SONNET ON SHARES.
T
Was honour I did boast,
And he spake to me one day, with a smile,
"You wish to make a mark,
Then to my counsel hark,
In the Co., for which I'm chairman, put your pile."
He was noble, he was good,
Of the upper ten, his blood
Æsthetic tint of azure, all the while,
A tone to conjure with,—I put my pile.
The shares went down, O my!
Was not a fool to buy;
If I had been a savage on the Nile,
I needn't pen this sonnet, with a sigh!
[THE LUCKY SIXPENCE]
Y
So a lucky battered sixpence, was all I gave my wife,
And said to her one morning, "When another vessel starts
I'll scoot, and make my fortune, in romantic foreign parts."
And so I went and scooted, but how the thing was done,
Was not like any pic-nic, or passage made for fun.
We had hardly left the Channel, and were in the offing yet,
When the steward heard me snoring in the quiet lazarette.
It wasn't quite successful—the voyage—after this,
And when we got out foreign, I didn't land in bliss.
I worked my passage over, but the captain wasn't kind,
And all I got for wages, was a compliment behind!
And thus I was a failure, my later life was worse,
When twenty years were over, at last I found a purse.
It made me sad, and homesick, and tired of foreign life,
"I'll start," says I, "for Europe, and try and find my wife."
I sought her when I landed, but everything was changed,
And high and low I wandered, and far and near I ranged;
I put her full description in several ads.—at last
My flag of hope that fluttered, came half-way down the mast.
I went, and I enlisted all in the bluecoat ranks;
And took to promenading along the Liffey banks.
I made a measured survey of curbstones in the squares,
And prowled behind the corners, for pouncing unawares.
Twelve months of measured pacing, had gone since I began;
I hadn't run a prisoner, the time was all I ran;
And when the year had vanished, said the sergeant, "Halt, O'Brine!
You haven't run a prisoner, you'll have to draw the line."
That night I went and drew it—'twas peeping through a blind!—
I got some information, of suspicious work behind.
The act I had my eye on, was a woman with some lead,
I watched her squeeze a sixpence, in wad of toughened bread.
A chance of some distinction was here, I could not shirk,
I peeled my worsted mittens, and bravely went to work.
I double somersaulted the window—'twas a do
I picked up in Australia, from a foreign kangaroo.
I lighted on the table, not quite upon my feet,
But, ah! her guilty terror was evidence complete.
"Wot's this," said I, impounding the lead, and bread, and tin;
"I've caught you in the act, ma'am, I'll have to run you in."
They put her on her trial, and the evidence began,
I swore my information, like a polis and a man;
I showed a silver sixpence, with a hole in it defined,
And showed them how I telescoped my presence thro' the blind.
The jury found her guilty, the judge condemned her then,
To go into retirement, where she couldn't coin again.
"O, sure I wasn't coinin', mavourneen judge asthore,
'Twas the sixpence of my sweetheart that's on a foreign shore.
A lucky one he gave me, he stayed away too long.
I wanted for to change it, and thought it wasn't wrong
To take its little photograph, for the sake of bein' his wife."
Said the Judge, "It doesn't matter, I've sentenced you for life!"
I saw her disappearing, from my eye behind the dock,
O, ham an fowl! it's awful, to think upon the shock.
I staggered with my baton to the sergeant, and I swore,
He had made me run too many, I'd seek a foreign shore.
[A WALL FLOWER SONNET.]
S
A hostess, you could place
In a higher sphere, than that in which she shone,
"I've a partner you should meet,
A girl, extremely sweet!"
And for the dance she always put me on,
But meetings of regret,
Were maidens that I met,
My hostess was a gay designing one,
Her wallflowers were too plain,
The waltz did give me pain,
I took a B. and S. and I was gone!
She played with me, too often put me on,
My hostess was a gay designing one!
[PARADOXICAL WORDS]
H E was up on the hustings, and thrashed with his tongue,
The air in a socialistic vein,
And as an employer, for the workers he felt,
By proxy,—a sympathetic pain!
