FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE.
Wance upon a time, an’ a very good time it was too, there was a dacent little man, named Paddy Power, that lived in the parish of Portlaw.
At the time I spayke of, an’ indeed for a long spell before it, most of Paddy’s neighbours had wandhered from the thrue fold, an’ the sheep that didn’t stray wor, not to put too fine a point on it, a black lot. But Paddy had always conthrived to keep his last end in view, an’ he stuck to the ould faith like a poor man’s plasther.
Well, in the coorse of time poor Paddy felt his days wor well-nigh numbered, so he tuk to the bed an’ sent for the priest; an’ thin he settled himself down to aise his conscience an’ to clear the road in the other world by manes of a good confession.
He reeled off his sins, mortial an’ vanyial, to the priest by the yard, an’ begor he felt mighty sorrowful intirely whin he thought what a bad boy he’d been, an’ what a hape of quare things he’d done in his time—though, as I’ve said before, he was a dacent little man in his way, only, you see, bein’ so close to the other side of Jordan, he tuk an onaisy view of all his sayin’s and doin’s. Poor Paddy—small blame to him—was very aiger to get a comfortable corner in glory in his old age, for he’d a hard sthruggle enough of it here below.
Well, whin he’d towld all his sins to Father McGrath, an’ whin Father McGrath had given him a few hard rubs by way of consolation, he bent his head to get the absolution, an’ lo an’ behold you! before the priest could get through the words that would open the gates of glory to poor Paddy, the life wint out of the man’s body.
It seems ’twas a busy mornin’ in heaven, an’ as soon as Father McGrath began to say the first words of the absolution, down they claps Paddy Power’s name on the due-book. However, we’ll come to that part of the story by-an’-by.
Anyhow, up goes Paddy, an’ before he knew where he was he found himself standin’ outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly guessed there ’ud be throuble, but he thought he’d put a bowld face on, so he gives a hard double-knock at the door, an’ a holy saint shoves back the slide an’ looks out at him through an iron gratin’.
“God save all here!” says Paddy.
“God save you kindly!” says the saint.
“Maybe I’m too airly?” says Paddy, dhreadin’ all the time that ’tis the cowld showlder he’d get.
“’Tis naither airly nor late here,” says the saint, “pervidin’ you’re on the way-bill. What’s yer name?” says he.
“Paddy Power,” says the little man from Portlaw.
“There’s so many of that name due here,” says the saint, “that I must ax you for further particulars.”
“You’re quite welcome, your reverence,” says Paddy.
“What’s your occupation?” says the saint.
“Well,” says Paddy, “I can turn my hand to anything in raison.”
“A kind of Jack-of all-thrades?” says the saint.
“Not exactly that,” says Paddy, thinkin’ the saint was thryin’ to make fun of him. “In fact,” says he, “I’m a general dayler.”
“An’ what do you generally dale in?” axes the saint.
“All’s fish that comes to my net,” says Paddy, thinkin’, of coorse, ’twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.
“An’ is it a fisherman you are, thin?” axes the saint.
“Well, no,” says Paddy, “though I’ve done a little huckstherin’ in fish in my time; but I was partial to scrap-iron, as a rule.”
“To tell you the thruth,” says the saint, “I’m not over fond of general daylin’, but of coorse my private feelin’s don’t intherfere wud my duties here. I’m on the gates agen my will for the matther of that; but that’s naither here nor there so far as yourself is consarned, Paddy,” says he.
“It must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,” says Paddy, “to be on the door from mornin’ till night.”
“’Tis,” says the saint, “of a busy day—but I must go an’ have a look at the books. Paddy Power is your name?” says he.
“Yis,” says Paddy; “an’, though ’tis meself that says it, I’m not ashamed of it.”
“An’ where are you from?” axes the saint.
“From the parish of Portlaw,” says Paddy.
“I never heard tell of it,” says the saint, bitin’ his thumb.
“Sure it couldn’t be expected you would, sir,” says Paddy, “for it lies at the back of God-speed.”
“Well, stand there, Paddy avic,” says the holy saint, “an’ I’ll have a good look at the books.”
“God bless you!” says Paddy. “Wan ’ud think ’twas born in Munsther you wor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin’.”
