tuk a chair hard by the pleasant fire for himself, an’ put down his two limestones to boil, and kep stirrin’ them round like stirabout. Very good—well, by-an’-by, when the wather began to boil—‘’Tis thickening finely,’ says my father; ‘now if it had a grain o’ salt at all, ’twould be a great improvement to it’ ‘Raich down the salt-box, Nell,’ says the man o’ the house to his wife. So she did. ‘Oh, that’s the very thing, just,’ says my father, shaking some of it into the pot. So he stirred it again awhile, looking as sober as a minister. By-an’-by, he takes the spoon he had stirring it, an’ tastes it ‘It is very good now,’ says he, ‘although it wants something yet.’ ‘What is it?’ says they. ‘Oyeh, wisha nothing,’ says he; ‘maybe ’tis only fancy o’ me.’ ‘If it’s anything we can give you,’ says they, ‘you’re welcome to it’ ‘’Tis very good as it is,’ says he; ‘but when I’m at home, I find it gives it a fine flavour just to boil a little knuckle o’ bacon, or mutton trotters, or anything that way along with it.’ ‘Raich hether that bone o’ sheep’s head we had at dinner yesterday, Nell,’ says the man o’ the house. ‘Oyeh, don’t mind it,’ says my father; ‘let it be as it is.’ ‘Sure if it improves it, you may as well,’ says they. ‘Baithershin!’[16] says my father, putting it down. So after boiling it a good piece longer, ‘’Tis as fine limestone broth,’ says he, ‘as ever was tasted; an’ if a man had a few piatez,’ says he, looking at a pot of ’em that was smokin’ in the chimney-corner, ‘he couldn’t desire a better dinner.’ They gave him the piatez, and he made a good dinner of themselves an’ the broth, not forgetting the bone, which he polished equal to chaney before he let it go. The people themselves tasted it, an’ thought it as good as any mutton broth in the world.”

Gerald Griffin (1803–1840).

NELL FLAHERTY’S DRAKE.

My name it is Nell, quite candid I tell,

That I live near Coote hill, I will never deny;

I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,

That my grandmother left me and she going to die;

He was wholesome and sound, he would weigh twenty pound,

The universe round I would rove for his sake—

Bad wind to the robber—be he drunk or sober—

That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

His neck it was green—most rare to be seen,

He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;

His body was white—and would you delight—

He was plump, fat and heavy, and brisk as a bee.

The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,

He would fly like a swallow and dive like a hake,

But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,

Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,

May a ghost ever haunt him at dead of the night;

May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,

May his goat fly away like an old paper kite.

That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease,

And the piercing north breeze make him shiver and shake,

May a lump of a stick raise bumps fast and thick

On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his cradle ne’er rock, may his box have no lock,

May his wife have no frock for to cover her back;

May his cock never crow, may his bellows ne’er blow,

And his pipe and his pot may he evermore lack.

May his duck never quack, may his goose turn black,

And pull down his turf with her long yellow beak;

May the plague grip the scamp, and his villainy stamp

On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke,

And to add to the joke, may his kettle ne’er boil;

May he keep to the bed till the hour that he’s dead,

May he always be fed on hogwash and boiled oil.

May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,

May he roll, howl and shout with the horrid toothache;

May the temples wear horns, and the toes many corns,

Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,

May each hair in his wig be well thrashed with a flail;

May his door have no latch, may his house have no thatch,

May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.

May every old fairy, from Cork to Dunleary,

Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,

Where the eel and the trout may feed on the snout

Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his dog yelp and howl with the hunger and could,

May his wife always scold till his brains go astray;

May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bag

Alight on the vag. till his hair turns grey.

May monkeys affright him, and mad dogs still bite him,

And every one slight him, asleep or awake;

May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him—

The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

The only good news that I have to infuse

Is that old Peter Hughes and blind Peter McCrake,

And big-nosed Bob Manson, and buck-toothed Ned Hanson,

Each man had a grandson of my lovely drake.

My treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins,

And one I must get or my heart it will break;

To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy—

This ends the whole song of my beautiful drake.

Anonymous.

ELEGY ON HIMSELF.

Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourned

This priest devout;

Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurned

The bones of Prout!

Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column

His place of rest,

Whose soul, above earth’s homage, meek, yet solemn,

Sits ’mid the blest.

Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke

O’erawed sheep-stealers;

And rogues feared more the good man’s single look

Than forty Peelers.

He’s gone, and discord soon I ween will visit

The land with quarrels;

And the foul demon vex with stills illicit

The village morals.

No fatal chance could happen more to cross

The public wishes;

And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,

Except the fishes;

For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring

Preferred to gammon.

Grim death has broke his angling rod: his berring

Delights the salmon.

No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,

For fasting pittance—

Arts which St. Peter loved, whose gate to Prout

Gave prompt admittance.

Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep

His sainted dust,

The bad man’s death it well becomes to weep—

Not so the just!

Francis Sylvester Mahony (“Father Prout”) (1804–1866).

BOB MAHON’S STORY.

Father Tom rubbed his hands pleasantly, and related story after story of his own early experiences, some of them not a little amusing.

The major, however, seemed not fully to enjoy the priest’s anecdotal powers, but sipped his glass with a grave and sententious air. “Very true, Tom,” said he, at length breaking silence; “you have seen a fair share of these things for a man of your cloth; but where’s the man living—show him to me, I say—that has had my experience, either as principal or second: haven’t I had my four men out in the same morning?”

“Why, I confess,” said I meekly, “that does seem an extravagant allowance.”

“Clear waste, downright profusion, du luxe, mon cher, nothing else,” observed Father Tom. Meanwhile the major rolled his eyes fearfully at me, and fidgeted in his chair with impatience to be asked his story, and as I myself had some curiosity on the subject, I begged him to relate it.

“Tom, here, doesn’t like a story at supper,” said the major, pompously; for, perceiving our attitude of attention, he resolved on being a little tyrannical before telling it.

The priest made immediate submission; and, slyly hinting that his objection only lay against stories he had been hearing for the last thirty years, said he could listen to the narration in question with much pleasure.

“You shall have it, then!” said the major, as he squared himself in his chair, and thus began:—

“You have never been in Castle Connel, Hinton? Well, there is a wide bleak line of country there, that stretches away to the westward, with nothing but large round-backed mountains, low boggy swamps, with here and there a miserable mud hovel, surrounded by, maybe, half an acre of lumpers, or bad oats; a few small streams struggle through this on their way to the Shannon, but they are brown and dirty as the soil they traverse; and the very fish that swim in them are brown and smutty also.

“In the very heart of this wild country, I took it into my head to build a house. A strange notion it was, for there was no neighbourhood and no sporting; but, somehow, I had taken a dislike to mixed society some time before that, and I found it convenient to live somewhat in retirement; so that, if the partridges were not in abundance about me, neither were the process-servers; and the truth was, I kept a much sharper look-out for the sub-sheriff than I did for the snipe.

“Of course, as I was over head and ears in debt, my notion was to build something very considerable and imposing; and, to be sure, I had a fine portico, and a flight of steps leading up to it; and there were ten windows in front, and a grand balustrade at the top; and, faith, taking it all in all, the building was so strong, the walls so thick, the windows so narrow, and the stones so black, that my cousin, Darcy Mahon, called it Newgate; and not a bad name either—and the devil another it ever went by: and even that same had its advantages; for when the creditors used to read that at the top of my letters, they’d say—‘Poor devil! he has enough on his hands; there’s no use troubling him any more.’ Well, big as Newgate looked from without, it had not much accommodation when you got inside. There was, ’tis true, a fine hall, all flagged; and, out of it, you entered what ought to have been the dinner-room, thirty-eight feet by seven-and-twenty, but which was used for herding sheep in winter. On the right hand, there was a cozy little breakfast-room, just about the size of this we are in. At the back of the hall, but concealed by a pair of folding-doors, there was a grand staircase of old Irish oak, that ought to have led up to a great suite of bedrooms, but it only conducted to one, a little crib I had for myself. The remainder were never plastered nor floored; and, indeed, in one of them, that was over the big drawing-room, the joists were never laid, which was all the better, for it was there we used to keep our hay and straw.

“Now, at the time I mention, the harvest was not brought in, and instead of its being full, as it used to be, it was mighty low; so that, when you opened the door above stairs, instead of finding the hay up beside you, it was about fourteen feet down beneath you.

“I can’t help boring you with all these details—first, because they are essential to my story; and next, because, being a young man, and a foreigner to boot, it may lead you to a little better understanding of some of our national customs. Of all the partialities we Irish have, after lush and the ladies, I believe our ruling passion is to build a big house, spend every shilling we have, or that we have not, as the case may be, in getting it half finished, and then live in a corner of it, ‘just for grandeur,’ as a body may say. It’s a droll notion, after all; but show me the county in Ireland that hasn’t at least six specimens of what I mention.

“Newgate was a beautiful one; and although the sheep lived in the parlour, and the cows were kept in the blue drawing-room, Darby Whaley slept in the boudoir, and two bull-dogs and a buck-goat kept house in the library—faith, upon the outside it looked very imposing; and not one that saw it, from the high road to Ennis—and you could see it for twelve miles in every direction—didn’t say, ‘That Mahon must be a snug fellow: look what a beautiful place he has of it there! ‘Little they knew that it was safer to go up the ’Reeks’ than my grand staircase, and it was like rope-dancing to pass from one room to the other.

“Well, it was about four o’clock in the afternoon of a dark louring day in December, that I was treading homewards in no very good humour; for, except a brace and a half of snipe, and a grey plover, I had met with nothing the whole day. The night was falling fast; so I began to hurry on as quickly as I could, when I heard a loud shout behind me, and a voice called out—

“‘It’s Bob Mahon, boys! By the hill of Scariff, we are in luck!’

“I turned about, and what should I see but a parcel of fellows in red coats—they were the blazers. There was Dan Lambert, Tom Burke, Harry Eyre, Joe M’Mahon, and the rest of them; fourteen souls in all. They had come down to draw a cover of Stephen Blake’s about ten miles from me; but, in the strange mountain country, they lost the dogs—they lost their way and their temper; in truth, to all appearance they lost everything but their appetites. Their horses were dead beat too, and they looked as miserable a crew as ever you set eyes on.

“‘Isn’t it lucky, Bob, that we found you at home?’ said Lambert.

“‘They told us you were away,’ said Burke.

“‘Some said that you were grown so pious, that you never went out except on Sundays,’ added old Harry, with a grin.

“‘Begad,’ said I, ‘as to the luck, I won’t say much for it; for here’s all I can give you for your dinner;’ and so I pulled out the four birds and shook them at them; ‘and as to the piety, troth, maybe you’d like to keep a fast with as devoted a son of the church as myself.’

“‘But isn’t that Newgate up there?’ said one.

“‘That same.’

“‘And you don’t mean to say that such a house as that hasn’t a good larder and a fine cellar?’

“‘You’re right,’ said I, ‘and they’re both full at this very moment—the one with seed-potatoes, and the other with Whitehaven coals.’

“‘Have you got any bacon?’ said Mahon.

“‘Oh, yes!’ said I, ‘there’s bacon.’

“‘And eggs?’ said another.

“‘For the matter of that, you might swim in batter.’

“‘Come, come,’ said Dan Lambert, ‘we’re not so badly off after all.’

“‘Is there whisky?’ cried Eyre.

“‘Sixty-three gallons, that never paid the king sixpence!’

“As I said this, they gave three cheers you’d have heard a mile off.

“After about twenty minutes’ walking, we go up to the house, and when poor Darby opened the door, I thought he’d faint; for, you see, the red coats made him think it was the army coming to take me away; and he was for running off to raise the country, when I caught him by the neck.

“‘It’s the blazers, ye old fool,’ said I. ‘The gentlemen are come to dine here.’

“‘Hurroo!’ said he, clapping his hands on his knees—‘there must be great distress entirely, down about Nenagh and them parts, or they’d never think of coming up here for a bit to eat.’

“‘Which way lie the stables, Bob?’ said Burke.

“‘Leave all that to Darby,’ said I; for ye see he had only to whistle and bring up as many people as he liked—and so he did too; and as there was room for a cavalry regiment, the horses were soon bedded down and comfortable; and in ten minutes’ time we were all sitting pleasantly round a big fire, waiting for the rashers and eggs.

“‘Now, if you’d like to wash your hands before dinner, Lambert, come along with me.’

“‘By all means,’ said he.

“The others were standing up too; but I observed that, as the house was large, and the ways of it unknown to them, it was better to wait till I’d come back for them.

“This was a real piece of good luck, Bob,’ said Dan, as he followed me upstairs: ‘capital quarters we’ve fallen into; and what a snug bedroom ye have here.’

“‘Yes,’ said I carelessly; ‘it’s one of the small rooms—there are eight like this, and five large ones, plainly furnished, as you see; but for the present, you know——’

“‘Oh, begad! I wish for nothing better. Let me sleep here—the other fellows may care for your four-posters with satin hangings.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you are really not joking, I may tell you that the room is one of the warmest in the house’—and this was telling no lie.

“‘Here I’ll sleep,’ said he, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and giving the bed a most affectionate look. ‘And now let us join the rest.’

“When I brought Dan down, I took up Burke, and after him M’Mahon, and so on to the last; but every time I entered the parlour, I found them all bestowing immense praises on my house, and each fellow ready to bet he had got the best bedroom.

“Dinner soon made its appearance; for if the cookery was not very perfect, it was at least wonderfully expeditious. There were two men cutting rashers, two more frying them in the pan, and another did nothing but break the eggs, Darby running from the parlour to the kitchen and back again, as hard as he could trot.

“Do you know, now, that many a time since, when I have been giving venison, and Burgundy, and claret, enough to swim a life-boat in, I often thought it was a cruel waste of money; for the fellows weren’t half as pleasant as they were that evening on bacon and whisky!

“I’ve a theory on that subject, Hinton, I’ll talk to you more about another time; I’ll only observe now, that I’m sure we all over-feed our company. I’ve tried both plans; and my honest experience is, that, as far as regards conviviality, fun, and good-fellowship, it is a great mistake to provide too well for your guests. There is something heroic in eating your mutton-chop, or your leg of a turkey among jolly fellows; there is a kind of reflective flattering about it that tells you you have been invited for your drollery, and not for your digestion; and that your jokes, and not your flattery, have been your recommendation. Lord bless you! I’ve laughed more over red herrings and poteen than I ever expect to do again over turtle and toquay.

“My guests were, to do them justice, a good illustration of my theory. A pleasanter and a merrier party never sat down together. We had good songs, good stories, plenty of laughing, and plenty of drink; until at last poor Darby became so overpowered, by the fumes of the hot water I suppose, that he was obliged to be carried up to bed, and so we were compelled to boil the kettle in the parlour. This, I think, precipitated matters; for, by some mistake, they put punch into it instead of water, and the more you tried to weaken the liquor, it was only the more tipsy you were getting.

“About two o’clock five of the party were under the table, three more were nodding backwards and forwards like insane pendulums, and the rest were mighty noisy, and now and then rather disposed to be quarrelsome.

“‘Bob,’ said Lambert to me, in a whisper, ‘if it’s the same thing to you, I’ll slip away and get into bed.’

“‘Of course, if you won’t take anything more. Just make yourself at home; and, as you don’t know the way here—follow me!’

“‘I’m afraid,’ said he, ‘I’d not find my way alone.’

“‘I think,’ said I, ‘it’s very likely. But come along.’

“I walked upstairs before him; but instead of turning to the left, I went the other way, till I came to the door of the large room, that I have told you already was over the big drawing-room. Just as I put my hand on the lock, I contrived to blow out the candle, as if it was the wind.

“‘What a draught there is here!’ said I; ‘but just step in, and I’ll go for a light.’

“He did as he was bid; but instead of finding himself on my beautiful little carpet, down he went fourteen feet into the hay at the bottom. I looked down after him for a minute or two, and then called out—

“‘As I am doing the honours of Newgate, the least I could do was to show you the drop. Good night, Dan! but let me advise you to get a little farther from the door, as there are more coming.’

“Well, sir, when they missed Dan and me out of the room, two or three more stood up and declared for bed also. The first I took up was Ffrench, of Green Park; for indeed he wasn’t a cute fellow at the best of times; and if it wasn’t that the hay was so low, he’d never have guessed it was not a feather-bed till he woke in the morning. Well, down he went. Then came Eyre! Then Joe Mahon—two-and-twenty stone—no less! Lord pity them!—this was a great shock entirely! But when I opened the door for Tom Burke, upon my conscience you’d think it was Pandemonium they had down there. They were fighting like devils, and roaring with all their might.

“‘Good night, Tom,’ said I, pushing Burke forward. ‘It’s the cows you hear underneath.’

“‘Cows!’ said he. ‘If they’re cows, begad, they must have got at that sixty-three gallons of poteen you talked of; for they’re all drunk.’

“With that, he snatched the candle out of my hand, and looked down into the pit. Never was such a scene before or since. Dan was pitching into poor Ffrench, who, thinking he had an enemy before him, was hitting out manfully at an old turf-creel, that rocked and creaked at every blow as he called out—

“‘I’ll smash you! I’ll dinge your ribs for you, you infernal scoundrel!’

“Eyre was struggling in the hay, thinking he was swimming for his life; and poor Joe Mahon was patting him on the head, and saying, ‘Poor fellow! good dog!’ for he thought it was Towser, the bull-terrier, that was prowling round the calves of his legs.

“‘If they don’t get tired, there will not be a man of them alive by morning!’ said Tom, as he closed the door. ‘And now, if you’ll allow me to sleep on the carpet, I’ll take it as a favour.’

“By this time they were all quiet in the parlour, so I lent Tom a couple of blankets and a bolster, and having locked my door, went to bed with an easy mind and a quiet conscience. To be sure, now and then a cry would burst forth, as if they were killing somebody below stairs, but I soon fell asleep and heard no more of them.

“By daybreak next morning they made their escape; and when I was trying to awake at half-past ten, I found Colonel M’Morris, of the Mayo, with a message from the whole four.

“‘A bad business this, Captain Mahon,’ said he; ‘my friends have been shockingly treated.’

“‘It’s mighty hard,’ said I, ‘to want to shoot me, because I hadn’t fourteen feather-beds in the house.’

“‘They will be the laugh of the whole country, sir.’

“‘Troth!’ said I, ‘if the country is not in very low spirits, I think they will.’

“‘There’s not a man of them can see!—their eyes are actually closed up!’

“‘The Lord be praised!’ said I. ‘It’s not likely they’ll hit me.’

“But, to make a short story of it; out we went. Tom Burke was my friend; I could scarce hold my pistol with laughing; for such faces no man ever looked at. But, for self-preservation sake, I thought it best to hit one of them; so I just pinked Ffrench a little under the skirt of the coat.

“‘Come, Lambert!’ said the colonel, ‘it’s your turn now.’

“‘Wasn’t that Lambert,’ said I, ‘that I hit?’

“‘No,’ said he, ‘that was Ffrench.’