A pang, that the few could wallow in their wealth,
Whilst many—their brothers—should sweat,
"But ha!" shouted he, with a chuckle, and a grin,
"You'll be having a millenium of it yet!"
He taught that the masters should share with the men,
He scouted, with pitiless vim,
The right of the master, to more than his man,
For his man was the master of him,
Then they flourished their hats, for the precept, with hope,
That to practice, he might be content;
But the confidence trick, is a hustings resource,
And to part, wasn't just what he meant:
He spoke, as a speech is the fashion to-day,
In loud paradoxical words,
As a titled Premier of the Commons, would shout,
"Down down with the House of Lords."
But still, 'twas a hopeful, and beautiful proof,
That the cause of the toiler, was just,
And he wouldn't have to wait, very long for a snack,
From the sugar ornamented upper crust,
In a very little time, he'd be gathering his whack,
From the azure-fired diamond—upper dust,
"You'll be having a millenium of it yet, working men,
Put me into Parliament, and then,
You'll find it a fact, we'll pass every act,
For your chums, and your kids, working men,
The hours you will work, will be eight, working men,
On Saturday, not quarter so late,
And another holiday, in the middle of the week,
We'll give you, by the laws of the state,
With a capon, or a duck, on your plate,
O put me into Parliament, and wait!
You'll be having the land parcelled out into bits,
You'll be all of you fixed in the soil,
And spontaniety of crops you will reap,
Without any trouble or toil.
The screw will extend for each working man,
Employers will have to screw back,
Till tailored by the act, in polished top hats,
You'll all be as gents in the track!
We'll cut away the taxes, by the laws that we'll pass!
You won't have to pay any rate!
You'll be having a millenium of it yet, working men,
O put me into Parliament, and wait!"
And thus with emotional foliated flights,
He spoke like the clashing of swords,
As a titled Premier of the Commons would shout,
"Down down with the House of Lords!"
He finished his speech in a thunder of cheers,
The welkin was knocked into splits,
And he smuggled off home, by the rear, or his trap,
They'd have looted for souvenir bits!
With the conscience of one, who believes he has done,
What was really the best, for himself,
He retired into bed, that night, and he fell
Fast asleep, like a saint on a shelf.
It might have been a very short period of time,
Or maybe it might have been long,
When he woke with a buzz like a bee in his ear,
Or the purr of a tom cat's song.
It might be the bizz of a wasp, or the hum,
Of a foraging blue bottle fly,
But no! 'twas the sound of the whizz of a drill!
'Twas then that he opened his eye.
He jumped up in bed, and he cried with an oath,
"What's that, that you're doing, you scamp?"
To a burglar brave, who was sampling his room,
With a bag, jemmy, brace, and a lamp.
Then the burglar grinned in an amicable way,
For a diplomatic cracker was he,
And he wouldn't take offence at the oath of a man,
Who had only awoke, said he,
"I was down at the meetin' an' heerd every word,
When you gave out the socialist pay,
An' I am a bloke wot swears by the truth
Of the beautiful words that you say.
That's whoy I am here, for my slice of the swag,
That you've pinched, by employin' your men.
I'm tottin' up the stock, in a confidential way,
For an equal division of it then,
For mate, I'm a pal of a Socialistic turn,
Wot tries to do everythink straight,
We'll halve them between us, the jewels and coin,
An' make an even deal of the plate."
But out from the bed, with a jump in his shirt,
The candidate sprang to the floor,
Said he, "I may preach, but to practice is bosh!"
And leaped with a shout to the door.
But the cracker of cribs, with a colt in his fist,
Was first, and with that at the nose
Of the candidate, muttered "You'll die of the cold,
If you don't burrow under the clothes!
"So don't make a row," said that burglar brave,
"But jerk into bed out of sight,
I hate to be put upon when I'm at work,
An' Boss, this is my busy night!