Faix, Paddy was beginnin’ to dhread that his name wouldn’t be found on the books at all on account of his not havin’ complate absolution, so he thought ’twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the keeper of the kays.
The saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but whin Paddy called him Saint Pether he lifted his head an’ he put his face to the wicket again, an’ there was a cunnin’ twinkle in his eye.
“An’ so you thinks ’tis Saint Pether I am?” says he.
“Of coorse, your reverence,” says Paddy; “an’ ’tis a rock of sense I’m towld you are.”
Well, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an’ says he—
“Now, it’s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below thinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you raley think, Paddy,” says he, “that Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no way to pass the time except by standin’ here in the cowld from year’s end to year’s end, openin’ the gates of Paradise?”
“Begor,” says Paddy, “that never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of coorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An’ might I ax your reverence,” says he, “what your own name is? an’ I hopes you’ll pardon my ignorance.”
“Don’t mintion that,” says the saint; “but I’d rather not tell you my name, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.”
“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me, sir,” says Paddy.
“’Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,” says the saint.
Findin’ the saint was such a nice agreeable man an’ such an iligant discoorser, Paddy thought he’d venture on a few remarks just to dodge the time until some other poor sowl ’ud turn up an’ give him the chance to slip into Paradise unbeknownst—for he knew that wance he got in by hook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him out of it again. So says he—
“Might I ax what Saint Pether is doin’ just now?”
“He’s at a hurlin’ match,” says the deputy.
“Oh, murdher!” says Paddy, “couldn’t I get a peep at the match while you’re examinin’ the books?”
“I’m afeard not,” says the saint, shakin’ his head. “Besides,” says he, “I think the fun is nearly over by this time.”
“Is there often a hurlin’ match here?” axes Paddy.
“Wance a year,” says the saint. “You see,” says he, pointin’ over his showldher wud his thumb, “they have all nationalities in here, and they plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint’s day, if you undherstand me.”
“I do,” says Paddy. “An’ sure enough ’twas Saint Pathrick’s Day in the mornin’ whin I started from Portlaw, an’ the last thing I did—of coorse before tellin’ my sins—was to dhrink my Pathrick’s pot.”
“More power to you!” says the saint.
“I suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?” says Paddy.
“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates on our own festival days.”
“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself I’ve been talkin’ all this while back. Oh, murdher alive, did I ever think I’d live to see this day!”
Begor, the poor angashore of a man was fairly knocked off his head to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint Pathrick, an’ the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”
“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on an aiquality wud your reverence! Begor, ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality, inagh!”[52] says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between the great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from Portlaw?”
“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.
“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside there ’ud dar’ to put himself an an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”
“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he, “there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”
“Bad luck to ’em both!” said Paddy, intherruptin’ him.
“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sintiments, but I must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll feel complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”
“The divil a change could make me keep quiet,” says Paddy, “if I heard the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar’ to put himself on a par wud you!”
“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to get the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, avic, to sthruggle at times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”
“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”
“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our counthry by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”
“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”
“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad hand at takin’ my own part—but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that breaks my giddawn intirely.”
“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.
“He’s an uncanonised craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.
“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy; “an’ who is he at all?”
“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.
“Never,” says Paddy.
“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull——”
“Thin,” says Paddy, interruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of ourselves—more shame for him! Oh, wait till I gets a grip of him by the scruff of the neck!”
“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’ a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you—for he’s a hard man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his timper, or getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint Pathrick, “himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.”
“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.
“No,” says Saint Pathrick, laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane—the same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”
“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll excuse my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this hot argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”
Begor, Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven, he says, “Of coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”
“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.
“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.
“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.
“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure enough.”
“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye canonised him.”
“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.
“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.
“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”
“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.
“Well, ’twas a blue-bottle,” says St. Pathrick.
“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says Paddy. “He must have been ‘a hard case.’”
Begor, Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”
“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,” says Paddy.
“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’ lookin’ very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he whispers, rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He looks in good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”
“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp, an’ I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”
“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates—Paddy Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of the wicket—“how goes the enemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?”
“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here as thick as flies at cock-crow—I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”
“It’s sthrange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the airly mornin’; often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”
“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint Pether’s mind from his throubles.
“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game. It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that outside?” catchin’ sighth of Paddy Power.