“‘Begad, I’m sorry for it. Ffrench, my dear fellow, excuse me; for, you see, you’re all so like each other about the eyes this morning——’

“With this there was a roar of laughing from them all, in which, I assure you, Lambert took not a very prominent part; for somehow he didn’t fancy my polite inquiries after him; and so we all shook hands, and left the ground as good friends as ever, though to this hour the name of Newgate brings less pleasant recollections to their minds than if their fathers had been hanged at its prototype.”

Charles Lever (1806–1872).

THE WIDOW MALONE.

Did ye hear of the widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,

Alone?

Oh! she melted the hearts

Of the swains in them parts,

So lovely the widow Malone,

Ohone!

So lovely the widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more;

And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;

From the minister down

To the Clerk of the Crown,

All were courting the widow Malone,

Ohone!

All were courting the widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,

’Twas known

No one ever could see her alone,

Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne’er catch her eye,

So bashful the widow Malone,

Ohone!

So bashful the widow Malone.

Till one Mr. O’Brien from Clare—

How quare,

It’s little for blushing they care

Down there—

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste—

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,

My own;”—

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!

Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—

For why?

But “Lucius,” says she,

“Since you’ve now made so free,

You may marry your Molly Malone,

Ohone!

You may marry your Molly Malone.”

There’s a moral contained in my song,

Not wrong;

And, one comfort, it’s not very long,

But strong

If for widows you die,

Learn to kiss, not to sigh,

For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone.

Charles Lever.

THE GIRLS OF THE WEST

You may talk, if you please,

Of the brown Portuguese,

But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,

You nothing will meet

Half so lovely or sweet

As the girls at home, the girls at home.

Their eyes are not sloes,

Nor so long is their nose,

But, between me and you, between me and you,

They are just as alarming,

And ten times more charming,

With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.

They don’t ogle a man

O’er the top of their fan,

Till his heart’s in a flame, his heart’s in a flame

But though bashful and shy,

They’ve a look in their eye

That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.

No mantillas they sport,

But a petticoat short

Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,

And a leg—but, O murther!

I dare not go further,

So here’s to the West; so here’s to the West.

Charles Lever.

THE MAN FOR GALWAY.

To drink a toast

A proctor roast,

Or bailiff, as the case is;

To kiss your wife,

Or take your life

At ten or fifteen paces;

To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,

To drink in punch the Solway—

With debts galore, but fun far more—

Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”

The King of Oude

Is mighty proud,

And so were onst the Caysars;

But ould Giles Eyre

Would make them stare

With a company of the Blazers.

To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,

He’s only a prince in a small way,

And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall—

Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”

Ye think the Blakes

Are no great shakes—

They’re all his blood relations;

And the Bodkins sneeze

At the grim Chinese,

For they come from the Phenaycians;

So fill to the brim, and here’s to him

Who’d drink in punch the Solway;

With debts galore, but fun far more—

Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”

Charles Lever.

HOW CON CREGAN’S FATHER LEFT HIMSELF A BIT OF LAND.

I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King’s County; it stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never able to say to which county we belonged; there being just the same number of arguments for one side as for the other—a circumstance, many believed, that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for while, under the “disputed boundary question,” he paid no rates or county cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections. This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit; and, indeed, the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm that impression.

There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, not even “squireen”; the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Harry McCabe, that had two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have the old man’s money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and listed in the “Buffs.” Three weeks after he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it after. Not that his death was any way sudden, for he lingered on for months long; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on “the dirty spalpeen” that disgraced the family, but old Harry as stoutly resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided between them. These disputes between them were well known in the neighbourhood. Few of the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old man’s weak, reedy voice, and Peter’s deep hoarse one, in altercation. When, at last—it was on a Sunday night—all was still and quiet in the house; not a word, not a footstep could be heard, no more than if it were uninhabited, the neighbours looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if the old man was worse—if he were dead!

It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the fire; but I didn’t speak, for I was frightened. It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry—

“Con Cregan! Con, I say! open the door! I want you.”

I knew the voice well, it was Peter McCabe’s; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say—

“Oh, Mr. Peter, what’s the matter? is the ould man worse?”

“Faix! that’s what he is, for he’s dead!”

“Glory be his bed! when did it happen?”

“About an hour ago,” said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner could perceive was greatly agitated. “He died like an ould haythen, Con, and never made a will!”

“That’s bad,” said my father; for he was always a polite man, and said whatever was pleasing to the company.

“It is bad,” said Peter; “but it would be worse if we couldn’t help it. Listen to me now, Conny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here’s five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were mistaken for each other every day of the week.”

“Anan!” said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion, without well knowing why.

“Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house and get into the bed.”

“Not beside the corpse?” said my father, trembling.

“By no means; but by yourself; and you’re to pretend to be my father, and that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I’ll send for the neighbours, and Billy Scanlan the schoolmaster, and ye’ll tell him what to write, laving all the farm and everything to me—ye understand. And as the neighbours will see ye and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but it was himself that did it.”

“The room must be very dark,” says my father.

“To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the bed; and ye’ll only have to make a cross with your pen under the name.”

“And the priest?” said my father.

“My father quarrelled with him last week about the Easter dues, and Father Tom said he’d not give him the ‘rites’; and that’s lucky now! Come along now, quick, for we’ve no time to lose; it must be all finished before the day breaks.”

My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his big coat ’round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in a costume light as my parent’s, set out after them, to watch the course of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut and be before them; but by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already begun. I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside it a table, with physic-bottles, and spoons, and tea-cups; a little farther off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of writing materials before him. The country people sat two, sometimes three deep round the walls, all intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the company to whisky—which was supplied with more than accustomed liberality. All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room; the highly-wrought expression of the country people’s faces, never more intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob—the tribute of some affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back; these, I repeat it, were all so real that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.

A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of a fly would have been heard, my father said—

“Where’s Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!”

“He’s here, father!” said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him to the bedside.

“Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick, for I hav’n’t a long time before me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O’Rafferty won’t give me the ‘rites’!”

A general chorus of “Oh, musha, musha,” was now heard through the room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

“I die in peace with all my neighbours and all mankind!”

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable expressions.

“I bequeath unto my son, Peter—and never was there a better son, or a decenter boy!—have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboorn, with the fallow meadows behind Lynch’s house; the forge, and the right of turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lanty Cassarn’s acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln—and that reminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug.”

Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably refreshed by it.

“Where was I, Billy Scanlan?” says he; “oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I leave him—that’s Peter, I mean—the two potato-gardens at Noonan’s Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there.”

“An’t you gettin’ wake, father, darlin’?” says Peter, who began to be afraid of my father’s loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

“I am, Peter, my son,” says he, “I am getting wake; just touch my lips again with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!”

“No, indeed, father, but it’s the taste is leavin’ you,” says Peter; and again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

“Well, I’m nearly done now,” says my father; “there’s only one little plot of ground remaining, and I put it on you, Peter—as ye wish to live a good man, and die with the same asy heart I do now—that ye mind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbours listening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, father. We’re all minding,” chorused the audience.

“‘YOU WATERED THE DRINK!’ ‘NO, INDEED, FATHER, BUT IT’S THE TASTE IS LEAVIN’ YOU,’ SAYS PETER.”

“Well, then, it’s my last will and testament, and may—give me over the jug”—here he took a long drink—“and may that blessed liquor be poison to me if I’m not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say, then, I bequeath the little plot at the cross-roads to poor Con Cregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hard-working a man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it yerself; think of me on my death-bed whenever he asks ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan and his heirs, in secla seclorum. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my heart lighter after that,” says he; “a good work makes an easy conscience; and now I’ll drink all the company’s good health, and many happy returns——”

What he was going to add there’s no saying; but Peter, who was now terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace. When they were all gone Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting on his brogues in a corner.

“Con,” says he, “ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the two acres at the cross.”

“Of course it was,” says he; “sure it was all a joke for the matter of that; won’t I make the neighbours laugh hearty to-morrow when I tell them all about it!”

“You wouldn’t be mean enough to betray me?” says Peter, trembling with fright.

“Sure ye wouldn’t be mean enough to go against yer father’s dying words?” says my father; “the last sentence ever he spoke;” and here he gave a low, wicked laugh that made myself shake with fear.

“Very well, Con!” says Peter, holding out his hand; “a bargain’s a bargain; yer a deep fellow, that’s all!” and so it ended; and my father slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy he left himself. And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as Con’s Acre.

Charles Lever.

KATEY’S LETTER.

Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter?

And although he cannot read, sure, I thought ’twas all the better,

For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,

When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully?

I love him faithfully—

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;

’Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet—

For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,

As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.

I love him faithfully—

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;

The neighbours know I love him, and they’re mighty fond of chaffing,

So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be laughing,

So I wrote “From Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.”

I love him faithfully—

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman’s so consated,

No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited—

But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,

That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully,

He loves me faithfully,

And I know where’er my love is that he is true to me.

Lady Dufferin (1807–1867).

“AS I SAID INSIDE THE LETTER THAT I LOVED HIM FAITHFULLY.”

DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER YOUR FEET.

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel—

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;

Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,

Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.

The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;

While all the air rings with the soft loving things

Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley!”

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,

Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;

’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,—

So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.

And now on the green the glad groups are seen,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;

And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,—

Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;

With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,—

The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.

Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,—

Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,

No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,

Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,—

Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,—

Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?

Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;

The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,

“Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!”

John Francis Waller, LL.D. (1809–1894).

FATHER TOM’S WAGER WITH THE POPE.

“I’d hould you a pound,” says the Pope, “that I’ve a quadruped in my possession that’s a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel.”

“Done,” says his riv’rence, and they staked the money. “What can this larned quadhruped o’ yours do?” says his riv’rence.

“It’s my mule,” says the Pope; “and if you were to offer her goolden oats and clover off the meadows o’ Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she’d let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or holiday in the year.”

“Well, and what ’ud you say if I showed you a baste ov mine,” says his riv’rence, “that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only, fasts out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday in the week as reg’lar as a Christian?”

“Oh, be asy, Misther Maguire,” says the Pope.

“You don’t b’lieve me, don’t you?” says his riv’rence; “very well, I’ll soon show you whether or no,” and he put his knuckles in his mouth, and gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The aycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish, when the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be sitting next the door, betuxt him and his riv’rence, and may I never die if he didn’t clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang.

“‘HERE, SPRING, MY MAN,’ SAYS HE.”

“God’s presence be about us!” says the Pope, thinking it was an evil spirit come to fly away wid him for the lie that he hed tould in regard ov his mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in grazing the brute’s teeth); but seeing it was only one ov the greatest beauties ov a greyhound that he’d ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he soon recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris and went to the sideboard, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice ov beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice ov salmon, and put them all on a plate thegither. “Here, Spring, my man,” says he, setting the plate down afore him on the hearthstone, “here’s your supper for you this blessed Friday night.” Not a word more he said nor what I tell you; and, you may believe it or not, but it’s the blessed truth that the dog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted his nose out ov the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his tail wagging, looking up in his riv’rence’s face, as much as to say, “Give me your absolution, till I hide them temptations out ov my sight.”

“There’s a dog that knows his duty,” says his riv’rence; “there’s a baste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlour or the field. You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you seen him on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you’d say the hill was running away from undher him. Oh, I wisht you had been wid me,” says he, never letting on to see the dog at all, “one day last Lent, that I was coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile behind me, for the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at the chapel door; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov Grouse Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and knowing that she’d take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping her in view, but afore I hed gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away the two went like the wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over the river, widout his being able onst to turn her. Well, I run on till I came to the Diffagher, and through it I went, for the wather was low, and I didn’t mind being wet shod, and out on the other side, where I got up on a ditch, and seen sich a coorse as I’ll be bound to say was never seen afore or since. If Spring turned that hare onst that day, he turned her fifty times, up and down, back and for’ard, throughout and about. At last he run her right into the big quarry-hole in Mullaghbawn, and when I went up to look for her fud, there I found him sthretched on his side, not able to stir a fut, and the hare lying about an inch afore his nose as dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark ov a tooth upon her. Eh, Spring, isn’t that thrue?” says he.

Jist at that minit the clock sthruck twelve, and afore you could say thrap-sticks, Spring had the plateful ov mate consaled. “Now,” says his riv’rence, “hand me over my pound, for I’ve won my bet fairly.”

“You’ll excuse me,” says the Pope, pocketing the money, “for we put the clock half-an-hour back, out ov compliment to your riv’rence,” says he, “and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all.”

“Well, it’s no matter,” says his riv’rence, “only,” says he, “it’s hardly fair to expect a brute baste to be so well skilled in the science ov chronology.”

Sir Samuel Ferguson (1810–1886).

THE OULD IRISH JIG.

My blessing be on you, old Erin,

My own land of frolic and fun;

For all sorts of mirth and diversion,

Your like is not under the sun.

Bohemia may boast of her polka,

And Spain of her waltzes talk big;

Sure, they are all nothing but limping,

Compared with our ould Irish jig.

Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,

Imported from Spain and from France;

And a fig for the thing called the polka—

Our own Irish jig we will dance.

I’ve heard how our jig came in fashion—

And believe that the story is true—

By Adam and Eve ’twas invented,

The reason was, partners were few.

And, though they could both dance the polka,

Eve thought it was not over-chaste;

She preferred our ould jig to be dancing—

And, faith, I approve of her taste.

Then a fig, etc.

The light-hearted daughters of Erin,

Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,

Their feet never touch the green island,

But music is struck from the ground.

And oft in the glens and green meadows,

The ould jig they dance with such grace,

That even the daisies they tread on,

Look up with delight in their face.

Then a fig, etc.

An ould Irish jig, too, was danced by

The kings and the great men of yore;

King O’Toole could himself neatly foot it

To a tune they call “Rory O’More.”

And oft in the great hall of Tara,

Our famous King Brian Boru,

Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,

And played his own harp to them, too.

Then a fig, etc.

And sure, when Herodias’ daughter

Was dancing in King Herod’s sight,

His heart that for years had been frozen,

Was thawed with pure love and delight;

And more than a hundred times over,

I’ve heard Father Flanagan tell,

’Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,

That pleased the ould villain so well.

Then a fig, etc.

James M’Kowen (1814–1889).

MOLLY MULDOON.

Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,

And as fine a one

As you’d look upon

In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.

Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,

And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;

Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,

But owned that a power o’ beauty was there.

Now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon,

Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,

Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,

But for that in her eye

Which made most of them shy

And look quite ashamed, though they couldn’t tell why—

Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,

And heart and mind seemed in them blended.

If intellect sent you one look severe,

Love instantly leapt in the next to mend it.

Hers was the eye to check the rude,

And hers the eye to stir emotion,

To keep the sense and soul subdued,

And calm desire into devotion.

There was Jemmy O’Hare,

As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair,

And wherever Molly was he was there.

His face was round and his build was square,

And he sported as rare

And tight a pair

Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.

And Jemmy would wear

His caubeen[17] and hair

With such a peculiar and rollicking air,

That I’d venture to swear

Not a girl in Kildare,

Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there,

Could resist his wild way—called “Devil may care.”

Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,

Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run

With Jemmy—no gorsoon could equal him—none,

At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,

At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight,—

He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight.

Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare,

And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.

I believe in my conscience a purtier pair

Never danced in a tent at a patthern in June,—

To a bagpipe or fiddle

On the rough cabin-door

That is placed in the middle—

Ye may talk as ye will,

There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there

With which people of quality couldn’t compare.

And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two

That could keep up the longest and go the best through

All the jigs and the reels

That have occupied heels

Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.

It was on a long bright sunny day

They sat on a green knoll side by side,

But neither just then had much to say;

Their hearts were so full that they only tried

To do anything foolish, just to hide

What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.

They plucked the speckled daisies that grew

Close by their arms,—then tore them too;

And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk

They threw at each other for want of talk;

While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,

Reflected pure souls without art or guile;

And every time Molly sighed or smiled,

Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;

And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,

The grass so green, the daisies so white;

Everything looked so gay in his sight

That gladly he’d linger to watch them till night—

And Molly herself thought each little bird,

Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,—

Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.

An Irish courtship’s short and sweet,

It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;

But who is wise when his young heart’s heat

Whips the pulse to a galloping beat—

Ties up his judgment neck and feet,

And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?

Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,

Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;

They look not by art, and they love not by rule,

For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.

Oh! give me the love that endures no control

But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,

As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,

Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.

Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,

By rank unallured and by riches unbought;

Whose very simplicity keeps it secure—

The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.

All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,

As one week before Lent

Jem procured her consent

To go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.

Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,

And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see.

And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep,

For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.

A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,

He took from a chest and carefully put on—

And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,

Were greased with the fat of a quare sort of mutton!

Then a tidier gorsoon couldn’t be seen

Treading the Emerald Isle so green—

Light was his step, and bright was his eye,

As he walked through the slobbery streets of Athy.

And each girl he passed bid “God bless him” and sighed,

While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.

Hush! here’s the Priest—let not the least

Whisper be heard till the father has ceased.

“Come, bridegroom and bride,

That the knot may be tied

Which no power on earth can hereafter divide.”

Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,

And a passage was made for them both to walk through;

And his Riv’rence stood with a sanctified face,

Which spread its infection around the place.

The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,

Who felt so confused that she almost cried,

But at last bore up and walked forward, where

The Father was standing with solemn air;

The bridegroom was following after with pride,

When his piercing eye something awful espied!

He stopped and sighed,

Looked round and tried

To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:

With a spring and a roar

He jumped to the door,

And the bride laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more!

Some years sped on,

Yet heard no one

Of Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone.

But since the night of that widow’d feast,

The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;

Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul released,

Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.

And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,

Just five years after the widow’d feast,

An American letter was brought to the priest,

Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceased!

Who, ere his death,

With his latest breath,

To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,

And the cause of his sudden departure confest.—

“Oh, Father,” says he, “I’ve not long to live,

So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive—

That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;

Ay, as well as the Creed

That was never forsaken by one of my breed;

But I couldn’t have married her, after I saw—”

“Saw what?” cried the Father, desirous to hear—

And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking—

“Not in her karàcter, yer Riv’rince, a flaw”—

The sick man here dropped a significant tear,

And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear—

“But I saw, God forgive her, A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!”

THE MORAL.

Lady readers, love may be

Fixed in hearts immovably,

May be strong and may be pure;

Faith may lean on faith secure,

Knowing adverse fate’s endeavour

Makes that faith more firm than ever;

But the purest love and strongest,

Love that has endured the longest,

Braving cross, and blight, and trial,

Fortune’s bar or pride’s denial,

Would—no matter what its trust—

Be uprooted by disgust:—

Yes, the love that might for years

Spring in suffering, grow in tears,

Parents’ frigid counsel mocking,

Might be—where’s the use of talking?—

Upset by a BROKEN STOCKING!

Anonymous.

“WITH A SPRING AND A ROAR HE JUMPED TO THE DOOR.”

“THE GANDHER ID BE AT HIS HEELS, AN’ RUBBIN’ HIMSELF AGIN HIS LEGS.”

THE QUARE GANDER.

Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do, an’ he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an’ bein’ mighty cute an’ a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but unluckily he was blessed with an iligant large family iv daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin’ to make up fortunes for the whole of them—an’ there wasn’t a conthrivance iv any soart or discription for makin’ money out iv the farm but he was up to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world, he always kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultry; an’ he was out iv all raison partial to geese—an’ small blame to him for that same—for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand—an’ get a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizable eggs—an’ when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for gozlings, d’ye see,—let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin’ to Terence, an’ divil a place he could go serenadin’ about the farm, or lookin’ afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, and lookin’ up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen,—Terence Mooney an’ the gandher wor so great. An’ at last the bird was so engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an’ kept it from that time out, for love an’ affection—just all as one like one iv his childhren. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an’ the neighbours bigin’d to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an’ some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’, and you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an’ from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the iligant hand at the business, and divil a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An’ moreover he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man’s father that was. So without more about it, he was sint for; an’ sure enough the divil a long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin’ along wid the boy that was sint for him; an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuck his supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, he bigined of coorse to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this away an’ that away, to the right, and to the left, an’ straight-ways an’ upside down, an’ when he was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney—

“Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird into the next room,” says he, “an’ put a pettycoat,” says he, “or any other convaynience round his head,” says he.

“An’ why so?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, says he.

“Becase what?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done—you’ll never be asy agin,” says he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” says he; “so ax no more questions, but do my biddin’,’ says he.

“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.

An’ wid that he tuck the ould gandher, and giv’ it to one iv the gossoons.

“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” says he.

Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, “Do you know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?”

“Divil a taste,” says Terence.

“Well then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.

“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an ould gandher be my father?” says he.

“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer; “it’s thrue what I tell you—it’s your father’s wandhrin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally tuck pissession iv the ould gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many ways, and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,” says he.

“Oh, blur an’ ages!” says Terence, “what the divil will I ever do at all at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,” says he.

“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer; “it was a sevare act surely,” says he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only way to prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,” says he.

“Thrue for you,” says Terence; “but how the divil did you come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’ in the ould gandher?” says he.

“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not undherstand me,” says he, “without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no questions,” says he, “an’ I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if I don’t make him spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,” says he.

“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the business,” says he; “an’ oh! blur an’ ages, is it not a quare thing,” says he, “for a dacent, respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and oh, murdher, murdher! isn’t it often I plucked him,” says he; “an’ tundher an’ ouns, might not I have ate him,” says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your prisince, an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.

Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quiet an’ asy—“Terence,” says he, “don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,” says he, “for I have a plan composed that ’ill make him spake out,” says he, “an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say agin anything I tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,” says he; “an’ if he don’t spake tonight,” says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,” says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aiting,” says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he; “an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t spake out before he’s half-way,” says he; “an’ mind,” says he, “as soon as ever he says the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,” says he, “an’ if his raverince doesn’t make him ratire,” says he, “like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,” says he, “into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory, there’s no vartue in my charums,” says he.

Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they all bigined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftinant; an’ Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poulthry, “an’ to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ’ill get in this world,” says he. Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ downhearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin’ to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some iligant potteen, an’ himself an’ Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn’t an imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew—the Lord purloin his raverince—bigin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate Ireland. An’ begorra, I have the medle myself; an’ its proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry. Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop, “for enough is as good as a faste,” says he, “an’ I pity the vagabond,” says he, “that is not able to conthroul his licquor,” says he, “an’ to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,” says he, an’ wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an’ walked out iv the room. But he wint out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an’ not rightly knowin’ whether he was standin’ on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin’; an’ sure enough he sunk down soft an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid the turnin’ an’ roulin’ about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’. So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an’ they cotched the ould gandher, an’ put him in the hamper and clapped a good wisp iv hay on the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an’ put the hamper up on the car, wontherin’ all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould bird so surprisin’ heavy. Well, they wint along quiet an’ asy towards Tipperary, wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the bewitched gandher, an’ small blame to them for that same. But, although they wor shakin’ in their shkins in dhread iv the ould bird biginin’ to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one another, but kep singin’ and whistlin’, like mad, to keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half-an-hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one divil iv a rut three feet deep at the laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’ through it, that it wakened Terence within the basket.

“Oh!” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what the divil are ye doin’ wid me?”

“Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the boy that was next to the car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a musharoon; “did ye hear anything quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.

“No, nor you,” says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself; “it’s the ould gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,” says he.

“Where the divil have ye put me into?” says Terence inside; “let me out, or I’ll be smothered this minute,” says he.

“There’s no use in purtendin’,” says the boy; “the gandher’s spakin’, glory be to God!” says he.

“Let me out, you murdherers,” says Terence.

“In the name iv all the holy saints,” says Thady, “hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,” says he.

“Who’s that, that dar’ to call me nicknames?” says Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion; “let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,” says he, “or by this crass I’ll stretch ye,” says he.

“In the name iv heaven,” says Thady, “who the divil are ye?”

“Who the divil would I be but Terence Mooney,” says he. “It’s myself that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,” says he; “let me out, or by the holy I’ll get out in spite iv yez,” says he, “an’ be jabers I’ll wallop yez in arnest,” says he.

“It’s ould Terence, sure enough,” says Thady; “isn’t it cute the fairy docthor found him out?” says he.

“I’m on the pint iv snuffication,” says Terence; “let me out I tell you, an’ wait till I get at ye,” says he, “for begorra, the divil a bone in your body but I’ll powdher,” says he; an’ wid that he bigined kickin’ and flingin’ inside in the hamper, and dhrivin’ his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces. Well, as soon as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest’s house, through the ruts, an’ over the stones; an’ you’d see the hamper fairly flyin’ three feet up in the air with the joultin’, glory be to God; so it was small wondher, by the time they got to his raverince’s door, the breath was fairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin’ speechless in the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up an’ they tould him all that happened, an’ how they put the gandher into the hamper, an’ how he bigined to spake, an’ how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the sperit for good an’ all. So says his raverince, says he—

“I’ll take my book,” says he, “an’ I’ll read some rale sthrong holy bits out iv it,” says he, “an’ do you get a rope and put it round the hamper,” says he, “an’ let it swing over the runnin’ wather at the bridge,” says he, “an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the sperit come out iv it,” says he.

Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an’ tuck his book in undher his arum, an’ the boys follied his raverince, ladin’ the horse down to the bridge, an’ divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no use spakin’, an’ he was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop an’ finish him intirely. Well, as soon as they war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with them, an’ med it fast to the top iv the hamper an’ swung it fairly over the bridge; lettin’ it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; an’ his raverince rode down to the bank iv the river, close by, an’ bigined to read mighty loud and bould intirely. An’ when he was goin’ on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an’ down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the water, an’ the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they both went to the bottom wid a souse you’d hear half-a-mile off; an’ before they had time to rise agin, his raverince, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an’ before he knew where he was, in he went, horse and all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the bottom. Up they all kem agin together, gaspin’ an’ puffin’, an’ off down wid the current wid them, like shot in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the shallow wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an’ the priest and Terence kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half dhrounded; an’ his raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin’ he got, and wid the sight iv the sperit as he consaved, that he wasn’t the better iv it for a month. An’ as soon as Terence could spake, he said he’d have the life iv the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will; an’ as soon as he was got quiter they all endayvoured to explain it, but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an’ his wife said the same to shilter him from the suspicion ov having the dhrop taken. An’ his raverince said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if he cotched any one laughin’ at the accident, he’d lay the horsewhip across their shouldhers; an’ Terence grew fonder an’ fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died in a wondherful ould age, lavin’ the gandher afther him an’ a large family iv childher.

Joseph Sheridan Lefanu (1814–1873).

TABLE-TALK.

If the age of women were known by their teeth, they would not be so fond of showing them.

---

What is an Irishman but a mere machine for converting potatoes into human nature?

---

The smiles of a pretty woman are glimpses of Paradise.

---

Military men never blush; it is not in the articles of war.

---

We look with pleasure even on our shadows.

---

It is particularly inconvenient to have a long nose—especially if you are in company with Irishmen after dinner.

---

Weak-minded men are obstinate; those of a robust intellect are firm.

---

Bear-baiting has gone down very much of late. The best exhibitions of that manly and rational amusement take place nightly in the House of Commons.

---

When you are invited to a drinking-party you do not treat your host well if you do not eat at least six salt herrings before you sit down to his table. I have never known this to fail in ensuring a pleasant evening.

---

Butchers and doctors are with great propriety excluded from being jurymen.

---

Few men have the moral courage not to fight a duel.

---

It is a saying of the excellent Tom Brown, “No poet ever went to a church when he had money to go to a tavern.” This may be looked on as an indisputable axiom; there is no truer proposition in Euclid. Indeed, the very name of poet is derived from potare—to drink; and it is not by mere accident that the same word signifies Bacchus and a book.

---

The most ferocious monsters in existence are authors who insist on reading their MSS to their friends and visitors.

---

A friend of mine, one of the wittiest and most learned men of the day, once recommended a Frenchman, who expressed an anxiety to possess the autographs of literary men, to cash their bills. “And, believe me,” says he, “if you do, you will get the handwriting of the best of the tribe.”

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Tailors call Adam and Eve the first founders of their noble art; they have them depicted on their banners and escutcheons. But they would be nearer the truth if they called the devil the first master-tailor; as only for him a coat and breeches would be unnecessary and useless. This would be giving the devil his due.

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A very acute man used to say, “Tell me your second reason; I do not want your first. The second is the true motive of your actions.”

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Youth and old age seem to be mutual spies on each other—blind, each, to its own imperfections, but extremely quick-sighted to those of its opposite.

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Hints to Men of Business.—Whenever you are in a hurry engage a drunken cabman; he will drive you at double the speed of a sober one. Also, be sure not to engage a cabman who owns the horse he drives; he will spare his quadruped, and carry you at a funeral pace. Both these maxims are as good as any in Rochefoucault.

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Man is a twofold creature; one half he exhibits to the world, and the other to himself.

Edward V. H. Kenealy, LL.D. (1819–1880).

ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET.

Snooks, my friend, I see with sorrow

How you waste much precious time—

Notwithstanding all you borrow—

In concocting wretched rhyme.

Do not think that I fling any

Innuendoes at your head,

When I state the fact that many

Mines of Wicklow teem with lead.

Snooks, my friend, you are a ninny

(Class, mammalia-genus, muff),

If you hope to make a guinea

By such caterwauling stuff.

Lives of poets all remind us

We may write “demnition” fine,

Leaving still unsolved behind us

The problem, “How are bards to dine?”

Problem which perhaps some others,

As through life they dodge about,

Seeing, shall suppose our mothers

Did not know that we were out.

Hang the bard, and cut the punster,

Fling all rhyming to the deuce,

Take a business tour through Munster,

Shoot a landlord—be of use.

Richard Dalton Williams (1822–1862).

“SAINT KEVIN TOOK THE GANDER FROM THE ARMS OF THE KING.”

SAINT KEVIN AND KING O’TOOLE.

As Saint Kevin once was travelling through a place called Glendalough,

He chanced to meet with King O’Toole, and asked him for a shough;[18]

Said the king, “You are a stranger, for your face I’ve never seen,

But if you have a taste o’ weed, I’ll lend you my dhudeen.”[19]

While the saint was kindling up the pipe the monarch fetched a sigh;

“Is there anything the matter,” says the saint, “that makes you cry?”

Said the king, “I had a gander, that was left me by my mother,

And this morning he cocked up his toes with some disease or other.”

“And are you crying for the gander, you unfortunate ould goose?

Dhry up your tears, in frettin’, sure, there’s ne’er a bit o’ use;

As you think so much about the bird, if I make him whole and sound,

Will you give to me the taste o’ land the gander will fly round?”

“In troth I will, and welcome,” said the king, “give what you ask;”

The saint bid him bring out the bird, and he’d begin the task;

The king went into the palace to fetch him out the bird,

Though he’d not the least intention of sticking to his word.

Saint Kevin took the gander from the arms of the king,

He first began to tweak his beak, and then to pull his wing,

He hooshed him up into the air—he flew thirty miles around;

Said the saint, “I’ll thank your majesty for that little bit o’ ground.”

The king, to raise a ruction next, he called the saint a witch,

And sent in for his six big sons, to heave him in the ditch;

“Nabocklish,” said Saint Kevin, “I’ll soon settle these young urchins,”

So he turned the king and his six sons into the seven churches.

Thomas Shalvey (fl. 1850).

THE SHAUGHRAUN.

Scene—Exterior of Father Dolan’s Cottage.

Enter Moya.

Moya. There! now I’ve spancelled the cow and fed the pig, my uncle will be ready for his tay. Not a sign of Conn for the past three nights. What’s come to him?

Enter Mrs. O’Kelly.

Mrs. O’K. Is that yourself, Moya? I’ve come to see if that vagabond of mine has been round this way.

Moya. Why would he be here—hasn’t he a home of his own?

Mrs. O’K. The shebeen is his home when he’s not in gaol. His father died o’ drink, and Conn will go the same way.

Moya. I thought your husband was drowned at sea?

Mrs. O’K. And, bless him, so he was.

Moya (aside). Well, that’s a quare way of dying o’ drink.

Mrs. O’K. The best of men he was, when he was sober—a betther never dhrawed the breath o’ life.

Moya. But you say he never was sober.

Mrs. O’K. Nivir! An’ Conn takes afther him!

Moya. Mother.

Mrs. O’K. Well?

Moya. I’m afeard I’ll take afther Conn.

Mrs. O’K. Heaven forbid, and purtect you agin him. You are a good, dacent girl, an’ desarve the best of husbands.

Moya. Them’s the only ones that gets the worst. More betoken yourself, Mrs. O’Kelly.

Mrs. O’K. Conn nivir did an honest day’s work in his life—but dhrinkin’, an’ fishin’, an’ shootin’, and sportin’, and love-makin’.

Moya. Sure, that’s how the quality pass their lives.

Mrs. O’K. That’s it. A poor man that spoorts the sowl of a gentleman is called a blackguard.

Enter Conn.

Conn. There’s somebody talking about me.

Moya (running to him). Conn!

Conn. My darlin’, was the mother makin’ little of me? Don’t believe a word that comes out o’ her! She’s jealous—a devil a haporth less. She’s choking wid it this very minute, just bekase she sees my arms about ye. She’s as proud of me as an ould hen that’s got a duck for a chicken. Hould your whist now! Wipe your mouth, an’ give me a kiss!

Mrs. O’K. (embracing him). Oh, Conn, what have you been afther? The polis were in my cabin to-day about ye. They say you stole Squire Foley’s horse.

Conn. Stole his horse! Sure the baste is safe and sound in his paddock this minute.

Mrs. O’K. But he says you stole it for the day to go huntin’.

“JUST THEN WE TOOK A STONE WALL AND A DOUBLE DITCH TOGETHER.”

Conn. Well, here’s a purty thing, for a horse to run away with a man’s characther like this! Oh, wurra! may I never die in sin, but this was the way of it. I was standing by ould Foley’s gate, when I heard the cry of the hounds comin’ across the tail end of the bog, and there they wor, my dear, spread out like the tail of a paycock, an’ the finest dog fox you’d ever seen sailing ahead of them up the boreen, and right across the churchyard. It was enough to raise the inhabitants. Well, as I looked, who should come up and put his head over the gate beside me but the Squire’s brown mare, small blame to her. Divil a thing I said to her, nor she to me, for the hounds had lost their scent, we knew by their yelp and whine as they hunted among the grave-stones, when, whish! the fox went by us. I leapt on the gate, an’ gave a shriek of a view holloo to the whip; in a minute the pack caught the scent again, an’ the whole field came roarin’ past. The mare lost her head, an’ tore at the gate. “Stop,” ses I, “ye divil!” and I slipped the taste of a rope over her head an’ into her mouth. Now mind the cunnin’ of the baste, she was quiet in a minute. “Come home now,” ses I, “asy!” and I threw my leg across her. Be jabers! no sooner was I on her bare back than whoo! holy rocket! she was over the gate, an’ tearin’ like mad afther the hounds. “Yoicks!” ses I; “come back, you thief of the world, where are you takin’ me to?” as she went through the huntin’ field an’ laid me beside the masther of the hounds, Squire Foley himself. He turned the colour of his leather breeches. “Mother of Moses!” ses he, “is that Conn the Shaughraun on my brown mare?” “Bad luck to me!” ses I, “it’s no one else!” “You sthole my horse,” ses the Squire. “That’s a lie!” ses I, “for it was your horse sthole me!”

Moya. An’ what did he say to that?

Conn. I couldn’t sthop to hear, for just then we took a stone wall and a double ditch together, and he stopped behind to keep an engagement he had in the ditch.

Mrs. O’K. You’ll get a month in gaol for this.

Conn. Well, it was worth it.

Dion Boucicault (1822–1890).

RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP.

A REMARKABLE DEMONSTRATION.

The first public meeting held under the auspices of the newly-formed Irish landlord organisation was held on Thursday last, in a field close by the charming residence of W. L. Cromwellian Freebooter, Esq., J.P., and is considered by all who took part in it to have been a great success. The Government gave the heartiest co-operation to the project; they undertook to supply the audience; they sent an engineer from the Royal Barracks, Dublin, to select a strategic site for the meeting, and to superintend the erection of the platform; and they offered any amount of artillery that might be considered requisite to give an imposing appearance to the assembly, and to inspire a feeling of confidence in the breasts of those who were to take part in it. All the police stations within a radius of thirty miles were ordered to send in contingents to form the body of the meeting, and a number of military pensioners were also directed to proceed to the spot and exert themselves in cheering the speakers. When the meeting was fully constituted it was calculated that there could hardly have been less than two hundred and fifty persons on the grounds.

At about one o’clock P.M. the carriages containing the noble lords and gentlemen who were to occupy the platform began to arrive at Freebooter Hall, where they set down the ladies of the party, who were to figure in the grand ball which was to be held there that evening. At 1.30 the noblemen and gentlemen proceeded to the scene of the meeting, and took their places on the platform, amidst the plaudits of the constabulary, which were again renewed in obedience to signals given by the sub-inspectors. The view from the platform, which was situated on a rising ground, was particularly fine. Some years ago a number of peasant homes and three considerable villages existed on the property; but Mr. Freebooter, being of opinion that they spoiled the prospect and tended to favour overpopulation in the country, had the people all evicted and their houses levelled to the ground. The wisdom and the good taste he had shown in this matter were highly praised by their lordships as they made their way up the carpeted steps leading to the platform, and took their seats on the chairs and sofas which had been placed there for their accommodation. The meeting having presented arms, it was moved by the Hon. Frederick Augustus Mightyswell, and seconded by George Famous Grabber, Esq., that the most noble the Marquis of Squanderall do take the chair.