"Now jest let me fasten a gag on yer mouth,
You know that it's wrong, to alarm
Your neighbours at night, when they're wantin' to sleep,
Quick! into this noose with each arm,
There! now, with that beautiful knot on your pins,
You cawn't say as how yer to blame,
If I pinch all I can in the regular way,
Of the grabber's contemptible game!"
He opened the safe, and he smashed the bureau,
He looted the drawers, and shelf,
Of the plate, and the clocks, and the watches, and cash,
From the cabinet, quick as an elf.
Slid everything down to his pal, with a rope,
And then he slid down it himself,
They drove with the swag, from the terrace amain,
In a couple of hired out traps;
And the city, was billed on the following day,
With the Special Editions in caps!
'Twas a reasonable period, from the incident above,
That a solemn deputation came down,
For the candidate to speak in a socialistic vein,
To the voters of the east of London town:
"We'll be looking for you there, on waggon No. I.
Near the arch, that's of marble, in the park,"
But he pointed to the door "O tell them that I'm dead;
For cram it! I am not up to the mark,"
A CANTABILE ON MUSIC, ART, AND LAW.
Ho! there, pumps and castanets for three,
We would dance a brief measure.
O
And wish that we were far,
By wig, and gown, it doth appear,
We're members of the bar,
And tho' we are, we say to you,
We all of us opine,
That we may justly claim our due,
In an artistic line.
We are the type of one, you know,
As well as we can tell,
He is a burly splendid beau,
A stately howling swell!—
A signor of the lyric stage,
An operatic Don,—
And by similitude, we'll wage
That he, and we are one!
'Tis true, tho' he is mostly stout,
We're nearly always thin,
But if you turn us inside out,
We're stouter men within.
For he is all a puff, and smoke,
A sound that dies away;
But we are they who crack a joke,
That lasts for many a day.
He has his crotchets; we do harp,
On clients, this, and that,
He has his sharps, and we are sharp,
His flats, and they are flat;
He blows away his notes, but we,
Are shrewder men by far,
The notes we get professionly,
We stick them to the Bar!
His quavers, they are nothing to
The rallantando thrills,
That shake our clients, when we screw
The rosin on their bills.
They often simulate, as deaf,
When we do charge a case,
Our time is on the treble cleff,
And their's is on the base.
We make a loud fortissimo,
When pleading in the wrong,
And often pianissimo,
When we should put it strong,
But still we pull our fees the same,
Tho' suits may not be won,
And by our tongue, we conquer fame,
Like that conceited Don.
And to the jury, we do plaint,
Upon a mauling stick,
And from our pallets, clap the paint,
Around their craniums thick,
We mould them from their purpose dense,
Like hods of plastic wax,
And sculp into their common sense,
And then climb down their backs!
Our song is done, for we are brief,
And we will sing no more,—
And to my own intense relief,
I thought they'd take the door,
But no! they did not go, and each,
Put forth his kidded fist,
"While we've been trying thus to teach,
Our fees we almost missed!
Remember this is Christmas eve,
Three Chrismas waits we be,
The more the reason you should give,
Our consultation fee.
We have our instruments, and they
Are of the parchment tough,
With which we play, while men do pay,
We wot we've said enough.
And wherefore, and whereas for this,
Aforesaid, told to thee,
Moreover, we must have, we wis,
Our consultation fee.
Five guineas unto each of us,
Refreshers each, a pound,"—
I rose to kick them into bruss,
They bolted through the ground!
My future suppers, must be free
Of nightmare risk; the cause
Of that cantabile of glee,
On music, art, and laws;
Was merely this, that I did run,
The danger of such rig,
By feeding on a goose, they hatched,
Inside a lawyer's wig.
[WOMAN'S TEARS.]
HE tears were in her eye,
Said I "what makes you cry?"
And my sympathy was such, that I sighed;
For it gives my heart the creep,
To see a woman weep,—
Especially the one to be my Bride.
"Alas!" said I, "Ah! me,
It grieveth me, to see
That trickle, at your nostril, by the side."
"'Twas the onions, I was cutting," she replied.
