II.—Their Last Race.
When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying day came. All the morning Long Mat Murnane’s coffin lay on four chairs by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women keening round it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered to do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the Valley from the chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the rough hearse, and the motley funeral—a line of carts with a mob of peasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot—moved slowly towards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, keening like an Atlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that he could not see his funeral.
The Joyces too had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and now Black Michael’s funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the keening of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the other would be there first.
There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys were galloping, and till every one raced at full speed, and the rival parties broke into a wild shout of “Aughavanna abu!” “Meehul Dhu for ever!”
For the dead men were racing—feet foremost—to the grave; they were rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads meet in Callanan’s Field the hearses were abreast; neck to neck they dashed across the trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck they reached the churchyard, and the hearses jammed in the gate. Behind them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if they were mad.
But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized their long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last race. The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, so that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one another’s hands; they hugged one another.
“Himself would be proud,” they cried, “if he hadn’t been dead!”
Frank Mathew (1865).
IN BLARNEY.
He—Be the fire, alanna, sittin’,
Purty ’tis you look and sweet,
Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’
Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.
She—It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,
Yis, and impudence galore!
Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,
When yer afther half-a-score?
He—Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,
Found at all the likes o’ you.
She—Now my worsted all is ravelled
And whatever will I do?
He—Might I make so bould to ask it,
Shure I know the girl o’ girls;
And I’d make me heart the casket,
And her love the pearl o’ pearls.
She—Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’
That it’s you’re the honied rogue.
He—Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’
From yer rosy lips a pogue.[59]
She—Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,
When it’s all alone she’s left?
He—Wor they all as sweet as this is,
Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.
She—Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!
Or I’ll soon begin to scould.
Sure, I’d like to know what school in
Did ye learn to be so bould?
He—Och! it’s undher Masther Cupid
That I learned me A, B, C.
She—That the scholar wasn’t stupid,
Faith, is very plain to see.
He—Ah, then Eily, but the blush is
Most becomin’ to ye, dear!
Like the red rose on the bush is——
She—Sir I you needn’t come so near!
He—Over lane and road and boreen,
Troth, I’ve come a weary way,
Jusht to whisper ye, asthoreen,
Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.
I’ve a cosy cottage, which is
Jusht the proper size for two——
She—There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,
And it’s all because av you!
He—And, to make a sthray suggestchun,
Maybe you me wish might guess?
She—Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,
Somehow—I—might answer—Yes!
Patrick J. Coleman (1867).
“GATHERIN’ UP THE GOLDEN GRAIN.”
BINDIN’ THE OATS.
Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
Don’t you remember
That evening, dear?
Ah! but you bound my heart complately,
Fair and nately,
Snug in the snood of your silken hair!
Swung the sickles, you followed after
With musical laughter
And witchin’ eye.
I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,
Spoiled the stook, love,
For your smile had bothered my head awry!
Such an elegant, graceful binder,
Where could I find her
All Ireland through?
Worn’t the stout, young, strappin’ fellows
Fairly jealous,
Dyin’, asthore machree, for you?
Talk o’ Persephone pluckin’ the posies,
Or the red roses,
In Henna’s plain!
You wor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,
And beautiful head, love,
Gatherin’ up the golden grain.
Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
Don’t you remember
The stolen pogue?[60]
How could I help but there deliver
My heart for ever
To such a beautiful little rogue?
Bindin’ the oats, ’twas there you found me,
There you bound me
That harvest day!
Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,
Fair and fond, love,
Happy, for ever and ever, stay!
Patrick J. Coleman.
SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC.
A man ties a knot with his tongue that his teeth will not loosen.
Honey is sweet, but don’t lick it off a briar.
The doorstep of a great house is slippery.
The leisure of the smith’s helper (i.e., from the bellows to the anvil).
You have the foal’s share of the harrow.
Laziness is a heavy burden.
You’d be a good messenger to send for death—(said of a slow person).
Better be bald than have no head at all—but the devil a much more than that.
Better the end of a feast than the beginning of a fight.