The noble marquis said—My lords and gentlemen, I may say I thank you for having called me—that is, for the honour you have done me in having called me to have the honour of presiding over this, I may say, important meeting. (Cheers.) I have come over from London—I may say across the Channel—to have the honour of attending this meeting, because we all know these tenant fellows have been allowed to have this sort of thing too long to themselves. (Hear, hear, and cheers.) There have been, I may say, hundreds of these meetings, at which the fellows say they want to get their rents reduced, that their crops were short, that they must keep their families from starving, and all that sort of rot. How can we help it if their crops were short? (Hear, hear.) How can we help it if they have families to support? (Cheers.) The idiots talk about our rents being three or four times more than Griffith’s valuation; if that be so, I may say, more shame for the fellow Griffith, whoever he was. (Groans for Griffith.) Are we to be robbed because Griffith was an ass? (Cheers.) My lords and gentlemen, I shall not detain you longer—(cries of “Go on” from several sub-inspectors)—but will call upon, I may say, my eloquent friend, Lord Deliverus, who will propose the first resolution. (Loud and long-continued cheering from the constabulary.)

“MY ELOQUENT FRIEND, LORD DELIVERUS.”

Lord Deliverus—My dear Squanderall, my good friends, and other persons, you know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing, but I have been asked to propose the following resolution:—

“That we regret to notice that the unbounded prosperity which is being enjoyed by the small farmers and the labouring classes of Ireland is having a very bad effect on them, leading them into all sorts of extravagance, and producing among them an insolent and rebellious spirit, and that in the interest of morality and public safety we consider it absolutely necessary that the rents of the country shall be increased by about 100 per cent.”

Now, my friends, this is a resolution which must waken a sympathetic echo in the bosom of every rightly-constituted gentleman of property. Do we not all know, have we not all seen, the lamentable changes that have taken place in this country? Twenty years ago not half the population indulged in the luxury of shoes and stockings, and the labouring classes never thought of wearing waistcoats; now, most of them take care to provide themselves with these things. Where do they get the money to buy them but out of our rents? (True, true.) Twenty years ago they were satisfied if they could get a few potatoes to live upon each day, and a very good, wholesome, simple food they were for such people. (Hear, hear.) But latterly some bad instructors have got amongst them, and now the blackguards will not be contented unless they have rashers two or three times a week. (Oh, oh.) Where do they get the money for these rashers? (Voices—“Out of our rents.”) Yes, my friends, out of our rents. They rob us to supply themselves with delicacies of this kind. Eight or ten years ago we could bring up the fellows to vote for us; now they do as they like. (Groans.) And now the fellows say we must give them a reduction of their rents! (A voice—“Give them an ounce of lead.”) The rascals say they won’t starve. (Oh, oh, and groans.) They say they will feed themselves first, and then consider if they have anything to spare for us. (Shrieks and groans on the platform—Colonel Hardup faints.) They say the life of any one among them is just as precious as the life of any one of us. (Expressions of horror on all sides—Lord Tomnoddy looks unutterably disgusted, changes colour, puts his hand on his stomach, and retires hastily to the back of the platform.) My friends, I need not tell you that the Government is bound to put them down at any cost. (Tremendous cheering.) Just think what would result from any considerable reduction of our incomes; why, most of us might have to remain in this wretched country, for we would be ashamed to return in reduced circumstances to London and Paris; we should have fewer horses, fewer yachts, fewer servants, less champagne, less Italian opera, no rouge et noir—think, my friends, of the number of charming establishments from London to Vienna that would feel the shock. (Sobs and moans on the platform.) Would life be worth living under such circumstances? (No, no.) No, my lords and gentlemen, it would not; and therefore we are entitled to call upon the Government to interfere promptly and with a strong hand to stop the spread of those subversive theories that are now being taught to the lower classes in this country. (Great applause.)

A. D. Shoneen, Esq., J.P., came forward to second the resolution. He said—My lords and gentlemen, I feel that I need not add a word, even if I were able to do so, to the beautiful, the eloquent, the argumentative, the thrilling oration you have just heard from the estimable Lord Deliverus. I will not attempt to describe that magnificent performance in the language it deserves, for the task would far transcend my humble capacity. But I do think that this country should feel grateful—every country should feel grateful—the human race should feel grateful—to his lordship for the invaluable contribution he has made to the sum of our political philosophy in that address. I own I am moved almost to tears when I consider that the people whose conduct has excited such righteous indignation in the breast of his lordship, and so affected the epigastric region of that most amiable young nobleman, Viscount Tomnoddy—are my countrymen. I blush to make the confession, I am so overcome by my feelings that I am unable to do more than briefly second the resolution, which has been proposed to you in words that deserve to live for ever, and that mankind will not willingly let die. (The resolution was passed unanimously.)

Major Bearhead came forward to propose the next resolution, which was in the following terms:—“That, from the unlawful, rebellious, and revolutionary spirit which is now abroad, we deem it essential that a suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act shall at once be effected, that martial law shall be proclaimed in all disturbed districts, that all land agitators shall be at once arrested, and all tenant-right books, pamphlets, and newspapers shall be confiscated and suppressed.”

The gallant Major said—My lords and gentlemen, ahem! you may talk of resolutions, but this is the resolution that is wanted. Ahem! by the soul of Julius Cæsar, it is only such spirited measures that will ever settle this confounded Irish trouble. Ahem! the fellows want reductions—by the boots of the immortal Wellington, I would reduce them with grape and canister; that’s the reduction I would give them! Thunder and lightning—ahem! thunder and lightning! to think that these agitating fellows have been going about the country these twelve months, and not one of them shot, sabred, or hanged yet! Two or three fellows were put under a sort of sham arrest, and I am told they are to be tried; trial be damned, I say. Ahem! a drum-head court-martial is the sort of trial for them. No fear they would ever trouble the country afterwards. Let the Horse-Guards only send me word, “Bearhead, you settle with these people,” and see how soon I’d do it. (Cheers.) By all the bombshells in Britain, I’d have the country as quiet as a churchyard in two months. That is enough for me to say—ahem! (Great cheering.)

The Hon. Charles Edward Algernon Featherhead, in seconding the resolution, said—My lords, ladies, and gentlemen—oh, I really forgot that the ladies are not present, which I take to be a dooced pity, for, as the poet says, “Their smiles would make a summer”—oh, yes, I have it—“where darkness else would be.” (Applause.) I can’t say I know much about these blooming agricultural matters, for on my word of honour I always looked on them as a low, vulgar sort of thing, and all my set of fellows do just the same; but my old governor wished me to come here and take part in the proceedings, and I have a little reason for wishing to humour him just now. But, as I was saying, I don’t see how any sort of fun can go on if we are not to get money from these farming fellows. It may be very true that oats were not worth digging this season, and that potatoes were very short in the straw and very light in the ear; but then, on the other hand, was there not a plentiful supply of cucumbers? (Cheers.) We hear a great deal about American importations, but it seems to me that’s the jolliest part of the whole thing, because surely the farming fellows can’t want to eat the American food and the Irish food both together. Let them eat the Yankee stuff, and then sell the Irish and give us the money, and there’s the whole thing settled handsomely. It’s their confounded stupidity that prevents them seeing this plain and simple way of satisfying themselves and us. For, as the poet says, “Is there a heart that never loved?”—no, that’s not it—“When the wine-cup is circling before us”—no, I forget what the poet said, but no matter: I beg to say that I highly approve of the toast which has just been proposed. (The resolution was carried unanimously.)

Sir Nathaniel H. Castlehack wished to offer a few remarks before the close of the meeting. It appeared to him that the tone of some of the speakers had not shown quite as much confidence in the Government as in his opinion they deserved. I do not think (said the speaker) that the arrests which have been referred to were at all intended to be a flash in the pan, for I have reason to know that at this moment the jury panels are being carefully looked after by the authorities—(good, good)—and I think I may say to the gallant major who has just preceded me, and whose zeal for the public cause we all must recognise and admire, that if he will only exercise to some extent the virtue of patience, and allow things to take their regular course, he will probably ere long have the opportunity which he desires for again distinguishing himself and rendering the State some service.... Don’t be afraid, my friends; rely with confidence on the Government; they will give to this unreasonable and turbulent people everything but what they want.

A scene of immense enthusiasm followed these remarks. The gentlemen on the platform embraced each other; the band of the 33rd Dragoons struck up “God save the Queen,” and the constabulary fired a feu de joie. The meeting was then put through some evolutions, which they performed in brilliant style, after which they broke into sections and marched off to their different stations. Their lordships and the gentry then proceeded to their carriages, and drove off to Freebooter Hall. They expressed themselves highly pleased with the results of the demonstration, and stated that similar meetings would soon be held in various parts of the country.

T. D. Sullivan (1827).

LANIGAN’S BALL.

In the town of Athy one Jeremy Lanigan

Battered away till he hadn’t a pound,

His father he died and made him a man again,

Left him a house and ten acres of ground!

He gave a grand party to friends and relations

Who wouldn’t forget him if he went to the wall;

And if you’ll just listen, I’ll make your eyes glisten

With the rows and the ructions of Lanigan’s ball.

Myself, to be sure, got free invitations

For all the nice boys and girls I’d ask,

And in less than a minute the friends and relations

Were dancing as merry as bees round a cask.

Miss Kitty O’Hara, the nice little milliner,

Tipped me the wink for to give her a call,

And soon I arrived with Timothy Glenniher

Just in time for Lanigan’s ball.

There was lashins of punch and wine for the ladies,

Potatoes and cakes and bacon and tay,

The Nolans, the Dolans, and all the O’Gradys

Were courting the girls and dancing away.

Songs they sung as plenty as water,

From “The Harp that once through Tara’s ould Hall,”

To “Sweet Nelly Gray” and “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter,”

All singing together at Lanigan’s ball.

They were starting all sorts of nonsensical dances,

Turning around in a nate whirligig;

But Julia and I soon scatthered their fancies,

And tipped them the twist of a rale Irish jig.

Och mavrone! ’twas then she got glad o’ me:

We danced till we thought the old ceilin’ would fall,

(For I spent a whole fortnight in Doolan’s Academy

Learning a step for Lanigan’s ball).

The boys were all merry, the girls were all hearty,

Dancin’ around in couples and groups,

When an accident happened—young Terence McCarthy

He dhruv his right foot through Miss Halloran’s hoops.

The creature she fainted, and cried “Millia murther!”

She called for her friends and gathered them all;

Ned Carmody swore he’d not stir a step further,

But have satisfaction at Lanigan’s ball.

In the midst of the row Miss Kerrigan fainted—

Her cheeks all the while were as red as the rose—

And some of the ladies declared she was painted,

She took a small drop too much, I suppose.

Her lover, Ned Morgan, so pow’rful and able,

When he saw his dear colleen stretched out by the wall,

He tore the left leg from under the table,

And smashed all the china at Lanigan’s ball.

Oh, boys, but then was the ructions—

Myself got a lick from big Phelim McHugh,

But I soon replied to his kind introductions,

And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo.

Old Casey the piper was near being strangled,

They squeezed up his pipes, his bellows, and all;

The girls in their ribbons they all got entangled,

And that put an end to Lanigan’s ball.

Anonymous.

THE WIDOW’S LAMENT.

Ochone, acushla mavourneen! ah, why thus did ye die?

(I won’t keep ye waitin’ a minit: just wait till I wipe my eye);

And is it gone ye are, darlint,—the kindest, the fondest, the best?

(Don’t forget the half-crown for the clerk—ye’ll find it below in the chest).

And to leave me alone in the world—O whirra, ochone, ochone!

(Is that Misther Moore in the car?—I thought I was goin’ alone);

Why am I alive this minit? why don’t I die on the floore?

(I’ll take your hand up the step, an’ thank ye, Misther Moore!)

An’ are ye gone at last from your weepin’, desolate wife?

(Not a dhrop, Misther Moore, I thank ye—well, the laste little dhrop in life!)

’Twas ye had the generous heart, an’ ’twas ye had the noble mind,

(Good mornin’, Mrs. O’Flanagan! Is Tim in the car behind?)

Oh, that I lived till this minit, such bitther sorrow to taste,

(I’m not goin’ to fall, Misther Moore! take your arm from around my waist).

’Twas the like of you there wasn’t in Ballaghaslatthery town,

(There’s Mary Mullaly, the hussy, an’ she wearin’ her laylock gown!)

I’ll throw meself into the river; I’ll never come back no more;

(’Twon’t be takin’ ye out of the way to lave me at home, Misther Moore?)

It’s me should have gone that could bear it, now that I’m young and sthrong,

(He was sixty-nine come Christmas: I wondhered he lasted so long!)

Oh, what’s the world at all when him that I love isn’t in it?

(If ’twas any one else but yourself, I’d lave the car this minit!)

There’s nothin’ but sorrow foreninst me, wheresoever I roam,

(Musha, why d’ye talk like that—can’t ye wait till we’re goin’ home?)

Anonymous.

“I’M NOT GOIN’ TO FALL, MISTHER MOORE! TAKE YOUR ARM FROM AROUND MY WAIST.”

WHISKY AND WATHER.

It’s all mighty fine what Taytotallers say,

“That ye’re not to go dhrinking of sperits,

But to keep to pump wather, and gruel, and tay”—

Faith, ye’d soon have a face like a ferret’s.

I don’t care one sthraw what such swaddlers may think,

(Ye’ll find them in every quarther),

The wholesomest liquor in life you can dhrink,

I’ll be bail, now, is Whisky and Wather.

Don’t go dhrinking of Brandy, or Hollands, or Shrub,

Or Gin—thim’s all docthored, dipind an it—

Or ye’ll soon have a nose that ye niver can rub,

For the blossoms ye’ll grow at the ind iv it;

But the “raal potheen” it’s a babby may take

Before its long clothes are cut shorther;

In as much as would swim ye there’s divil an ache,

Av it’s not mixed with too much could wather.

Do ye like thim small dhrinks? Dhrink away by all manes—

I wonst thried Ginger Beer to my sorrow—

Ye’ll be tuck jist as I was, wid all sorts of pains,

And ye’ll see what ye’re like on the morrow.

Ye’ll find ye can’t ate—no, nor walk—for the wind;

Ye’ll have cheeks jist the colour of morthar;

Av ye call in the docthor he’ll jist recommind

A hot tumbler of Whisky and Wather.

Av the colic you get, or the cramp in your legs,

Don’t go scalding yerself wid hot bottles:

(Tho’ thim’s betther, they tell me, than hot flannel bags),

And take no docthor’s stuff down your throttles;

But just tell the misthress to hate the tin pot—

(Maybe one for tay ye’ll have bought her)—

And keep dosing yerself off and an, hot and hot,

Till ye’re aisy—wid Whisky and Wather.

Av ye go to a fair, as it maybe ye might,

And ye meet with some thrilling disasther,

Such as having the head iv ye broken outright,

Av coorse ye’ll be wanting a plasther.

Don’t sind for a surgeon, thim’s niver no use—

Sure their thrade is to cut and to quarther—

They’d be dealing wid you, as you’d dale wid a goose:

Thry a poultice iv Whisky and Wather.

Av ye can’t sleep at night, an ye rowl in yer bed

(And that’s mighty disthressin’—no doubt iv it),

Till ye don’t know the front from the back iv yer head,

The best thing ye can do is—rowl out iv it.

Av ye’ve let out the fire, and can’t get a light,

Feel yer way to the crock, till ye’ve caught her

(In the dark it’s ye are, so remimber, hould tight),

Take a pull—an’ thin dhrink some could wather.

Av ye meet wid misfortune, beyant your controwl,

Av disease gets a hould iv the praties,

Or the slip iv a pig gets the masles, poor sowl;

No matther how sarious yer case is—

Don’t go walking about wid yer hands crossed behind,

And a face like a cow’s—only shorther,—

Sure the best way to keep up yer sperits, ye’ll find

Is to keep to hot Whisky and Wather.

It’s in more ways than thim ye’ll find whisky yer frind,

Sure it’s not only jist while ye dhrink it—

It has vartues on which ye can always depind—

And perhaps, too, when laste ye would think it.

One fine summer’s day, it was coorting I wint,

To make love to Dame Flanagan’s daughter—

And I won her—and got the old woman’s consint:

Sure I did it wid Whisky and Wather.

In the Liffey I tumbled, one could winther’s day,

And, bedad, it was coulder than plisint,

Out they fished me, and stretched me full length on the quay,

But the divil a docthor was prisint,

When a blessed ould woman of eighty came by

(There’s no doubt expariance had taught her),

And—in jist a pig’s whisper—I tell ye no lie—

Fetched me to, wid hot Whisky and Wather.

It’s the loveliest liquor ye iver can take,

And no matther how often ye take it;

The great thing is never to mix it too wake:

And see now—it’s this way ye make it:

Take three lumps of sugar—it’s jist how ye feel—

About whisky, not less than one quarther;

No limon—the laste taste in life of the peel,

And be sure you put screeching hot wather.

It’ll make ye, all over, as warm as a toast,

And yer heart jist as light as a feather;

Sure it’s mate, dhrink, and washing, and lodging almost,

And the great-coat itself, in could weather.

Oh! long life to the man that invinted potheen—

Sure the Pope ought to make him a marthyr—

If myself was this moment Victoria, our queen,

I’d dhrink nothing but Whisky and Wather!

Anonymous.

“IT’LL MAKE YE, ALL OVER, AS WARM AS TOAST, AND YER HEART JIST AS LIGHT AS A FEATHER.”

THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD.

A stranger meeting Sally Cavanagh as she tripped along the mountain road would consider her a contented and happy young matron, and might be inclined to set her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held her head rather high, and occasionally elevated it still higher with a toss which had something decidedly haughty about it. She turned up a short boreen for the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith’s wife, who had been very useful to her for some time before. The smith’s habits were so irregular that his wife was often obliged to visit the pawn office in the next town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself of Nancy Ryan’s experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable she possessed. The new cloak, of which even a rich farmer’s wife might feel proud, was the last thing left. It was a present from Connor, and was only worn on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.

“NANCY FLEW AT HER LIKE A WILD CAT.”

Loud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh start. She stopped for a moment, and then ran forward and rushed breathless into the smith’s house. The first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn Gow choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came down with such force upon the part of Shawn Gow’s person which happened to be most elevated as he bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an exclamation between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the air, and striking his shins against a chair, tumbled head over heels into the corner. When Shawn found that he was more frightened than hurt, and saw Sally with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the ludicrous overcame him, and turning his face to the wall, he relieved his feelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. It was of the silent, inward sort, however, and neither his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any notion of the pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending to be “kilt” occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, and with a fearful groan he stretched out his huge limbs and remained motionless on the broad of his back. Sally’s sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented her from giving a thought to her husband. Great was her astonishment then when Nancy flew at her like a wild cat. “You kilt my husband,” she screamed. Sally retreated backwards, defending herself as best she could with the stool. “For God’s sake, Nancy, be quiet. Wouldn’t he have destroyed you on’y for me?” But Nancy followed up the attack like a fury. “There’s nothing the matter with him,” Sally cried out, on finding herself literally driven to the wall. “What harm could a little touch of a stool on the back do the big brute?”

Nancy’s feelings appeared to rush suddenly into another channel, for she turned round quickly, and kneeling down by her husband, lifted up his head. “Och! Shawn, avourneen machree,”[20] she exclaimed, “won’t you spake to me?” Shawn condescended to open his eyes. “Sally,” she continued, “he’s comin’ to—glory be to God! Hurry over and hould up his head while I’m runnin’ for somethin’ to rewive him. Or stay, bring me the boulster.”

The bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the patient’s head; then snatching her shawl from the peg where it hung, she disappeared. She was back again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with a half pint of whisky in a bottle.

“Take a taste av this, Shawn, an’ ’twill warm your heart.”

Shawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.

“Nancy,” says he, “I believe afther all you’re fond o’ me.”

“Wisha, Shawn, achora,[21] what else ’d I be but fond av you?”

“I thought, Nancy, you couldn’t care for a divil that thrated you so bad.”

“Och, Shawn, Shawn, don’t talk that way to me. Sure I thought my heart was broke when I see you sthretched there ’idout a stir in you.”

“An’ you left your shawl in pledge agin to get this for me?”

“To be sure I did; an’ a good right I had; an’ sorry I’d be to see you in want of a dhrop of nourishment.”

“I was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what made a baste av me.”

And Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with a look in which hatred and fascination were strangely blended. He turned quickly to his wife.

“Will you give in it was a blackbird?” he asked.

“A blackbird,” she repeated, irresolutely.

“Yes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?”

Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.

“Well,” said his wife, after some hesitation, “’twas a blackbird. Will that plase you?”

“An’ you’ll never say ’twas a thrish agin?”

“Never. An’ sure on’y for the speckles on the breast, I’d never say ’twas a thrish; but sure you ought to know betther than me—an’—an’—’twas a blackbird,” she exclaimed, with a desperate effort.

Shawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his strength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one blaze of light.

“The Divil was in id,” says the smith, smiling grimly; “an’ there he’s off in a flash of fire. I’m done wid him, any way.”

“Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy,” said Sally.

“I wish you the same, Sally, an’ a great many av ’em. I suppose you’re goin’ to first Mass? Shawn and me’ll wait for second.”

Sally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her way to the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were also going to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty surveyed Sally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.

“Look at her, Tim,” she exclaimed, “an’ isn’t she as young an’ as hearty as ever? Bad ’cess to me but you’re the same Sally that danced wid the master at my weddin’, next Thursday fortnight ’ll be eleven years.”

“Begob, you’re a great woman,” says Tim.

Sally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had witnessed at the blacksmith’s.

“But, Tim,” said she, after finishing the story, “how did the dispute about the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I forget it.”

“I’ll tell you that, then,” said Tim. “Begob, ay,” he exclaimed abruptly, after thinking for a moment; “twas this day seven years, for all the world—the year o’ the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his haggart the evenin’ afore, and when he went out in the mornin’ he had a hen blackbird. He put the goulogue[22] on her nick, and tuck her in his hand; an’ wud one smulluck av his finger knocked the life out av her; he walked in an’ threw the blackbird on the table.

“‘Oh, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘you’re afther ketchin’ a fine thrish.’ Nancy tuck the bird in her hand an’ began rubbin’ the feathers on her breast. ‘A fine thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘’Tisn’t a thrish, but a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Wisha, in throth, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘’tis a thrish; do you want to take the sight o’ my eyes from me?’

“‘I tell you ’tis a blackbird,’ siz he.

“‘Indeed, then, it isn’t, but a thrish,’ siz she.

“Anyway one word borrowed another, an’ the end av it was, Shawn flailed at her an’ gev her the father av a batin’.

“The Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the door an’ looked out.

“‘God be wud this day twelve months,’ siz she, ‘do you remimber the fine thrish you caught in the crib?’

“’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Whisht, now, Shawn, ’twas a thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘I tell you again ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Och,’ siz Nancy, beginnen to laugh, ‘that was the quare blackbird.’

“Wud that, one word borrowed another, an’ Shawn stood up an’ gev her the father av a batin’.

“The third Christmas Day kem, an’ they wor in the best o’ good humour afther the tay, an’ Shawn puttin’ on his ridin’-coat to go to Mass.

“‘Well, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘I’m thinkin’ av what an unhappy Christmas mornin’ we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you caught in the crib, bad ’cess to her.’

“‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Wisha, good luck to you, an’ don’t be talkin’ foolish,’ siz Nancy; ‘an’ you’re betther not get into a passion agin, account av an ould thrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘I tell you ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘An’ I tell you ’twas a thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“Wud that, Shawn took a bunnaun[23] he had seasonin’ in the chimley, and whaled at Nancy, an’ gev her the father av a batin’. An’ every Christmas morning from that day to this ’twas the same story, for as sure as the sun Nancy ’d draw down the thrish. But do you tell me, Sally, she’s afther givin’ in it was a blackbird?”

“She is,” replied Sally.

“Begob,” said Tim Croak, after a minute’s serious reflection, “it ought to be put in the papers. I never h’ard afore av a wrong notion bein’ got out av a woman’s head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it took him seven years to do id.”

Charles Joseph Kickham (1828–1882).

IRISH ASTRONOMY.

A veritable myth, touching the constellation of O’Ryan, ignorantly and falsely spelled Orion.

O’Ryan was a man of might

Whin Ireland was a nation,

But poachin’ was his chief delight

And constant occupation.

He had an ould militia gun,

And sartin sure his aim was;

He gave the keepers many a run,

And didn’t mind the game laws.

St. Pathrick wanst was passin’ by

O’Ryan’s little houldin’,

And as the saint felt wake and dhry,

He thought he’d enther bould in;

“O’Ryan,” says the saint, “avick!

To praich at Thurles I’m goin’;

So let me have a rasher, quick,

And a dhrop of Innishowen.”

“No rasher will I cook for you

While betther is to spare, sir;

But here’s a jug of mountain dew,

And there’s a rattlin’ hare, sir.”

St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,

And says he, “Good luck attind you,

And whin you’re in your windin’ sheet

It’s up to heaven I’ll sind you.”

O’Ryan gave his pipe a whiff—

“Thim tidin’s is transportin’,

But may I ax your saintship if

There’s any kind of sportin’?”

St. Pathrick said, “A Lion’s there,

Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer”—

“Bedad,” says Mick, “the huntin’s rare,

St. Pathrick, I’m your man, sir!”

So, to conclude my song aright,

For fear I’d tire your patience,

You’ll see O’Ryan any night

Amid the constellations.

And Venus follows in his thrack,

Till Mars grows jealous raally,

But, faith, he fears the Irish knack

Of handling the—shillaly.

Charles Graham Halpine (1829–1868).

PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST’S BOY.

“Sorra a one of me’ll get married,” remarked Paddy Fret, as he was furbishing up the priest’s stirrups one beautiful Saturday morning, in the little kitchen at the rear of the chapel-house. “Sure, if I don’t, you will; and there’ll be a great palin’ of bells at the weddin’. We’ll all turn out to see you—the whole of the foolish vargins rowled into wan.”

Mrs. Galvin, who was at the moment occupied in turning the white side of a slab of toast to the fire, turned round to her tormentor, no small degree of acerbity wrinkling up her face.

“Mind your work, and keep a civil tongue in your impty head,” she exclaimed petulantly. “There was many a fine lump of a boy would marry me in my time, if I only took the throuble to wink a comether[24] at him. There was min in them times, not sprahauns[25] like you.”

“You’re burnin’ the toast, an’ goin’ to make snuff of Father Maher’s break’ast,” interrupted Paddy. “At the rate you’re goin’ on, you’ll bile the eggs that hard that you’ll kill his riverence, and be thried for murdher. And, upon my soukins, the hangman will have a nate job with you.”

“You’d slip thro’ the rope, you flax-hank,” was the answer. “Wait till I put my two eyes on Katty Tyrrell, and, troth, I’ll put your nose out o’ joint, or my name isn’t Mary Galvin. You goin’ coortin’! The Lord save and guide us! As if any wan would dhrame of taking a switch for a husband—a crathur like you, only fit to beat an ould coat with!”

“Don’t lose your timper, Mrs. Galvin,” said Paddy, whose inextinguishable love of fun gleamed out of his black eyes, and flashed from his dazzlingly white and regular teeth. “God is good; all the ould fools isn’t dead yet, and there’s a chance of your not dying without some unforchinate gandher saying the Rosary in thanks for his redimption.”

Mrs. Galvin made no reply. She placed the toast in the rack in silence; but that silence was ominous. Next, she removed the teapot, cosy and all, from the fireside, and placed all on a tray, which she bore off with a sort of conscious yet sullen dignity, to the pretty parlour, where Father Maher, after his hard mountain ride, waited breakfast.

“I’ll never spake to Paddy Fret again, your riverence,” she said, when everything had been arranged, and it was her turn to quit the room.

The priest, like the majority of his Irish brethren—God bless them!—had a ready appreciation of a joke. He paused in the task of shelling an egg, and inquired with all possible gravity, “What is the matter now, Mrs. Galvin?”

“Sure, your riverence, my heart is bruk with the goin’s on of Paddy Fret. From mornin’ till night he’s never done makin’ faces at me, an’ sayin’ as how no wan in Croagh would think of throwin’ a stick at me. Ah! then, I can tell you, Father Michael, I squez the heart’s blood out of many as fine a man, in my time, as iver bid the divil good night, savin’ your riverence.”

“You are in the autumn of your beauty yet, Mary,” said the priest, “handsome is that handsome does, you know.”

“Thank you kindly, Father Maher. But that boy’ll be the death o’ me. And then,” putting her sharp knuckles on the table’s edge, and bending over to her master, in deep confidence, “I know for sartin that he’s runnin’ after half the girls in the parish.”

Father Maher looked grave at this disclosure.

“Of course they keep running away from him—don’t they, Mary? Why, we’ve got an Adonis in the house.”

“The Lord forbid I’d say that of him, sir,” remarked Mrs. Galvin, whose acquaintance with Hellenic myths was rather hazy. “Bad as he is, he hasn’t come to that yet.”

“I am glad to hear you say as much,” said the priest, as he poured out a cup of tea, and proceeded to butter the toast. “Never fear, Mary, I’ll have an eye on that fellow.”

The door closed, shutting out the housekeeper, and Father Maher’s face relaxed into a broad smile. He rested the local paper against the toast-rack, and laughed cautiously from time to time, as he ran down its columns of barren contents. Neither Paddy nor Mrs. Galvin had the faintest idea of the amusement their daily quarrels afforded him, or of the gusto with which he used to describe them at the dinner-tables to which he was occasionally invited.

Having burnished the irons and cleansed the leathers until they shone again, Paddy Fret mounted to his bedroom, over the stable, and proceeded to array himself with unusual care. His toilet completed, he surveyed himself in the cracked triangle of looking-glass imbedded in the mortar of the wall, and the result of the scrutiny satisfied him that there was not a gayer or handsomer young fellow in the whole parish of Croagh. So, in love with himself and part of the world, he stole cautiously down the rickety step-ladder, and gliding like a snake between the over-bowering laurels which flanked the chapel-house, emerged on the high road.

“I’m afeerd, Paddy, that my father will never listen to a good word for you,” said pretty Katty Tyrrell, as the priest’s boy took a stool beside her before the blazing peat fire, burning on the stoveless hearth. “He’s a grave man, wanst he takes a notion into his head.”

“All ould min has got notions,” said Paddy, “but they dhrop off with their hairs. Lave him to me, and if I don’t convart him, call me a souper. Sure, if he wants a son-in-law to be a comfort in his ould age he couldn’t meet with a finer boy than meself.”

“Mrs. Galvin says,” continued Katty, “that it would be a morchial sin to throw me and my two hundherd pounds away on the likes o’ you. ‘A good-for-nothin’ bosthoon,’[26] says she, ‘that I wouldn’t graize the wheel of a barrow with.’”

“She wouldn’t graize a great many wheels, at any rate,” replied Paddy. “The truth is, Katty dear, the poor woman is out of her sivin sinses, and all for the want of a gintleman to make a lady of her, as I’m goin’ to make wan o’ you.”

The splendour of the promise bewildered Miss Tyrrell. She could only rest her elbows on her knees, hide her face in her hands, and cry, “Oh, Paddy!”

“Yes, me jewel,” continued the subtle suitor, “I’m poor to-day, perhaps, but there’s noble blood coursin’ thro’ my veins. Go up to the top of Knock-meil-Down some fine mornin’, and look down all around you. There isn’t a square fut o’ grass in all you see that didn’t wanst belong to my ancisthors. In the time of Cahul Mohr wan o’ my grandfathers had tin thousand min and a hundherd thousand sheep at his command, not to spake of ships at say and forthresses and palaces on land.”

“Arrah, how did you get robbed, Paddy?” said Katty.

“Well, you see, my dear, they were a hard-dhrinkin’ lot at the time I’m spakin’ of. The landed property wint into the Incumbered Estates Coort, and was sould for a song; the forthresses were changed into Martello towers, and the army took shippin’ for France, but they were wracked somewhere in the South Says, where they all swam ashore and turned New Zealandhers.”

Katty was profoundly interested by this historical sketch of the Fret family, which Paddy rolled out without hitch or pause—indispensable elements of veracity in a spoken narrative. She allowed her lover to hold her hand, and fancied she was a princess.

As they sat in this delightful abstraction—the ecstasy known to the moderns as “spooning”—they were startled by the sound of wheels in the farmyard, and Katty, with one swift glance at the window, exclaimed in the wildest anguish, “Oh, Paddy, Paddy, what’ll become o’ me? Here’s my father and mother come back from market already.”

“Take it aisy, darlint,” replied Mr. Fret. “Can’t I hide in the bedroom beyant?”

“Not for all the world!” said Katty, in terror. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“Thin stick me in the pot and put the lid over me,” was Mr. Fret’s next happy suggestion.

Katty glanced in agony round the kitchen, and suddenly a great hope filled her to the lips. Over the fireplace was a rude platform—common to Irish farmhouses—on which saddles, harness, empty sacks, old ropes, boots, and sometimes wool, were stored away indiscriminately.

“Up there—up with you,” she cried, placing a chair for him to ascend.

Paddy lost no time in mounting, and having stretched himself at full length, his terrified sweetheart piled the litter over him until he was completely hidden from view.

The hiding was scarce effected when Andy Tyrrell, old Mrs. Tyrrell, and Mrs. Galvin made their appearance. They each drew stools round the fire, in order to enjoy the blaze, which was most welcome after their inclement ride.

“Are you yit mopin’ over that blackguard, Paddy Fret, ma colleen?” asked the priest’s housekeeper. “’Tis a bad bargain you’d make o’ the same daltheen,[27] honey.”

Katty, profoundly concerned in the mending of a stocking, pretended not to hear the inquiry.

“She’s gettin’ sense, Mary,” said Mrs. Tyrrell. “Boys’ll be boys, and girls’ll be girls, till the geese crows like cocks.”

“I tould the vagabone at the last fair,” remarked the old man, “that if ever I caught him within an ass’s roar o’ this doore I’d put him into the thrashin’ machine, and make chaff of his ugly bones. Bad luck to his impidence, the aulaun,[28] to come lookin’ afther my daughter.”

A bottle of whisky was now produced, and Katty busied herself in providing glasses for the party. Mrs. Galvin at first declined to “touch a dhrop, it bein’ too airly,” but once persuaded to hallow the seductive fluid with her chaste lips, it was wonderful how soon she got reconciled to potation after potation, till her inquisitive eyes began to twinkle oddly in the firelight.

“What the divil is the matther with the creel?” (the platform above alluded to) asked old Tyrrell. “’Tis groanin’ as if it had the lumbago.”

“The wind, my dear man, ’tis the wind,” replied Mrs. Galvin.

“Faith, I think ’tis enchanted it is,” observed the lady of the house. “Look how it keeps rockin’ and shakin’, as if there was a throubled sowl in it.”

“The wind, ma’am—’tis I know what it is, alanna,[29] to my cost,” said the housekeeper; “’tis only the wind.”

Katty’s heart went pit-a-pat during this conference. She knew that the “creel” was not the firmest of structures, and she shivered at the bare idea of Paddy making a turn which might send it to pieces.

Again the whisky went round, mollifying the hard lines of Mrs. Galvin’s unromantic countenance. Old Tyrrell, meanwhile, kept a steady eye on the “creel,” which had relapsed by this time into its normal immobility.

“Have a dhrop, Katty,” he said, handing his daughter his glass.

The girl, who knew the consequence of disobeying his slightest command, touched the rim of the vessel with her lips, and returned it with a grateful “Thank you, father.” At the same time on lifting her eyes to the “creel” she saw Paddy’s face peering out at her, and was honoured with one of the finest winks that gentleman was capable of.

“Well, here’s long life to all of us, and may we be no worse off this day twelvemonth,” said the old man, as he replenished the ladies’ glasses, and then set about draining his own. “Give me your hand, Mrs. Galvin. There isn’t a finer nor a better woman in——”

The sentence was never finished, for whilst he was speaking the “creel” gave way, and Paddy Fret, followed by the miscellaneous lumber which had concealed him, tumbled into the middle of the astonished party. The women shrieked and ran, whilst poor Katty, overcome by the terror of the situation, fainted into a chair.

Paddy rose to his feet, unabashed and confident. “Wasn’t that a grand fright I gave ye all?” he asked, with superb indifference.

Tyrrell, pale as death, and trembling in every limb, went to a corner, took up a gun, and pointed the muzzle at the intruder’s head. “Swear,” he hoarsely exclaimed, “you’ll make an honest woman of my daughter before another week, or I’ll blow the roof off your skull.”

“I’ll spare you all the throuble,” said Paddy; “send for Father Maher and I’ll marry her this minit, if you like. Will you have Paddy Fret for your husband, Katty?” he asked, taking the hands of the now conscious girl.

The whisky was finished, and on the following Sunday Father Maher united Paddy Fret and Katty Tyrrell, in the little chapel of Croagh. Mrs. Galvin danced bravely at the wedding, and was heard, more than once, to whisper that “only for her ’twould never be a match.”

John Francis O’Donnell (1837–1874).

“‘THAT’S THE TRUTH,’ SAYS O’SHANAHAN DHU.”

O’SHANAHAN DHU.

O’Shanahan Dhu, you’re a rover, and you’ll never be better, I fear,

A rogue, a deludherin’ lover, with a girl for each day in the year;

Don’t you know how the mothers go frowning, when a village you wander athrough,

For the priest you’d not seek were you drowning—

“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,

“For I’m aisy in love and divarsion,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan, don’t think you’re welcome, for I was but this moment, I’m sure,

Saying—“Speak of the dhioul[30] and he’ll come,” and that moment you stood on the floor;

Now you’ll blarney, and flatter, and swear it, while you know I’ve my spinning to do,

It would take a bright angel to bear it—

“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;

“For, darling, all know you’re an angel,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, there’s Jack Morrow, the smith in the hill-forge above,

Who says marriage is nothing but sorrow, and a wedding the end of all love;

I myself don’t care much for believing that it’s gospel, yet what can one do,

When you men are so given to deceiving—

“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;

“We’re the thieves of the world, still you like us,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, why come scheming, when there’s nobody in but poor me,

Can you fancy I’m foolish or draming, to believe that our hearts could agree?