HERADIC FRUITS OF A FAMILY TREE
W
Was run to ground,
An Ancestorial
Mite was found;
By Rails in Pale,
At Dexter Chief,
From Judges' wig,
He pipes his grief.
H
Life, did tend,
To prove him of
The Sinister Bend;
As boozing Charge,
He takes his place,
From Sinister Chief,
To Dexter Base.
H
In Sable Chief,
A Sword, or he
Had come to grief;
That Chief above,
From Sinister, part,
Has got,—per Fesse—
That Sword in Heart!
A
Of prudent parts,
Doth Pawn his Arms,
For peaceful arts;
From Dexter or,
On Shield of Gu,
In pale, reguardant
Sinister Jew.
A
From want appeald,
To art, for Charge,
On Argent Shield,
And so, upon
His Coat he drew
A Garb, that he
Might dare, and do
H
A hen-coup, he
Is Trussed above it,
On a tree;
Couchant, in Chief,
With Spade, in Fesse,
A sorry wight,
He must confess.
A
Pile, he took,
Then Counterchanged,
His Coat for luck!
This Dexter treatment,
Is not right;
He's Or, on Ar,
The lawless wight!
B
His fate was healed
And by command,
Got Royal Shield;
A Dexter King,
Reguardant, won!
He dyed, and left
An "only Son."
THE POLIS AND THE PRINCESS GRANAUILLE
THE man who confidently seeks to set up a new idea, by upsetting an old theory, or tradition, is one who lives in advance of his time, whereby he forfeits many valued amenities of contemporaneous courtesy. But he is to be extolled for the moral heroism that impells him, to advance new facts, into the study of history, or explode errors so steadfastly grounded on the popular belief, that he finds himself, pen to pen with a hostile army of Savants, Antiquarians, Historians, and Critics: some stirred with spirit of envy, others with a craving for notoriety, but all unanimous, and up in arms, with loaded pens and arsenal of inkpots.
In this regard I find myself, by placing the correct revision of a popular tradition before my discerning readers.
I have to confess that it was not thro' deep and industrious research, that I am thus enabled to challenge the truth, of the accepted records.
It was thro' the chance, afforded by an hour of breezing sea-scape recreation, that I discovered the mysterious chronicle.
The popular tradition, is thus related by Dr. Walsh. "The celebrated Grana Uille or Grace O'Mally, noted for her piratical depredations in the reign of Elizabeth, returning on a certain time from England, where she had paid a visit to the Queen, landed at Howth, and proceeded to the castle. It was the hour of dinner—but the gates were shut. Shocked at an exclusion so repugnant to her notions of Irish hospitality, she immediately proceeded to the shore, where the young lord was at nurse, and seizing the child, she embarked with, and sailed to Connaught, where her own castle stood.
After a time, however, she restored the child; with the express stipulation, that the gates should be thrown open, when the family went to dinner—a practice which is observed to this day."
WHEN the Hill of Howth was covered, by a city great, and grand,
And nuggets still were gathered, like cockles on the strand;
On the shore, around by Sutton, a children's maid was met,
Who was wheeling of a baby, in a sky blue bassinet.
And as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea,
Down the boreen from the Bailey, came number 90 B;
And he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set,
That slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet.
He held aloft his baton, saluted like a man,
Said he "I'm almost certain, you're name is Mary Anne,
The sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone,
We'll make the distance greater, if you and I move on.
For fifty years I've ambushed, and watched around me bate,
But never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate,
And what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone!
I'm gone on you me darlin', let you and I move on."
"O hoky smoke! avourneen, I never seen yer like,
As sure's me name is Dooley, with the christian name of Mike,
I sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see,
I'm shockin' fond of you agra," said No. 90 B.
He took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand,
"A punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand,
Put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox,
"We'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks."
Now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went,
They stayed away much longer than was their first intent,
A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight,
The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight.
Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt,
The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt,
And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still,
With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill!
But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark,
And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!"
Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose,
"Howld on! I'll go, an' square it, I've got a schame, here goes!"
The crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale,
Of how the child was stolen by the Princess Granauille,
He told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew,
From information he received, that he had got a clew,
When Granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could make
A profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake,
'Twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob,
Like every other baby's, so she could work the job.
As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel,
That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel,
But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shocked
Her, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked!
She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then—
And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again,
In safety to its father, if he would leave the door,
At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore.
Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way,
That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day,
And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip,
There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,—
The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock,
And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock,
Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male,"
And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille.
And now about the baby, his voyaging began,
Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man,
He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew,
Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard!
Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard!
And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo,
As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago!
Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet,
He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet,
He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found,
But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound!
He lives without a purpose, an object or intent,
Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent,
He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew,
Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do!
He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail!
The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail;
The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew,
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks,
Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix,
Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew,
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale,
The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail,
Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue!
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here,
He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near,
The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet,
Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.
Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day,
In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big display
Of capitals above it, of claimant, who will know,
Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go!
Now most of you will question, the record I recite,
To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right,
To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock,
When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock!
I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand,
I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand,
I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned,
But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found.
And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that he
Had sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea,
With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew,
Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do?
[A HORROR OF LONDON TOWN.]
O
In the blaze of a noontide sun,
With horrible zest of a thirst for gore,
Was a desperate murder done,
On the sainted flags of a Christian town,
I saw this outrage planned,
And three little boys, in crime, sere brown
Were there with a helping hand.
'Twas a group of seven—I counted them all,
A group of seven strong men,
And summing them up, with the criminals small,
Their total I think was ten,
With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones,
They hunted a sad wretch down,
Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans,
A shame unto London town!
But while was fought the unequal fight,
That murder of ten to one,
There came an ominous venger of right,
They call him a copper for fun,
And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; then
The villians ha! ha! shall see
There are dungeons dark for the murderous ten,
In the walls of the Old Bailee!
But no! He paused, and he gravely stood,
And the never a stir, stirred he,
As he saw them compass the deed of blood,
To its end with a ghastly glee,
And O 'twas pity to hear the tones,
Of the suppliant's voice in pain,
As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones,
And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"
A drayman flourished the butt of his whip,
I am sure it was loaded with lead,
And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip,
He aimed at the victim's head!
Alas! too sure, by the jugular vein,
He was struck, and he dropped and died,
And the drayman shook, as he laughed amain,
For blood was the caitiff's pride!
But O I proved, ere I wandered home,
There yet was a friend most true,
Who bore the corse to a silent tomb,
Ah! yes, and embalmed it too,
A kind purveyor came walking by,
And he stopped on the edge of the flag,
Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh,
"Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag."
[A CONFIDENTIAL SONNET]
I MET him one night there,
North east of Leicester Square,
Within about a quarter of a mile,
"I've confidence," said he,
"In all humanity,
I'll leave my bloomin' purse with thee awhile!"
He left it, went away
Then coming back, "I say,"
Said he, with an insinuating smile,
"Now lend your watch to me,
For I am like yourself without no guile,"
He took it, went away,
And from that evil day,
I keep that man's description on my file.
A TRAM CAR GHOST.
THE last car at night, is a vehicle laden with varied symptoms of mysterious hauntings that more or less oppress the fares, some toned down by the lassitude of overwork, drop gratefully into their seats, and quickly fall into fitful slumber, others seem to court a spasmodic notoriety by loud and disjointed converse. A weary of world expression clouds the features of a few with an unuttered protest, for the disagreeable fact of their birth, whilst others seem by their grumpy glances to suggest a jealous objection to other people's existence.
A select few, unconsciously advertise a flippant gratification at the possession of life, and squeeze festivity from it, as colour from a blue rag. But all are haunted with the mysterious workings of unseen spirits, that usually accompany the fares, in the latest car at night.
T
Well not that myself could see,
But the sad conductor took my arm,
And steadfast gazed on me—
Then pointing up to the corner seat,
"Look! that's his regular game,
I'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost,
But he hasn't a tint of shame!"