Let him cool in the skin he warmed in.
A man is shy in another man’s corner.
The pig in the sty doesn’t know the pig going along the road.
’Tis on her own account the cat purrs.
Cows far from home have long horns.
A black hen lays a white egg (i.e., do not judge by appearances).
’Tis a good story that fills the belly.
A drink is shorter than a story.
The man that’s up is toasted, The man that’s down is trampled on.
He knows more than his “Our Father.”
A mouth of ivy and a heart of holly.
A soft word never broke a tooth yet.
He comes like the bad weather (i.e., uninvited).
Who lies down with dogs will get up with fleas.
The eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.
’Tis the fool has luck.
What the Pookha writes, he himself can read.
A blind man can see his mouth.
To die and to lose one’s life are much the same.
Don’t leave a tailor’s remnant behind you.
’Tis a wedge of itself that splits the oak.
The three sharpest things at all—a thorn in mire, a hound’s tooth, and a fool’s retort.
When it goes hard with the old hag, she must run.
The jewel most rare is the jewel most fair.
He that loses the game, let him talk away.
A heavy purse makes a light heart.
He is like a bag-pipe—he never makes a noise till his belly’s full.
Out of the kitchen comes the tune.
Falling is easier than rising.
A woman has an excuse readier than an apron.
The secret of an old woman scolding (i.e., no secret at all).
A bad wife takes advice from every man but her own husband.
The daughter of an active old woman makes a bad housekeeper.
Never take a wife who has no faults.
She burnt her coal and did not warm herself (i.e., when a woman makes a bad marriage).
A ring on the finger and not a stitch of clothes on the back.
A hen with chickens never yet burst her craw.
A big belly was never generous.
One bit of a rabbit is worth two of a cat.
There is hope from the sea, but no hope from the cemetery.
When the hand ceases to scatter, the mouth ceases to praise.
Big head and little sense.
The tail is part of the cat (i.e., a man resembles his family).
A cat’s milk gives no cream (said of a stingy person).
Butter to butter’s no relish (said when two men dance together, or two women kiss each other).
One cockroach knows another.
A heavy load are your empty guts.
The young thorn is the sharpest.
Sweet is wine, bitter its payment.
Whoever drinks, it is Donall that pays.
An alms from his own share, to the fool.
Better a wren in hand that a crane promised.
The man on the fence is the best hurler (against critics and idle lookers-on).
A closed hand gets but a shut fist.
It is not all big men that reap the harvest.
Easy, oh woman of three cows! (against pretentious people).
Fair words won’t feed the friars.
Never poor till one goes to hell.
Not worried till married.
Brother to Donall is Theigue (= Arcades ambo).
Three without rule—a wife, a pig, and a mule.
When your hand is in the dog’s mouth, draw it out gently.
Better a drop of whisky than a blow of a stick.
After their feeding, the whelps begin to fight.
The four drinks—the drink for thirst, the drink without thirst, the drink for fear of thirst, and the drink at the door.
A woman is more obstinate than a mule—a mule than the devil.
All the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.
When the goat goes to church he never stops till he goes up to the altar.
A strip of another man’s leather is very soft.
’Tis a bad hen that won’t scratch for herself.
Better riding a goat than the best marching.
Death is the poor man’s doctor.
If ’tis a sin to be yellow, thousands will be damned.
There’s no good crying when the funeral is gone.
Buttermilk is no milk, and a pudding’s no meat.
Though near to a man his coat, his shirt is nearer (i.e., blood is thicker than water).
Better a fistful of a man than a basketful of a woman.
What cannot be had is just what suits.
An unlearned king is a crowned ass.
’Tis the end of the little pot, the bottom to fall out of it.
A woman’s desire—the dear thing.
Twelve things not to be found—four priests not covetous, four Frenchmen not yellow, and four cobblers not liars.
Nora having a servant and herself begging (shabby gentility).
A man without dinner—two for supper.
The man without a resource is hanged.
Poor women think butter-milk good.