Don’t you know, sir, all round they’re reporting, with good reason, perhaps, for it too,

That Jack Shea’s dainty daughter you’re courting?—

“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,

“But there’s no one believes it, my darling,” with a wink, says O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, now you’ll vex me, let me go, sir, this moment, I say,

I’m in airnest, and why so perplex me, see I’m losing the work of the day.

There’s my spinning all gone to a tangle, my bleached clothes all boiled to a blue,

While for kisses you wrestle and wrangle—

“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,

“I own I’ve a weakness for kisses,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, here’s my mother, if you don’t let me go, faith, I’ll cry,

Why, she’ll tell both my father and brother, and with shame maybe cause me to die,

And then at your bedside I’ll haunt you, with a light in my hand burning blue,

From my shroud moaning, “Shemus, I want you,”—

“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,

“But, ah, darling, say that while you’re living,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

James J. Bourke (1837–1894).

SHANE GLAS.

If you saw Shane Glas as he tramped to the fair,

With his fresh white shirt and his neat combed hair,

You’d never believe what a rake went by;

Why the girls—however he’s won them—the rogue—

Love the ground that is touched by the sole of his brogue,

And they follow him, ’spite of the old people’s cry—

“Sludhering Shawn, deludhering Shawn,

Whose blarneying lies might a warship float,

Let the girls alone, you big vagabone,

Or soon they’ll have reason to cry, ‘Ochone,’

Go home I say, there’s a rogue in your coat.”

He met Sally one day at the market town,

With her neat blacked shoes and her dimity gown,

And never dreamt she what a rake was nigh;

He whispered soft nothings, he pleaded with sighs,

Praised her red glowing cheek, her round breasts, her blue eyes,

And, O maid of the mountain, he left her to cry—

“Sludhering Shawn, soothering Shawn,

Traitor, on whom all the girls still doat,

Sal, Peggy, and Sue have reason to rue

The day they beheld your bright eyes of blue,

And your swaggering gait, and the rogue in your coat.”

Translated from the Irish by J. J. Bourke.

AN IRISH STORY-TELLER.

Meehawl Theige Oge (Murphy) was the name of the man of whom I speak. Though small in stature, he himself deemed that there never lived a more powerful man. He was not fond of speaking truth, as may be easily learnt from the following story.

He lived near Miskish, and reclaimed as much land at the base of this hill as afforded pasture to a cow or two. This, he often swore, he made so fertile that it would grow potatoes without sowing them at all. Somebody once asked him how were the new potatoes. “I’ll tell you, then,” says he. “I was setting down yesterday west there near the end of wan of the ridges, and I heard the sweetest music that ever a singer made. Wid the hate (heat) of the sun, ’tis how the knapawns[31] were fighting wid aich other, and they making noise and they saying like this:—

“‘Move out from me and don’t crush me so,

But you won’t, you won’t, O bitter woe!’

West wid me to the house for a spade and a skive. I hadn’t the spade in the ground right, when up popped every knasster[32] as big as your head. I went home in high glee,—sure, a wran’s egg wouldn’t break under me, my heart was so light,—I washed the praties for myself and hung them over the fire. Then I sat on the seestheen,[33] and reddened (lit) my pipe. I hadn’t a shoch (whiff) and a half pulled when here are the praties fubbling. I tuk ’em off the fire at my dead aise and put ’em on the table after a spell. Glory be to God that gave ’em to me; ’tis they wor the fine ating; I never ate the like of ’em, and I won’t again too till the Day of Flags (day of his burial). ’Tisn’t that itself, but they wor laffing with me, widout they knowing I was going to lie my back-teeth on ’em.”

Meehawl was often obliged to go to England. Once, after returning home, a contemptible little fellow asked him would himself find any kind of suitable employment there. Meehawl looked at him from head to foot, as he stood by the fire warming himself, though the sun was splitting the trees, the heat was so great. A fly alighted on his nose; but he gave him a slap which put an end to his pricking. “The divel,” says Meehawl, “if you had a whip I am sure you would keep the flies from the hams of bacon which I used see hanging in the houses in England!”

He was very fond of liquor, but alas! he had not the means whereby to indulge his desires. At times, however, he used to have a few shillings; then he would go to the fair,—not without bringing his blackthorn stick,—and finding some neighbour whom he made much of, they would both go and have a “drop” together, till his money was spent; after which he would make his exit from the tavern like a mad thunderbolt. And if anybody came near him he was sure to get a taste of his blackthorn. To do him justice, there were few men who could beat him fighting with a stick.

One day he came home drunk; “he had a blow on the cat and a blow on the dog.” His wife was sitting in the corner as mute as a cat, but she uttered not a word till he had slept off the effects of the drunkenness; then she asked him why he had come home as he did the night before. It did not take him long to find his answer:—“Sure,” said he, “I had to drink something to clane the cobwebs out of my throat!” The poor fellow had no stripper that winter, so that he had to eat his food dry.

I have stated before that Meehawl often had to go to England. Here is one of the stories which he used to relate after coming back:—“After going to England I was a spell widout any work, and sure it did not take me long to spind the little penny of money that I brought wid me, and I wouldn’t get a lodging anywhere, since my pocket wasn’t stiff. I put my hand in my pocket, trying for my pipe, and what should I get there but tuppence (2d.) by the height of luck. I bought a loaf of bread for myself; I ate a bit of it, and put the rest of it in the pocket of my casoge.[34] When it was going of me to get a lodging anywhere, what should I see a couple of steps from me but a big gun. It was a short delay for me to get into its mouth, and while you’d be closing your eye I wasn’t inside when I fell asleep. In the morning, when I was waking myself up, I didn’t feel a bit till I got a bullet that put so much hurry on me that I couldn’t ever or ever stop till I fell in a fine brickle (brittle) moantawn[35] in France. ‘Well, Meehawl,’ says I to myself, ‘maybe you oughtn’t complain since you didn’t fall into the say where you’d get swallowing without chawing (chewing).’ Then I thanked God who brought me safe and sound so far. I put my hand in the pocket of my casoge and what should be there before me but the small little bit of bread I put into it the night before that. ‘Food is the work-horse, wherever you’ll be,’ says I to myself, ating up the bread dry as fast as I could. When I had it ate, I looked around me just as cute as Norry-the-bogs[36] when she’d be trying for fish in a river, but sure if I stopped looking till the Day of Flags, I wouldn’t get as much as the full of my eye of wan Frenchman.

“‘Well, that’s best,’ says I, going to a fine cock of hay, as high as Miskish, but high as it was, I went on top of it. I made a hole through it, and left myself into it, widout a bit of me out but the top of my nose, to draw my breath. I wasn’t there long till I fell asleep, and I didn’t feel anything till morning. When I woke up I looked round me—where was I? God for ever wid me! where was I only in the middle of the say, and my heart ruz as I thought of it right. I suppose ’tis how a cloud fell near the cock, and that ruz the flood in the river so much that it swept myself and the cock all together away—widout letting me know of it. I gave myself up to God, but if I did ’tis likely I didn’t deserve much of the good from Him, for again a spell here’s a whale to me (there’s a creeping could running through me when I think of him!), and he opened his dirty mouth and he swallowed myself and the cock holus bolus.

“I wasn’t gone right till that happened me. People say that Hell is dark, but if it is as dark as the stomach of that baste, the divil entirely is in it. But that isn’t here nor there; you’d see the fish running hither and over about his stomach, some of ’em swimming fine and aisy for theirself, more of ’em lepping as light as flays (fleas), and some more of ’em bawling like young childer. ‘Ye haven’t any more right to do that nor me,’ says I, and I tuk out and opened a big knife; widout a lie it was sharp—wan blow of it would cut off the leg of the biggest horse that ever trod or walked on grass. Here am I cutting, and ’tis short till the pain pinched the whale, and begor I saw that he would like to turn off. ‘Squeeze out,’ says I, and wid that I saw the fish running out. ‘That your road may rise wid ye,’ says I; but I wasn’t going to stop till he would give the same tratement or better to myself. Here’s he blowing; ‘Blow on wid you,’ says I, and I was cutting always at such a rate that it wasn’t long till I put my knife out through his side, and I fell on the top of my head. ‘Fooisg! fooisg!’ says the stomach of the whale, and praise and thanks be to God, he blew me out through his mouth. He was tired of me and I was no less tired of him too. He blew me so high in the sky that I couldn’t be far from the sun, there was so much hate (heat) there. But any way I fell down safe and sound on a fine soft bog of turf that was cut only a few days before that. Nothing happened to me, only that the nail was taken off the loodeen[37] of my left leg!”

Patrick O’Leary.

THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN.

A very queer story I heard

Long ago,

In Kerry. ’Tis gruesome and weird:

Stage went slow

As we passed a ruined shebeen

On our way to Cahirciveen.

“They drank and they feasted galore,

With each breath

Loud calling for one bottle more!

Father Death

Came in in the midst of the cheer,

With ‘Long life to all of yez here!’

“By Crom’ell! his eyes they were bright;

Loud he laughed,

Saying, ‘Boys, we will make it a night.’

Then he quaffed

A dandy of punch in a trice,

Remarking, ‘Da di! it is nice!’

“’Tis whisky that loosens the tongue!

Beard o’ Crom’!

And that same has been often sung;

Not a gom[38]

Was filea[39] that clairsech’d[40] the line:

O whisky’s a nectar divine!

“One welcomed the pale king with cheers;

All his life

Was channelled with woe’s soulful tears;

He had wife

That came, a black fate, in his way,

When his years were just clasping the May.

“Another—he gave furtive glance,

And grew pale—

‘This coming,’ mused he, ‘won’t entrance,

I’ll go bail,

This meeting of ours!’—week ere this,

God Hymen had made for him bliss.

“And another?—Rises the din

Loud and strong;

The whisky a-firing, Neill Finn

Said, ‘A song

We’ll have from our guest ere we’ll go!’

The guest said, ‘Well, Neill, be it so!’

“He sang them a spirited stave,

Written where

The poet for bread is no slave

To black care—

‘Long life to yez!’ shouted Neill Finn;

Death smiled, and said, ‘Neill, boy, amin!’

“They called for the cards and they played,

Sure the same

‘Forty-fives’ it was named—Mike Quade

In the game

So cheated that Death said: ‘’Tis like

The wind from your sails I’ll take, Mike.’

“What time with a blow from his stick,

To the earth

He struck Mick. Then kippeens[41] took quick

Striking birth;

The Quade boys were there to the fore,

All longing, my dear, for red gore!

“They went for the old man, but he

Used to fight,

His glass drained, and quick as a bee

Left and right

Blows laid—when they woke from their fix,

They waited for Charon by Styx.

“The old one he stuck to the drink,

(So they tell),

Till being o’ercome (as they think),

That he fell

Down under the table—nor woke

Till day o’er the Atlantic broke.

“Forgetful of all that had passed,

He looked round,

And seeing his subjects all massed

On the ground,

He said, ‘Oh, get up from the floor,

And help me with one bottle more!’

“Since that time, the peasantry say,

Every night

Sure there is the devil to pay!

And the sight

They see—‘Sirs, no lie! ’pon my soul!’

Death drunk, singing Beimedh a gole!”[42]

Charles P. O’Conor (1837?).

“HE SAID, ‘OH, GET UP FROM THE FLOOR, AND HELP ME WITH ONE BOTTLE MORE!’”

FAN FITZGERL.

Wirra, wirra! ologone!

Can’t ye lave a lad alone,

Till he’s proved there’s no tradition left of any other girl—

Not even Trojan Helen,

In beauty all excellin’—

Who’s been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl?

Wid her brows of silky black

Arched above for the attack,

Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man;

Masther Cupid, point your arrows,

From this out, agin the sparrows,

For you’re bested at Love’s archery by young Miss Fan.

See what showers of goolden thread

Lift and fall upon her head,

The likes of such a trammel-net at say was never spread;

For, whin accurately reckoned,

’Twas computed that each second

Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead.

Now mintion, if you will,

Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill,

Or Mag’llicuddy’s Reeks, renowned for cripplin’ all they can;

Still the country-side confisses

None of all its precipices

Cause a quarther of the carnage of the nose of Fan.

But your shatthered hearts suppose,

Safely steered apast her nose,

She’s a current and a reef beyand to wreck them roving ships.

My meaning it is simple,

For that current is her dimple,

And the cruel reef ’twill coax ye to’s her coral lips.

I might inform ye further

Of her bosom’s snowy murther,

And ah ankle ambuscadin’ through her gown’s delightful whirl;

But what need when all the village

Has forsook its peaceful tillage,

And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl!

Alfred Perceval Graves (1846).

FATHER O’FLYNN.

Of priests we can offer a charmin’ variety,

Far renown’d for larnin’ and piety;

Still, I’d advance ye without impropriety,

Father O’Flynn is the flow’r of them all.

Here’s a health to you, Father O’Flynn,

Slainthe, and slainthe, and slainthe agin;

Powerfullest preacher, and tenderest teacher,

And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Don’t talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,

Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,

Faix, and the divil and all at Divinity,

Father O’Flynn ’d make hares of them all!

Come, I venture to give ye my word,

Never the likes of his logic was heard,

Down from Mythology into Thayology,

Troth! and Conchology, if he’d the call.

Och! Father O’Flynn, you’ve a wonderful way wid you,

All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,

All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,

You’ve such a way wid you, Father avick!

Still for all you’ve so gentle a soul,

Gad, you’ve your flock in the grandest control;

Checking the crazy ones, coaxing onaisy ones,

Lifting the lazy ones on with a stick.

And though quite avoidin’ all foolish frivolity,

Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity,

Where was the play-boy could claim an equality

At comicality, Father, wid you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,

Till this remark set him off wid the rest:

“Is it lave gaiety all to the laity?

Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too!”

Alfred Perceval Graves.

PHILANDERING.

Maureen, acushla, ah! why such a frown on you!

Sure, ’tis your own purty smiles should be there,

Under those ringlets that make such a crown on you,

As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear,

When from the picthers in church they look down on you,

Kneeling in prayer.

Troth, no, you needn’t, there isn’t a drop on me,

Barrin’ one half-one to keep out the cowld;

And, Maureen, if you’ll throw a smile on the top o’ me,

Half-one was never so sweet, I’ll make bowld.

But, if you like, dear, at once put a stop on me

Life with a scowld.

Red-haired Kate Ryan?—Don’t mention her name to me!

I’ve a taste, Maureen darlin’, whatever I do.

But I kissed her?—Ah, now, would you even that same to me?—

Ye saw me! Well, well, if ye did, sure it’s true,

But I don’t want herself or her cows, and small blame to me

When I know you.

There now, aroon, put an ind to this strife o’ me

Poor frightened heart, my own Maureen, my duck;

Troth, till the day comes when you’ll be made wife o’ me,

Night, noon, and mornin’, my heart’ll be brack.

Kiss me, acushla! My darlin’! The life o’ me!

One more for luck!

William Boyle (1853).

HONIED PERSUASION.

“Terry O’Rourke, ’tis your presence that tazes me;

Haven’t I towld you so often before?

If you’ve the smallest regard for what plazes me,

Never come prowlin’ round here any more.

Why you persist in this game’s what amazes me;

Didn’t I tell you I’d beaus be the score?

There’s Rody Kearney would give twenty cows to me

Any fine day that I’d let him be spouse to me.”

“Biddy, asthore, an’ ’tis you that is hard on me,

Whin ’tis me two wicked legs are to blame;

Troth, I believe if you placed a strong guard on me,

They’d wandher back to this spot all the same.

Saving the gates of the prison are barr’d on me,

You might as well try to keep moths from the flame,

Ducks from the water, or bees from the flowers,

As thim same legs from your door, be the powers!

“Come now, me darlin’, ’tis no use to frown on me;

Tho’ I’ve no cows, but two mules an’ a car,

You wouldn’t know but I’d yet have the gown on me,

Ringing the tunes of me tongue at the Bar.

Whin I’ve won you, who despised and looked down on me,

Shure ’tis meself that might come to be Czar.

What are you smilin’ at? Give me the hand of you,

I’ll make the purtiest bride in the land of you.”

J. De Quincey (185-).

“I’LL MAKE THE PURTIEST BRIDE IN THE LAND OF YOU.”

THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT.

(AS RELATED BY ANDREW GERAGHTY, PHILOMATH.)

“Essex,” said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in the back parlour of Buckingham Palace, “Essex, me haro, I’ve got a job that I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?”

“I’m no great fist at jografy,” says his lordship, “but I know the place you mane. Population, three million; exports, emigrants.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ve been reading the Dublin Evening Mail and the Telegraft for some time back, and sorra one o’ me can get at the trooth o’ how things is goin’, for the leadin’ articles is as conthradictory as if they wor husband and wife.”

“That’s the way wid papers all the world over,” says Essex; “Columbus told me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin’ and conthradictin’ each other at every turn—it’s the way they make their livin’. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon.”

“It’s addled they have me betune them,” says the Queen. “Not a know I know what’s goin’ on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to Ireland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand.”

“Is it me?” says Essex, leppin’ up off his chair. “It’s not in airnest ye are, ould lady. Sure it’s the hoight of the London saison. Every one’s in town, and Shake’s new fairy piece, ‘The Midsummer’s Night Mare,’ billed for next week.”

“You’ll go when ye’re tould,” says the Queen, fixin’ him with her eye, “if you know which side yer bread’s buttered on. See here, now,” says she, seein’ him chokin’ wid vexation and a slice o’ corned beef, “you ought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you’ll be at the top o’ the walk over there as vice-regent representin’ me.”

“I ought to have a title or two,” says Essex, pluckin’ up a bit. “His Gloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o’ that.”

“How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?” says Elizabeth.

“First class,” cries Essex. “Couldn’t be betther; it doesn’t mean much, but it’s allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall door.”

Well, boys, it didn’t take him long to pack his clothes and start away for the Island o’ Saints. It took him a good while to get there, though, through not knowin’ the road; but by means of a pocket compass and a tip to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey Island. Going up to an ould man who was sittin’ on a rock, he took off his hat, and says he—

“That’s great weather we’re havin’?”

“Good enough for the times that’s in it,” says the ould man, cockin’ one eye at him.

“Any divarshun goin’ on?” says Essex.

“You’re a sthranger in these parts, I’m thinkin’,” says the ould man, “or you’d know this was a ‘band night’ in Dalkey.”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” says Essex; “the fact is,” says he, “I only landed from England just this minute.”

“Ay,” says the ould man bitterly, “it’s little they know about us over there. I’ll hould you,” says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice, “that the Queen herself doesn’t know there is to be fireworks in the Sorrento Gardens this night.”

Well, when Essex heard that, he disremembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found plenty of them—thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day—one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord Montaigle, a play-boy like himself. I’ll read you the one to the Queen first:—

“Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.