“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.
“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the poor sowls. Did this chap come viâ Purgathory?” say he.
“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”
“Who is he?” says Saint Pether.
“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick. “He seems a dacent sort of craychur.”
“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.
“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.
“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he, rubbin’ his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”
“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down on the way-bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.”
“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side, an’ sind him to Limbo for a spell.”
Begor, when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries out in a pitiful voice—
“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below, where the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin’ boy, they always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word, yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed clane. I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a helpless ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ ’tis many the prayer I said to your own self below!”
Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’ turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough. I don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is of the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the affair before we decides wan way or the other.”
“Ah, give the poor angashore a chance,” says Saint Pathrick. “’Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’ up as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remimber you towld me wance that you’d like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”
“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an’ maybe I’d never have another chance from Portlaw.”
“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.
So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat-pocket, an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy Power.
“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”
“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”
“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands me over the kays, Pat,” says he, “I’ll relaise you for the day, so that you can show your frind over the grounds.”
“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you, avic!”
“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gate; “an’ remimber always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’ ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had from the Parish of Portlaw.”
Edmund Downey (1856).
“‘COME IN, PADDY POWER,’ SAYS SAINT PETHER, OPENIN’ THE GATE.”
THE DANCE AT MARLEY.
Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,
For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm them;
In the kitchen thronged the girls—cheeks of roses, teeth of pearls—
Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm them.
Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,
Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she the bawnoge entered,
Where a shass of straw was laid on a ladder raised that made
A seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them cantered.
Murtagh and his vanithee[53] had their chairs brought in to see
The heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and laughter;
In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright—
The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!
The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly drowned,
So the couples took their ground—their hearts already dancing!
Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,
Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.
“Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss McLeod,”
“The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes the Barley,”
“The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The River Lee,”—
As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!
Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigs galore,
With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;
But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,
The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to Carlow.”
Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,
Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as their glances;
Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,
Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.
But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on—
The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:
Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,
They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!
Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,
Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!
The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosy saustagh[54] spot—
Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.
Everything must have an end, and the girshas[55] home did wend,
With guarding brother and a friend—this last was absent rarely!
Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth—
Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.
Patrick J. McCall (1861).
“FAST IN AND OUT THEY WHIRL AND WHEEL, ALL CAPERING AND PRANCING.”
FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS.
Wance upon a time, when things was a great’le betther in Ireland than they are at present, when a rale king ruled over the counthry wid four others undher him to look afther the craps an’ other industhries, there lived a young chief called Fan MaCool. Now, this was long afore we gev up bowin’ and scrapin’ to the sun an’ moon an’ sich like raumash (nonsense); an’, signs an it, there was a powerful lot ov witches an’ Druids, an’ enchanted min an’ wimen goin’ about, that med things quare enough betimes for iverywan.
Well, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he kem to the command, an’ a purty likely lookin’ boy, too—there was nothin’ too hot or too heavy for him; an’ so ye needn’t be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was the mischief entirely wid the colleens. Nothin’ delighted him more than to disguise himself wid an ould coatamore (overcoat) threwn over his showlder, a lump ov a kippeen (stick) in his fist an’ he mayanderin’ about unknownst, rings around the counthry, lookin’ for fun an’ foosther (diversion) ov all kinds.
Well, one fine mornin’, whin he was on the shaughraun, he was waumasin’ (strolling) about through Leinster, an’ near the royal palace ov Glendalough he seen a mighty throng ov grand lords an’ ladies, an’, my dear, they all dressed up to the nines, wid their jewels shinin’ like dewdrops ov a May mornin’, and laughin’ like the tinkle ov a deeshy (small) mountain strame over the white rocks. So he cocked his beaver, an’ stole over to see what was the matther.
Lo an’ behould ye, what were they at but houldin’ a race-meetin’ or faysh (festival)—somethin’ like what the quality calls ataléticks now! There they were, jumpin’, and runnin’, and coorsin’, an’ all soorts ov fun, enough to make the trouts—an’ they’re mighty fine leppers enough—die wid envy in the river benaith them.