Harsh is the poor man’s voice—he speaks all out of place.
A wet mouth does not feel a dry mouth (i.e., plenty does not understand want).
’Tis a fine horse that never stumbles.
Take care of my neck and go on one side (i.e., do not lean altogether on one).
A man loses something to teach himself.
A hen carried far is heavy.
The day of the storm is not the day for thatching.
Winter comes on the lazy.
A crow thinks its own young white.
Putting on the mill the straw of the kiln (i.e., robbing Peter to pay Paul).
Truth is bitter, but a lie is savoury at times.
’Tis a bad hound that is not worth whistling for.
Better to-day than to-morrow morning.
Patience is the cure of an old complaint.
Have your own will, like the women have.
It is not the same thing to go to town (or to court) and to come from it.
An old cat does not burn himself.
A foolish woman knows the faults of a foolish man.
The man that’s out his portion cools (i.e., out of sight, out of mind).
That’s great softening on the butter-milk.
The law of lending is to break the ware.
No heat like that of shame.
A candle does not give light till lit.
Don’t praise your son-in-law till the year’s out.
It is not a sheep’s head that we wouldn’t have another turn at it (there being only one meal in a sheep’s head).
The glory the head cannot bear, ’twere better not there.
He that does not tie a knot will lose his first stitch.
The fox never found a better messenger than himself.
Better a little fire that warms than a large fire that burns.
Better a short sitting than a long standing.
Better be idle than working for nothing.
Do not show your teeth when you cannot give a bite.
Better come empty than with bad news.
Trust him as far as you can throw a cow by the tail.
Praise the end of it.
To know one since his boots cost fourpence (i.e., from an early age).
Never was door shut but another was opened.
The heaviest ear of corn bends lowliest.
He who is bad at giving lodging is good at showing the road.
The husband of the sloven is known amongst a crowd.
Where there’s women there’s talk, and where there’s geese there’s cackling.
More beard than brains, as the fox said of the goat.
A bad reaper never got a good reaping hook.
A trade not learned is an enemy.
An empty house is better than a bad tenant.
He knows as much about it as a dog knows of his father.
He’d say anything but his prayers.
A vessel will only hold the full of it.
Blow before you drink.
Better fame (i.e., reputation and character) than fortune.
A blind man is no judge of colours.
Fierceness is often hidden under beauty.
When the cat is out, the mice dance.
There is often anger in a laugh.
A fool’s gold is light.
No one claims kindred with the homeless.
An empty vessel makes most sound.
The lamb teaching her dam to bleat.
Both hard and soft, like the cow’s tail.
He that gets a name for early rising may sleep all day.
Talk is cheap.
When the hand grows weak, love gets feeble.
If you have a cow you can always find somebody to milk her.
Long-lived is a man in his own country.
Forgetting one’s debts does not pay them.
Nearer is God’s aid than the door.
Bad is the walk that is not better than rest.
Diseases without shame are love and thirst.
It is hard to dry a rush that has been dipped in tallow (i.e., it is hard to break off a habit).
Might is not lasting.
Wrath speaketh not true.
A bribe bursts the rock.
What goes to length goes to coldness.
Better the good that is than the double good that was.
Often a mouse went under a cornstack.
A good retreat is better than a bad stand.
Not better is food than sense at time of drinking.
The idiot knows the fault of the fool.
Thy complexion is black, says the raven.
Better be sparing at first than at last.
Whoever escapes, the peacemaker won’t.
I would take an eye out of myself to take two out of another.
A hedge on the field after the trespass.
Melodious is the closed mouth.
A spit without meat is a long thing.
Alas for a house that men frequent not.
It’s many the skin that sloughs off youth.
Time is a good story-teller.
The quills often took the flesh with them.
One debt won’t pay another.
There never came a gatherer but a scatterer came after him.
There’s none for bad shoes like the shoemaker’s wife.
No man ever gave advice but himself were the better for some of it.
A man of learning understands the half-word.
O’Brien’s gift and his two eyes after it (i.e., regretting it).