“Fair Enchantress,—I wish I was back in London, baskin’ in your sweet smiles and listenin’ to your melodious voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin’ lookin’ for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O’Neil or his men can I find. A policemin at the corner o’ Nassau Street told me they wor hidin’ in Wicklow. So I am makin’ up a party to explore the Dargle on Easter Monda’. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and every minute o’ the day I do be wishin’ it was your good-lookin’ self I was gazin’ at instead o’ these ignorant scarecrows. Hopin’ soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin’ subjec’,

“Essex.

“P.S.—I hear Hugh O’Neil was seen on the top o’ the Donnybrook tram yesterday mornin’. If I have any luck the head ’ll be off him before you get this.

“E.”

The other letter read this way—

“Dear Monty—This is a great place all out. Come over here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and the girls—oh! don’t be talkin’—’pon me secret honour you’ll see more loveliness at a tay and supper ball in Rathmines than there is in the whole of England. Tell Ned Spenser to send me a love-song to sing to a young girl who seems taken wid my appearance. Her name’s Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, so he oughtent to find it hard. I hear Hugh O’Neil’s a terror, and hits a powerful welt, especially when you’re not lookin’. If he tries any of his games on wid me, I’ll give him in charge. No brawlin’ for yours truly,

“Essex.”

Well, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months in Dublin, purtendin’ to be very busy subjugatin’ the country, but all the time only losin’ his time and money widout doin’ a hand’s turn, and doin’ his best to avoid a ruction with “Fighting Hugh.” If a messenger came to tell him that O’Neil was campin’ out on the North Bull, Essex would up stick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin’ the forty-foot hole, he’d write off to Elizabeth, saying that “owing to their suparior knowledge of the country, the dastard foe had once more eluded him.”

The Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always ended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Essex to finish up his business and not be makin’ a fool of himself.

“Oh, that’s the talk, is it,” says Essex; “very well, me ould sauce-box” (that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him the clip on the ear for turnin’ his back on her), “very well, me ould sauce-box,” says he, “I’ll write off to O’Neil this very minute, and tell him to send in his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.”

Well, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one—the terms being—

1. Hugh O’Neil to be King of Great Britain.

2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of England.

3. The O’Neil family to be supported by Government, with free passes to all theatres and places of entertainment.

4. The London markets to buy only from Irish dealers.

5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelope, directed to H. O’Neil, and marked “private.” Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O’Neil. Terms cash.

Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he’d have seen it was of too graspin’ a nature to pass with any sort of a respectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document in the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for England.

“Is the Queen widin?” says he to the butler, when he opened the door o’ the palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid travellin’ all night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was for not littin’ him in at the first go off, so says he very grand: “Her Meejesty is abow stairs and can’t be seen till she’s had her breakwhist.”

“Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an enterview,” says Essex.

“Oh, beg pardon, me lord,” says the butler, steppin’ to one side, “I didn’t know ’twas yourself was in it; come inside, sir; the Queen’s in the dhrawin’-room.”

“‘YER MAJESTY, YOU HAVE A FACE ON YOU THAT WOULD CHARM A BIRD OFF A BUSH.’”

Well, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin’-room wid him, muddy boots and all; but not a sight of Elizabeth was to be seen.

“Where’s your missis?” says he to one of the maids-of-honour that was dustin’ the chimbley-piece.

“She’s not out of her bed yet,” says the maid with a toss of her head; “but if you write your message on the slate beyant, I’ll see”—but before she had finished, Essex was up the second flight and knockin’ at the Queen’s bedroom door.

“Is that the hot wather?” says the Queen.

“No, it’s me,—Essex. Can you see me?”

“Faith, I can’t,” says the Queen. “Hould on till I draw the bed-curtains. Come in now,” says she, “and say your say, for I can’t have you stoppin’ long—you young Lutharian.”

“Bedad, yer Majesty,” says Essex, droppin’ on his knees before her (the delutherer he was), “small blame to me if I am a Lutharian, for you have a face on you that would charm a bird off a bush.”

“Hould your tongue, you young reprobate,” says the Queen, blushin’ up to her curl-papers wid delight, “and tell me what improvements you med in Ireland.”

“Faith, I taught manners to O’Neil,” cries Essex.

“He had a bad masther then,” says Elizabeth, lookin’ at his dirty boots; “couldn’t you wipe yer feet before ye desthroyed me carpets, young man?”

“Oh, now,” says Essex, “is it wastin’ me time shufflin’ about on a mat you’d have me, when I might be gazin’ on the loveliest faymale the world ever saw.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ll forgive you this time, as you’ve been so long away, but remimber in future that Kidderminster isn’t oilcloth. Tell me,” says she, “is Westland Row Station finished yet?”

“There’s a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,” says Essex.

“What about the Loop Line?” says she.

“Oh, they’re gettin’ on with that,” says he, “only some people think the girders a disfigurement to the city.”

“Is there any talk about that esplanade from Sandycove to Dunlary?”

“There’s talk about it, but that’s all,” says Essex; “’twould be an odious fine improvement to house property, and I hope they’ll see to it soon.”

“Sorra much you seem to have done, beyant spendin me men and me money. Let’s have a look at that threaty I see stickin’ out o’ your pocket.”

“‘ARREST THAT THRATER.’”

Well, when the Queen read the terms of Hugh O’Neil she just gev him one look, an’ jumpin’ from off the bed, put her head out of the window, and called out to the policeman on duty—

“Is the Head below?”

“I’ll tell him you want him, ma’am,” says the policeman.

“Do,” says the Queen. “Hello,” says she, as a slip o’ paper dhropped out o’ the dispatches. “What’s this? ‘Lines to Mary.’ Ho! ho! me gay fella, that’s what you’ve been up to, is it?”

“Mrs. Brady’s

A widow lady,

And she has a charmin’ daughter I adore;

I went to court her

Across the water,

And her mother keeps a little candy-store.

She’s such a darlin’,

She’s like a starlin’,

And in love with her I’m gettin’ more and more,

Her name is Mary,

She’s from Dunlary;

And her mother keeps a little candy-store.”

“That settles it,” says the Queen. “It’s the gaoler you’ll serenade next.”

When Essex heard that, he thrimbled so much that the button of his cuirass shook off and rowled under the dhressin’-table.

“Arrest that man,” says the Queen, when the Head-Constable came to the door; “arrest that thrater,” says she, “and never let me set eyes on him again.”

And indeed she never did, and soon after that he met with his death from the skelp of an axe he got when he was standin’ on Tower Hill.

William Percy French (1854).

THE AMERICAN WAKE.[43]

’Twas down at the Doherty’s “wake,”

(They were off to New York in the morning),

So we thought we’d a night of it make,

And gave all the countryside warning.

The girls came drest in their best,

The boys gathered too, every soul of them,

And Mary along with the rest——

’Tis she took the sway of the whole of them.

We’d a fiddler, the pipes, and a flute——

The three were enough sure to bother you,

But you danced to whichever might suit,

And tried not to think of the other two.

The frolic was soon at its height,

The small drop went round never chary,

The girls would dazzle your sight,

But all I could think of was Mary.

The first jig, faith, out she’d to go,

The piper played “Haste to the Wedding,”

And while I set to heel and toe,

You’d think ’twas on eggs she was treading.

So bright was her smile and her glance,

So dainty the modest head bowed of her,

’Tis she was the Queen of the Dance,

And wasn’t it I that was proud of her!

At last I looked out for a chair,

And off I led Mary in state to it;

But think of us when we got there,

The sorra the sign of a sate to it!

Still, as there was no other free,

We thought we’d put up for a start with it—

Och, when she sat down on my knee

For an emperor’s throne I’d not part with it.

When Mary sat down on my lap

A tremor ran through every bit of me,

My heart ’gin my ribs gave a rap

As if it was going to be quit of me.

I tried just a few words to say

To show the delight and the pride of me,

But my tongue was as dry in a way

As if I’d a bonfire inside of me.

And there sat the cailin as mild

As if nothing at all was gone wrong with me,

And I just as wake as a child,

To have her so cosy along with me.

My arm around her I passed

When I saw there was no one persaiving us—

“Don’t you wish, dear,” says I, at long last,

“The Dohertys always were laving us?”

The words weren’t out of my mouth

When the thieves of musicians stopped playing,

And the boys ruz a laugh and a shout,

When they listened to what I was saying.

Poor Mary as swift as a hare

Ran off ’mong the girls and hid herself,

And, except that I fell through the chair,

I fairly forget what I did myself.

The Dohertys scarce in New York

Were landed, I’m thinking, a week or more,

When a wedding took place in West Cork,

The like of it vainly you’d seek before.

Some day if my way you should pass,

Step in—I’ve a drop of the best of it;

And while Mary is mixing a glass,

I’ll try and I’ll tell you the rest of it.

Francis A. Fahy (1854).

“MY ARM AROUND HER I PASSED.”

HOW TO BECOME A POET.

Of all the sayings which have misled mankind from the days of Adam to Churchill, not one has been more harmful than the old Latin one, “A poet is born, not made.”

The human intellect, it is said, may, by patient toil and study, gather laurels in all fields of knowledge save one—that of poesy. You may, by dint of hard work, become a captain in the Salvation Army, a corporation crossing-sweeper—ay, even an unsuccessful Chief Secretary for Ireland; but no amount of labour or perseverance will win you the favour of the Muses unless those fickle-minded ladies have presided at your birth, wrapped you, so to speak, in the swaddling clothes of metre, and fashioned your first yells according to the laws of rhythm and rhyme.

Foolish, fatal fallacy! How many geniuses has it not nipped in the bud—how many vaulting ambitions has it not brought to grief, what treasures of melody has it not shut up for ever to mankind!

Hence the paucity of poetical contributions to the press, the eagerness of publishers to secure the slightest scrap of verse, the bashfulness and timidity of authors, who yet in their hearts are quite confident of their ability to transcend the best efforts of the “stars” of ancient or modern song.

Now the first thing that will strike you in reading poetical pieces is the fact that nearly all the lines end in rhymed words, or words ending in similar sounds, such as “kick, lick, stick,” “drink, ink, wink,” etc.

This constitutes the real difference between prose and poetry. For instance, the phrase, “The dread monarch stood on his head,” is prose, but

“The monarch dread

Stood on his head”

is undeniable poetry.

Rhyme is, in fact, the chief or only feature in modern poetry. Get your endings to rhyme and you need trouble your head about little else. A certain amount of common sense is demanded by severe critics; the general public, however, never look for it, would be astonished to find it, and, as a matter of fact, seldom or never do find it.

By careful study of the best authors you will soon discover what words rhyme with each other, and these you should diligently record in a small note-book, procurable at any respectable stationers for the ridiculously small sum of one penny.

Few researches afford keener intellectual pleasure than the discovery of rhymes, in such words, say, as “cat, rat, Pat, scat”; “shed, head, said, dead,” and it is excellent elementary training for the young poet to combine such words into versed sentences, and even sing them to a popular operatic air.

For example——

“With that the cat

Sprang at the rat,

Whereat poor Pat

Yelled out ‘Iss-cat.’

The roof of the shed

Fell plop on his head,

No more he said,

But fell down dead.”

These first efforts of your muse are of high interest, and, although it would not be advisable to rush to press with them, they should be sedulously preserved for the use of future biographers, when fame, honours, and emoluments shall have showered in upon you.

A little caution is needed in the use of such rhymes as “fire, higher, Maria,” “Hannah, manner, dinner,” “fight, riot, quiet.” There is excellent authority for these, but it is well to recognise that an absurd prejudice does exist against them.

You will soon make the profitable discovery that there is a host of words, the members of which run, like beagles, in couples, the one invariably suggesting the other, such as “peeler, squealer”; “lick, stick”; “Ireland, sireland”; “ocean, commotion,” and so on.

“’Twas then my bold peeler

Made after the squealer;”

“He fetched him a lick

Of a murdering stick;”

“His shriek spread from Ireland,

My own beloved sireland;”

“And raised a commotion

Beyond the wide ocean.”

Were it not for such handy couplets as these, most of our modern bards would be forced to earn their bread honestly.

Of equal importance is “alliteration’s artful aid.” It consists in stringing together a number of words beginning with the same letter. A large school of our bards owe their fame to this figure. You should make a free use of it. How effective are such phrases as, “For Freedom, Faith, and Fatherland we fight or fall”; “Dear Dirty Dublin’s damp and dreary dungeons”; “Softly shone the setting sun in Summer splendour”; “Blow the blooming heather”; “Winter winds are wailing wildly.”

Of great effect at this stage of your progress will be the adroit and unstinted employment of such phrases as “I wis,” “I wot,” “I trow,” “In sooth,” “Methinks,” “Of yore,” “Erstwhile,” “Alack,” a plentiful sprinkling of which, like currants in a cake, will impart a quaint poetical flavour to your verses, making up for a total want of sense and sentiment. Observe their effect in the following admirable lines from Skott:—

“It were, I ween, a bootless task to tell

How here, of yore, in sooth, the foeman fell,

Erstwhile the Paynim sank with eerie yell,

Alack, in goodly guise, forsooth, to——.”

Of like value are words melodious in sound or poetical in suggestion, like “nightingale,” “moonlight,” “roundelay,” “trill,” “dreamy,” and so on, which, freely used, throw a glamour over the imagination and lull thought, the chiefest value of verse nowadays.

“There trills the nightingale his roundelay

In dreamy moonlight till the dawn of day.”

Note that in poetic diction you must by no means “call a spade a spade.” The statement of a plain fact is highly objectionable, and a roundabout expression has to be resorted to. For example, if a girl have red hair, describe it as

“Glowing with the glory of the golden God of Day,”

or, if Nature has blest her with a “pug-nose,” you should, like Tennyson, describe it as

“Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower”

For similar reasons words of mean significance have to be avoided. For instance, for “dead drunk,” use “spirituously disguised”; for “thirty days in quad,” “one moon in durance vile.” You may now be said to have mastered the rudiments of modern poetry, and your future course is easy.

You may now choose, although it is not at all essential, to write on a subject conveying some meaning to your reader’s mind. You would do well to try one of a familiar kind, or of personal or everyday interest, of which the following are specimens:—“Lines on beholding a dead rat in the street”; “Impromptu on being asked to have a drink”; “Reverie on being asked to stand one”; “Epitaph on my mother-in-law”; “Ode to my creditors”; “Morning soliloquy in a police cell”; “Acrostic on a shillelah.” Through pieces of this character the soul of the writer permeates. Hence their abiding value and permanency on second-hand bookstalls; Then you may seek “fresh woods and pastures new,” and weave garlands in fields untrod by the ordinary bard. One of these is “Spring.” Conceive the idea of that season in your mind. Winter gone, Summer coming, coughs being cured, overcoats put up the spout, streets dryer, coals cheaper, or—if you love nature—the strange facts of the leaves budding, winds surging, etc. Then probably the spirit (waterproof) of poesy will take possession of you, and you will blossom into song as follows:—

“’Tis the Spring! ’Tis the Spring!

Little birds begin to sing.

See! the lark is on the wing,

The sun shines out like anything;

And the sweet and tender lamb

Skips beside his great big dam,

While the rough and horny ram

Thinketh single life a sham.

Now the East is in the breeze,

Now old maids begin to sneeze,

Now the leaves are on the trees,

Now I cannot choose but sing:

Oh, ’tis Spring! ’tis Spring! ’tis Spring!”

Verses like the above have an intrinsic charm, but if you should think them too trivial, you may soar into the higher regions of thought, and expand your soul in epics on, say, “The Creation,” “The Deluge,” “The Fall of Rome,” “The Future of Man.” You possibly know nothing whatever of those subjects, but that is an advantage, as you will bring a fresh unhackneyed mind to bear upon them.

I need hardly tell you that there is one subject above all others whose most fitting garb is poetry, and that is—Love. Fall in love if you can. It is easy—nothing easier to a poet. He is mostly always in love, and with ten at a time. But if you cannot, or (hapless wretch!) if you find it an entirely one-sided affair—very little free trade, and no reciprocity—ay, even if you be a married man who walketh the floor of nights, and vainly seeketh to soothe the seventh olive-branch—despair not. To write of Love, needeth not to feel it. If not in love, imagine you are. Extol in unmeasured terms the beauty of your adored one—matchless, as the pipe-bearing stranger in the street—peerless, as the American House of Representatives. Safely call on mankind to produce her equal, and inform the world that you would give up all its honours and riches (of which you own none) for the sake of your Dulcinea; but tell them not the fact that you would not forego your nightly pipe and glass of rum punch for the best woman that ever breathed. Cultivate a melancholy mood. Call the fair one all sorts of names, heartless, cold, exacting—yourself, a miserable wight, hurrying hot haste to an early grave, and bid her come and shed unavailing tears there. At the same time keep your strength up, and don’t forget your four meals a day and a collation.

I need not touch on the number of feet required in the various kinds of verse, as if a verse lacks a foot anywhere you are almost sure to put yours in it.

And now to “cast your lines in pleasant places.”

Having fairly mastered the gamut of poetical composition, you will be open to a few hints as to the publication of your effusions. It is often suggested that the opinion of a friend should be consulted at the outset as to their value. Of course you may do so, but, as friends go nowadays, you must be prepared to ignore his verdict. It is now you will discover that even the judgment of your dearest and most intellectual friend is not alone untrustworthy, but really below contempt, and that what he styles his candour is nothing less than brutality. I have known the greatest coolnesses ascribable to this cause, and the noblest offspring of the muse consigned to oblivion in weak deference to a friendly opinion. On the other hand, it is often of great value to read aloud your longest epics to some one who is in any way indebted to you and cannot well resent it.

Where the poet’s corners of so many papers await you, the choice of a medium to convey your burning thoughts to the world will be easily made. You will scarcely be liable, I hope, to the confusion of mind of a friend of mine who, in mistake, sent his “Ode to Death” to the editor of a comic paper, and found it accepted as eminently suitable.

You should write your poem carefully on superfine paper with as little blotting, scratching, and bad spelling as you can manage.

To smooth the way to insertion, you might also write a conciliatory note to the editor, somewhat in this vein:—

“Respected Sir,—It is with much diffidence that a young poet of seventeen (no mention of the wife and five children) begs to send you his first attempt to woo the Muses (it may be your eighty-first, but no matter). Hoping the same may be deemed worthy of insertion in the widely-read columns of your admirable journal, with whose opinions I have the great pleasure of being in thorough accord (you may have never read a line of it before), I have the honour to be, respected sir, your obedient, humble servant,

“Homer.

“P.S.—If inserted, kindly affix my full name as A. B.; if not, my nom-de-plume, ‘Homer.’

“N.B.—If inserted send me twenty copies of your valuable paper.—Homer.”

It will be vain to attempt to describe your feelings from the time you post that letter until you know the result of your venture. Your reason is unhinged; you cannot rest or sleep. You hang about that newspaper office for hours before the expected edition is out of the press. At last it appears. Trembling with eagerness you seize the coveted issue, and disregarding the “Double Murder and Suicide in——,” the “Collapse of the Bank of——,” the “Outbreak of War between France and Germany,” you dash to the poet’s corner and search with dazed eyes for your fate.