The fun wint on fast an’ furious, an’ Fan, consaled betune the trumauns an’ brushna (elder bushes and furze), could hardly keep himself quiet, seein’ the thricks they wor at. Peepin’ out, he seen, jist forninst him on the other bank, the prencess herself, betune the high-up ladies ov the coort. She was a fine, bouncin’ geersha (girl) with goold hair like the furze an’ cheeks like an apple blossom, an’ she brakin’ her heart laughin’ an’ clappin’ her hands an’ turnin’ her head this a-way an’ that a-way, jokin’ wid this wan an’ that wan, an’ commiseratin’, moryah![56] the poor gossoons that failed in their leps. Fan liked the looks ov her well, an’ whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to their knees an’ jumped up over another wan as high as their chins, the great trial ov all kem on. Maybe you’d guess what that was? But I’m afeerd you won’t if I gev you a hundhered guesses! It was to lep the strame, forty foot wide!
List’nin’ to them whisperin’ to wan another, Fan heerd them tellin’ that whichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely ov; he wud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an’ ov coorse, wud be med king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his toes an’ looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the skhy. Well, whin Fan h’ard this, he was put to a nonplush (considering) to know what to do! With his ould duds (clothes) on him, he was ashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to have the eyes ov the whole wurruld on him, an’ his heart wint down to his big toe as he watched the boys makin’ their offers at the lep. But no wan ov them was soople enough for the job, an’ they kep on tumblin’, wan afther the other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began to look sorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a coolyeen (curls) a yard long—an’ more be token he was a boy o’ the Byrnes from Imayle—jist tipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an’ then twistin’, like a crow in the air scratchin’ her head with her claw, he spraddled wide open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a mudbank! Well, me dear, Fan forgot himself, an’ gev a screech like an aigle; an’ wid that, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed, an’ Fan was surrounded. In less than a minit an’ a half they dragged me bould Fan be the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king himself.
“What ould geochagh (beggar) have we now?” sez the king, lookin’ very hard at Fan.
“I’m Fan MaCool!” sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.
“Well, Fan MaCool or not,” sez the king, mockin’ him, “ye’ll have to jump the strame yander for freckenin’ the lives clane out ov me ladies,” sez he, “an’ for disturbin’ our spoort ginerally,” sez he.
“An’ what’ll I get for that same?” sez Fan, lettin’ on (pretending) he was afeerd.
“Me daughter, Maynish,” sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye see, Fan would be drownded.
“Me hand on the bargain,” sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on the knuckles wid his specktre (sceptre) an’ towld him to hurry up, or he’d get the ollaves (judges) to put him in the Black Dog pres’n or the Marshals—I forgets which—it’s so long gone by!
Well, Fan peeled off his coatamore, an’ threw away his bottheen ov a stick, an’ the prencess seein’ his big body an’ his long arums an’ legs like an oaktree, couldn’t help remarkin’ to her comerade, the craythur—
“Bedad, Cauth (Kate),” sez she, “but this beggarman is a fine bit ov a bouchal (boy),” sez she; “it’s in the arumy he ought to be,” sez she, lookin’ at him agen, an’ admirin’ him, like.
So, Fan, purtendin’ to be fixin’ his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two lusmores (fox-gloves) an’ put them anunder his heels; for thim wor the fairies’ own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an’ he, ov coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an owld lenaun (fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he was a little stand-a-loney.
Well, me dear, ye’d think it was on’y over a little creepie (three-legged) stool he was leppin’ whin he landed like a thrish jist at the fut ov the prencess; an’ his father’s son he was, that put his two arums around her, an’ gev her a kiss—haith, ye’d hear the smack ov it at the Castle o’ Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake, an’ pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an’ at last he ordhered the bowld beggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuk off his weskit an’ seen the collar ov goold around Fan’s neck the ould chap became delighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun for a son-in-law.
“Hello!” sez the king, “who have we now?” sez he, seein’ the collar. “Begonnys,” sez he, “you’re no boccagh (beggar) anyways!”
“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as a cock sparra’; “have you anything to say agen me?” for his name wasn’t up, at that time, like afther.
“Ay, lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ round this a-way, dressed like a playacthor, takin’ us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to be vexed; “an’ now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ jump back agen afore you gets me daughter for puttin’ on (deceiving) us in such a manner.”
“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must have a word or two with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft to her, an’ the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were croosheenin’ an’ colloguin’ (whispering and talking), an’ not mindin’ him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who comes up but the Prence ov Imayle, afther dryin’ himself, to put his pike in the hay, too.
“Well, avochal (my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry yet?” an’ the prencess laughed like a bell round a cat’s neck.
“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez the other; “but there’s one thing you can’t do wid all your prate!”
“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not,” sez he.
“You couldn’t whistle an’ chaw oatenmale,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, in a pucker. “Are you any good at throwin’ a stone?” sez he, then.
“The best!” sez Fan, an’ all the coort gother round like to a cock-fight. “Where’ll we throw to?” sez he.
“In to’ards Dublin,” sez the Prence ov Imayle; an’ be all accounts he was a great hand at cruistin (throwing). “Here goes pink!” sez he, an’ he ups with a stone, as big as a castle, an’ sends it flyin’ in the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top ov the Three Rock Mountain.
“I’m your masther!” sez Fan, pickin’ up another clochaun (stone) an’ sendin’ it a few perch beyant the first.
“That you’re not,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, an’ he done his best, an’ managed to send another finger stone beyant Fan’s throw; an’ shure, the three stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.
“Well, me lad,” says Fan, stoopin’ for another as big as a hill, “I’m sorry I have to bate you; but I can’t help it,” sez he, lookin’ over at the Prencess Maynish, an’ she as mute as a mouse watchin’ the two big men, an’ the ould king showin’ fair play, as delighted as a child. “Watch this,” sez he, whirlin’ his arm like a windmill, “and now put on your spectacles,” sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin’ through the air like a peggin’-top, over the other three clochauns, and then across Dublin Bay, an’ scrapin’ the nose off ov Howth, it landed with a swish in the say beyant it. That’s the rock they calls Ireland’s Eye now!
“Be the so an’ so!” sez the king, “I don’t know where that went to, at all, at all! What direct did you send it?” sez he to Fan. “I had it in view, till it went over the say,” sez he.
“I’m bet!” sez the Prence ov Imayle. “I couldn’t pass that, for I can’t see where you put it, even—good-bye to yous,” sez he, turnin’ on his heel an’ makin’ off; “an’ may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!” An’ back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an’ took to fret, an’ I undherstand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an’ they put a turtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; but I think he overstrained himself, throwin’, though that’s nayther here nor there with me story!
“Are you goin’ to lep back agen?” sez ould King Garry, wantin’ to see more sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein’ the like as if he was a lad ov twenty.
“To be shure I will!” sez Fan, ready enough, “but I’ll have to take the girl over with me this time!” sez he.
“Oh, no, Fan!” sez Maynish, afeerd ov her life he might stumble, an’ that he’d fall in with her; an’ then she’d have to fall out with him—“take me father with you,” sez she; an’, egonnys, the ould king thought more about himself than any ov them, an’ sed he’d take the will for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin’ went on; an’ maybe that wasn’t the grand blow out. But I can’t stay to tell yous all the fun they had for a fortnit; on’y, me dear, they all went into kinks (fits) ov laughin’, when the ould king, who tuk more than was good for him, stood up to drink Fan’s health, an’ forgot himself.
“Here’s to’ards your good health, Fan MaCool!” sez he, as grand as you like—“an’ a long life to you, an’ a happy wife to you—an’ a great many ov them!” sez he, like he’d forgot somethin’.
Well, me dear, every one was splittin’ their sides like the p’yates, unless the prencess, an’ she got as red in the face as if she was churnin’ in the winther an’ the frost keepin’ the crame from crackin’; but she got over it like the maisles.
But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an’ as the evenin’s gettin’ forrad I’ll stop; so put down the kittle an’ make tay, an’ if Fan and the Prencess Maynish didn’t live happy together—that we may!
Patrick J. McCall.
TATTHER JACK WELSH.
Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,
With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,
With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,
To humour the way for himself and his pig?
Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,
Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;
And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh—
Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!
Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,
And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,
But breaking the hearts of the girls all around—
Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.
For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune—
Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”
Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself
If you heard the fife played by that musical elf.
One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,
And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,
Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,
Shure you can’t court at all—look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”
So up the rogue rushes, and gave me a pogue,[57]
And Darby ran out, like he’d got a polthogue,[58]—
“Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”
“Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”
Patrick J. McCall.