You may have vaguely heard, at some period of your life, of the mean, petty jealousies that befoul the clear current of journalism, and frown down new and aspiring talent, however promising, and you may have indignantly refused to believe such statements. Alas! now shall you feel the full force of their truth in your own person.

You look for your poem blindly, confusedly—amazed, bewildered, disgusted! You turn that paper inside out, upside down; you search in the Parliamentary debates, in the Money Market, in the Births, Deaths, and Marriages, in the advertisements—everywhere. No sign of it!

With your heart in your boots you turn to the “Answers to Correspondents,” there to find your nom-de-plume heading some scurrilous inanity from the editorial chair, of one or other of the following patterns:—

“Homer—Don’t try again!”

“Homer—Sweet seventeen. So young, so innocent. Hence we spare you.”

“Homer—Have you no friends to look after you?”

“Homer—Do you really expect us to ruin this paper?”

“Homer—Send it to the Telegraph man. We have a grudge against him?”

“Homer—The 71st Ode to Spring this year! And yet we live.”

While it would be quite natural to indulge in any number of “cuss” words, your best plan will be to veil your wrath, and, refraining from smashing the editorial windows, write the editor a studiously polite letter, asking him to be good enough to point out for your benefit any errors or defects in the poem submitted to him. This will fairly corner him, and he will probably be driven to disclose his meanness in the next issue:—

“Homer—If you will engage to pay for the working of this journal during the twelve months it would take us to explain the defects in your poem, we are quite willing to undertake the job.”

Insults and disappointments like these are the ordinary lot of rising genius, and should only nerve you to greater efforts. Perseverance will ultimately win, though it may not deserve, success.

And who shall paint the joy that will irradiate life when you find yourself in print for the first time? who shall describe the delirium of reading your own verses? a delight leading you almost to forgive the printer’s error which turns your “blessed rule” into “blasted fool,” and your “Spring quickens” into “Spring Chickens”; who will count the copies of that paper you will send to all your friends?

By-and-by your fame spreads and you rank of the élite; you assume the air and manners of a poet. You wear your hair long (it saves barber’s charges). You are fond of solitary walks, communing with yourself (or somebody else). You assume a rapt and abstracted air in society (when asked to stand a drink). You despise mere mundane matters (debts, engagements, and the like). Your eyes have a far-away look (when you meet a poor relation). When people talk of Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, etc., you smile pityingly, and say: “Ah, yes! Poor Alfred (or Robert or Algernon, as the case may be); he means well—he means well;” and you ask your friends if they have read your “Spirit Reveries,” and if not, you immediately produce it from your pocket, and read it (never be without copies of your latest pieces for this purpose).

And now farewell and God-speed. You are on the high road to renown.

“Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour,

They crown you with laurels and throne you in power,

Oh, think of the friend who first guided your way,

And set you such rules you could not go astray,

And who, as reward, doth but one favour claim,

That you won’t dedicate your first vol. to his name.”

Francis A. Fahy.

THE DONOVANS.

If you would like to see the height of hospitality,

The cream of kindly welcome and the core of cordiality;

Joys of old times are you wishing to recall again?—

Oh! come down to Donovan’s, and there you’ll meet them all again!

Chorus.

Cead mille failte[44] they’ll give you down at Donovan’s,

As cheery as the spring-time, and Irish as the ceanabhan;[45]

The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one—

That every luck in life may linger with the Donovans.

Soon as you lift the latch, little ones are meeting you;

Soon as you’re ’neath the thatch, kindly looks are greeting you;

Scarce have you time to be holding out the fist to them—

Down by the fireside you’re sitting in the midst of them!

There sits the grey old man, so flaitheamhail[46] and so handsome,

There sit his sturdy sons, well worth a monarch’s ransom;

Songs the night long, you may hear your heart’s desire of them,

Tales of old times they will tell you till you tire of them.

There bustles round the room the lawhee-est[47] of vanithees,[48]

Fresh as in her young bloom, and trying all she can to please;

In vain to maintain you won’t have a deorin[49] more again—

She’ll never let you rest till your glass is brimming o’er again.

There smiles the cailin deas[50]—oh! where on earth’s the peer of her?

The modest grace, the sweet face, the humour and the cheer of her?

Eyes like the skies, when but twin stars beam above in them—

Oh! proud may be the boy that’s to light the lamp of love in them.

Then when you rise to go, ’tis “Ah, then, now, sit down again!”

“Isn’t it the haste you’re in,” and “Won’t you come round soon again?”

Your cothamor[51] and hat you had better put astray from them—

The hardest job in life is to tear yourself away from them!

Francis A. Fahy.

“SHE’LL NEVER LET YOU REST TILL YOUR GLASS IS BRIMMING O’ER AGAIN.”]

PETTICOATS DOWN TO MY KNEES.

When my first troubles in life I began to know,

Spry as a chick newly out of the shell,

Nothing I longed for so much as a man to grow,

Sharing his joys and his sorrows as well.

Now that the high tide of life’s on the slack again,

Pleasure’s deep draught drained down to the lees,

Dearly I wish I had the days back again,

When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Well do I mind the day I donned trousereens,

My proud mother cried “We’ll soon be a man!”

Little we know what fate has in store for us—

Troth, it was then that my troubles began.

Cramped up in clothes, little comfort or ease I find,

Crippled and crushed, almost frightened to sneeze!

Oh to have back my old freedom and peace of mind,

When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Now must I walk many miles for an appetite,

And after all find my journey in vain—

Oh for the days when howe’er you might wrap it tight

My school lunch was ate at the end of the lane!

Now scarce a wink of sleep on the best of nights,

Worried in mind and ill at my ease,

Headache or heartache ne’er troubled my rest of nights

When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Once of my days I thought girls were nuisances,

Petting and coaxing and ruffling your brow,

Now Love the rogue runs away with my few senses,

Vainly I wish they would fondle me now!

Idols I worship with ardour unshakeable,

But none of all half so fitted to please

As the poor toys full of sawdust and breakable,

When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Little I cared then for doings political,

The ebb or the flow of the popular tides,

Europe might quake in convulsions most critical—

I had my bread buttered well on both sides.

Now must I wander for themes for my puny verse

Over earth’s continents, islands and seas;

Small stock I took of affairs of the universe,

When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Life is a puzzle and man is a mystery,

He that would solve them a wizard need be;

Precepts lie thick in the pathways of history,

This is the lesson that life has taught me.

Man ever longs for the dawn of a golden day,

Visions of joy in futurity sees,

Ah! he enjoyed Life’s cream in the olden day,

When he wore petticoats down to his knees!

Francis A. Fahy

MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS.

AT A GIRL’S SCHOOL—THE TONIC SOL-FA METHOD—PAYING AT THE DOOR—FLORAL OFFERINGS—DOROTHISIS.

Last Tuesday, when turning over my invitations, I found a card addressed to me, not in my ancestral title of Di Bassetto, but in the assumed name under which I conceal my identity in the vulgar business of life. It invited me to repair to a High School for Girls in a healthy south-western suburb, there to celebrate the annual prize-giving with girlish song and recitation. Here was exactly the thing for a critic. “Now is the time,” I exclaimed to my astonished colleagues, “to escape from our stale iterations of how Mr. Santley sang ‘The Erl King,’ and Mr. Sims Reeves ‘Tom Bowling’; of how the same old orchestra played Beethoven in C minor or accompanied Mr. Henschel in Pogner’s ‘Johannistag’ song, or Wotan’s ‘Farewell’ and ‘Fire Charm.’ Our business is to look with prophetic eye past these exhausted contemporary subjects into the next generation—to find out how much beauty and artistic feeling is growing up for the time when we shall be obsolete fogies, mumbling anecdotes of the funerals of our favourites.” Will it be credited that the sanity of my project and the good taste of my remarks were called in question, and that I was absolutely the only eminent critic who went to the school!

I found the school on the margin of a common, with which I have one ineffaceable association. It is not my custom to confine my critical opinions to the columns of the Press. In my public place I am ever ready to address my fellow-citizens orally until the police interfere. Now, it happens that once, on a fine Sunday afternoon, I addressed a crowd on this very common for an hour, at the expiry of which a friend took round a hat, and actually collected sixteen shillings and ninepence. The opulence and liberality of the inhabitants were thus very forcibly impressed on me; and when, last Tuesday, I made my way through a long corridor into the crowded schoolroom, my first thought, as I surveyed the row of parents, was whether any of them had been among the contributors to that memorable hatful of coin. My second was whether the principal of the school would have been pleased to see me had she known of the sixteen and ninepence.

When the sensation caused by my entrance had subsided somewhat, we settled down to a performance which consisted of music and recitation by the rising generation, and speechification by the risen one. The rising generation had the best of it. Whenever the girls did anything, we were delighted; whenever an adult began, we were bored to the very verge of possible endurance. The deplorable member of Parliament who gave away the prizes may be eloquent in the House of Commons; but before that eager, keen, bright, frank, unbedevilled, unsophisticated audience he quailed, he maundered, he stumbled, wanted to go on and couldn’t, wanted to stop and didn’t, and finally collapsed with a few remarks to the effect that he felt proud of himself, which struck me as being the most uncalled-for remark I ever heard, even from an M.P. The chairman was self-possessed, not to say hardened. He quoted statistics about Latin, arithmetic and other sordid absurdities, specially extolling the aptitude of the female mind since 1868 for botany. I incited a little girl near me to call out “Time” and “Question,” but she shook her head shyly, and said “Miss—— would be angry;” so he had his say out. Let him deliver that speech next Sunday on the common, and he will not get 16s. 9d. He will get stoned.

But the rest of the programme was worth a dozen ordinary concerts. It is but a few months since I heard Schubert’s setting of “The Lord is my Shepherd” sung by the Crystal Palace Choir to Mr. Manns’ appropriate and beautiful orchestral transcript of the accompaniment; but here a class of girls almost obliterated that memory by singing the opening strain with a purity of tone quite angelic. If they could only have kept their attention concentrated long enough, it might have been equally delightful all through. But girlhood is discursive; and those who were not immediately under the awful eye of the lady who conducted, wandered considerably from Schubert’s inspiration after a time, although they stuck to his notes most commendably. Yet for all that I can safely say that if there is a little choir like that in every High School the future is guaranteed. We were much entertained by a composition of Jensen’s, full of octaves and chords, which was assaulted and vanquished after an energetic bout of fisticuffs by an infant pianist, who will not be able to reach the pedals for years to come.

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I need hardly say that my remarks about the Tonic Sol-fa have brought letters upon me insisting on the attractive simplicity of the notation, and even inviting me to learn it at once. This reminds me of a sage whom I consulted in my youth as to how I might achieve the formation of a perfect character. “Young man,” he said, “are you a vegetarian?” I promptly said “Yes,” which took him aback. (I subsequently discovered that he had a weakness for oysters.) “Young man,” he resumed, “have you mastered Pitman’s shorthand?” I told him that I could write it very nearly as fast as longhand, but that I could not read it; and he admitted that this was about the maximum of human attainment in phonography. “Young man,” he went on, “do you understand phrenology?” This was a facer, as I knew nothing about it, but I was determined not to be beaten, so I declared that it was my favourite pursuit, and that I had been attracted to him by the noble character of his bumps. “Young man,” he continued, “you are indeed high on the Mount of Wisdom. There remains but one accomplishment to the perfection of your character. Are you an adept at the Tonic Sol-fa system?” This was too much. I got up in a rage, and said, “Oh, d—the Tonic Sol-fa system!” Then we came to high words, and our relations have been more or less strained ever since. I have always resolutely refused to learn Tonic Sol-fa, as I am determined to prove that it is possible to form a perfect character without it.

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The other evening I went to the Wind Instrument Society’s concert at the Royal Academy of Music in Tenterden Street. Having only just heard of the affair from an acquaintance, I had no ticket. The concert, as usual, had been kept dark from me; Bassetto the Incorruptible knows too much to be welcome to any but the greatest artists. I therefore presented myself at the doors for admission on payment as a casual amateur. Apparently the wildest imaginings of the Wind Instrument Society had not reached to such a contingency as a Londoner offering money at the doors to hear classical chamber music played upon bassoons, clarionets, and horns; for I was told that it was impossible to entertain my application, as the building had no licence. I suggested sending out for a licence; but this, for some technical reason, could not be done. I offered to dispense with the licence; but they said it would expose them to penal servitude. Perceiving by this that it was a mere question of breaking the law, I insisted on the secretary accompanying me to the residence of a distinguished Q.C. in the neighbourhood, and ascertaining from him how to do it. The Q.C. said that if I handed the secretary five shillings at the door in consideration of being admitted to the concert, that would be illegal. But if I bought a ticket from him in the street, that would be legal. Or, if I presented him with five shillings in remembrance of his last birthday, and he gave me a free admission in celebration of my silver wedding, that would be legal. Or, if we broke the law without witnesses and were prepared to perjure ourselves if questioned afterwards (which seemed to me the most natural way), then nothing could happen to us. I cannot without breach of faith explain which course we adopted; suffice it that I was present at the concert.

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I went to the Prince of Wales’ Theatre on Wednesday afternoon to hear the students of the Royal College of Music.... I am sorry to say that the bad custom of bouquet-throwing was permitted; and need I add that an American prima donna was the offender? What do you mean, Madame——, by teaching the young idea how to get bouquets shied? After the manner of her countrymen this prima donna travels with enormous wreaths and baskets of flowers, which are handed to her at the conclusion of her pieces. And no matter how often this happens, she is never a whit the less astonished and delighted to see the flowers come up. They say that the only artist who never gets accustomed to his part is the performing flea who fires a cannon, and who is no less dismayed and confounded by the three-hundredth report than by the first. Now, it may be ungallant, coarse—brutal even; but whenever I see the fair American thrown into raptures by her own flower-basket, I always think of the flea thrown into convulsions by his own cannon. And so, dear but silly American ladies, be persuaded, and drop it. Nobody except the very greenest of greenhorns is taken in; and the injury you do to your own artistic self-respect by condescending to take him in is incalculable. Just consider for a moment how insanely impossible it is that a wreath as big as a cart-wheel could be the spontaneous offering of an admiring stranger. One consolation is, that if the critics cannot control the stars, they can at least administer the stripes.

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Last Saturday evening, feeling the worse for want of change and country air, I happened to voyage in the company of an eminent dramatic critic as far as Greenwich. Hardly had we inhaled the refreshing ozone of that place ninety seconds when, suddenly finding ourselves opposite a palatial theatre, gorgeous with a million gaslights, we felt that it was idiotic to have been to Wagner’s Theatre at Bayreuth and yet be utterly ignorant concerning Morton’s Theatre at Greenwich. So we rushed into the struggling crowd at the doors, only to be informed that the theatre was full. Stalls full, dress circle full; pit, standing room only. As the eminent dramatic critic habitually sleeps during performances, and is subject to nightmare when he sleeps standing, the pit was out of the question. Was there room anywhere? we asked. Yes, in a private box or in the gallery. Which was the cheaper? The gallery, decidedly. So up we went to the gallery, where we found two precarious perches vacant at the side. It was rather like trying to see Trafalgar Square from the knife-board of an omnibus half-way up St. Martin’s Lane; but by hanging on to a stanchion, and occasionally standing with one foot on the seat and the other on the backs of the people in the front row, we succeeded in seeing as much of the entertainment as we could stand.

The first thing we did was to purchase a bill, which informed us that we were in for “the entirely original pastoral comedy-opera in three acts, entitled ‘Dorothy,’ which has been played to crowded houses in London 950, and (still playing) in the provinces 788 times.” This playbill, I should add, was thoughtfully decorated with a view of the theatre showing all the exits, for use in case of a reduction to ashes during performing hours. From it we further learnt that we should be regaled by an augmented and powerful orchestra; that the company was “No. 1”; that—— believes he is now the only HATTER in the county of Kent that exists on the profits arising solely from the sale of HATS and CAPS; and so on. Need I add that the eminent one and I sat bursting with expectation until the overture began. I cannot truthfully say that the augmented and powerful orchestra proved quite so augmented or so powerful as the composer could have wished; but let that pass; I disdain the cheap sport of breaking a daddy-long-legs on a wheel (butterfly is out of the question, it was such a dingy band). My object is rather to call attention to the condition to which 788 nights of Dorothying have reduced the unfortunate wanderers of “No. 1 Company.” I submit to the manager of these companies that in his own interest he should take better care of No. 1. Here are several young persons doomed to spend the flower of their years in mechanically repeating the silliest libretto in modern theatrical literature, set to music which must pall somewhat on the seven hundred and eighty-eighth performance.

As might have been expected, a settled weariness of life, an utter perfunctoriness, an unfathomable inanity pervaded the very souls of “No. 1.” The tenor, originally, I have no doubt, a fine young man, but now cherubically adipose, was evidently counting the days until death should release him from the part of Wilder. He had a pleasant speaking voice; and his affability and forbearance were highly creditable to him under the circumstances; but Nature rebelled in him against the loathed strains of a seven-hundred-times repeated rôle. He omitted the song in the first act, and sang “Though born a man of high degree,” as if with the last rally of an energy decayed and a willing spirit crashed. The G at the end was as a vocal earthquake. And yet methought he was not displeased when the inhabitants of Greenwich, coming fresh to the slaughter, encored him. The baritone had been affected the other way; he was thin and worn; and his clothes had lost their lustre. He sang “Queen of my heart” twice in a hardened manner, as one who was prepared to sing it a thousand times in a thousand quarter-hours for a sufficient wager. The comic part, being simply that of a circus clown transferred to the lyric stage, is better suited for infinite repetition; and the gentleman who undertook it addressed a comic lady called Priscilla as “Sarsaparilla” during his interludes between the haute-école acts of the prima donna and tenor, with a delight in the rare aroma of the joke, and in the roars of laughter it elicited, which will probably never pall. But anything that he himself escaped in the way of tedium was added tenfold to his unlucky colleagues, who sat out his buffooneries with an expression of deadly malignity. I trust the gentleman may die in his bed; but he would be unwise to build too much on doing so. There is a point at which tedium becomes homicidal mania.

The ladies fared best. The female of the human species has not yet developed a conscience: she will apparently spend her life in artistic self-murder by induced Dorothisis without a pang of remorse, provided she be praised and paid regularly. Dorothy herself, a beauteous young lady of distinguished mien, with an immense variety of accents ranging from the finest Tunbridge Wells English (for genteel comedy) to the broadest Irish (for repartee and low comedy), sang without the slightest effort and without the slightest point, and was all the more desperately vapid because she suggested artistic gifts wasting in complacent abeyance. Lydia’s voice, a hollow and spectral contralto, alone betrayed the desolating effect of perpetual Dorothy; her figure retained a pleasing plumpness akin to that of the tenor; and her spirits were wonderful, all things considered. The chorus, too, seemed happy; but that was obviously because they did not know any better. The pack of hounds employed darted in at the end of the second act, evidently full of the mad hope of finding something new going on; and their depression when they discovered it was “Dorothy” again, was pitiable. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals should interfere. If there is no law to protect men and women from “Dorothy,” there is at least one that can be strained to protect dogs.

George Bernard Shaw (1856).