You'll think the tram conductor was drunk,
His breath was sweet as mine,
Like the orris root, or a tint of mint,
Or scent of a similar line.
It might be a ginger cordial; but
The air of the night was strong,
And it wouldn't be proper to say I'm sure,
I might perhaps be wrong.
"Will you slack?" said I, but he caught my arm
"The man that I killed is there!
I hate to have it to say. But no,
I can't recover my fare!
I asked it from him one winter's night,
But full as a tick with drink,
The only answer he gave to me,
Was just a chuckle and wink.
With this American tink-a-ting,
I couldn't defraud the Co.,
So caught his collar, and chucked him off
The back of the tram car, so.
There wasn't a soul that saw the deed,
Not even the driver knew,
And there he lay on the tramway track,
Till the townward car was due.
It broke his neck, and his shoulder blade,
His legs, and arms, its broke,
And laid him out, a squirming trout,
'Twas then he awoke, and spoke!
Said he, "What's up? is the dancing done?
The waltz has made me sore!"
And wriggling out on the frosty ground,
He never spoke no more!
Heigho! the murder was caused by me,
Was never a soul who knew,
That I am the man, who chucked the man,
That the townward tram car slew!
And everybody on earth was done
With the murdered man, but me!
The very next night, in the corner seat,
I looked, and there was he!
I thought at first that he might be a twin,
And asked his thruppeny fare,
But he sneered at me, I turned away,
And left him sneering there!
Thinks I, I'll watch him, and jot my tot,
And when he is goin' to go,
I'll chuck him the same, as I did before,
For sake of the tramway co.
I calculated the list of fares,
Then turned around to look,
But hey! I'm blowed, if he hadn't gone off,
Gone! with his bloomin' hook!
But how it was done, or whither he went,
I never could guess, or think,
For the ventilators all were shut,
There wasn't an open chink!
And I was up at the door so tight,
He couldn't have passed me by,
I never did close an eye that night,
No lid of a bloomin' eye!
I hates to see the company done,
And that was a cheated fare,
I'd rather lose my regular meals,
Than wrong the company, there!
I'd rather work from ante M, six
Till three of the A.M. clock,
Than wrong the tramway co. of a coin,
That wasn't my legal stock.
There's nobody sees the ghost but me,
Because he's a sneaking sprite,
He always comes when I take my turn
On the latest car at night.
That's him! he's there in the corner seat,
The man that I killed is there,
I hate to have it to say, But no,
I can't recover my fare!
I've this American tink-a-ting,
And tickets of sortin's three,
But that embezzling raw will come
To cheat, and sneer at me.
I cawnt tell why, but he worry's me so,
I'd collar him if I could,
He hasn't a scruff, or any a crop,
O' the neck, or flesh or blood,
He hasn't a waistband, I could grip,
Nor anythink I could kick,
I'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah!
To think of it, makes me sick
He hasn't a face, to black his eye,
Or even a hat to block,
But all the same, in the corner there,
He gives the fares a shock!
He dosses himself in the favourite seat,
And while he's nestlin' there,
The passengers cawnt shove up to the end,
To make my regular fare.
For some insist that the seat is cold!
And others complain it's hot!
And some it's damp, and some remark,
It's a most infernal spot!
And some keep shovin' their sticks above,
To let in the atmosphere,
While others are closin' them up with a curse,
The thing is devilish queer.
It's pisonous hard on a man like me,
Who lives on what he can get,
But I'll have to try and see if I cawnt,
Jest manage to shuffle him yet.
Ha! there, he's gone! I knew that he would,
Waltz out of my bloomin' sight!
His regular trick with my thruppeny fare,
Now—jump with the car, good night."
[MARGATE SANDS.]
HE was five, or six, he four years old,
When they met on the Margate Sands,
And he gravely looked in her great blue eyes
With hold of her little fat hands,
And he said, "I love oo well Rosie;
I know, dat I'd rather have oo,
Dan all de lickel girls on de sands to-day,
Iss, even dan de girl in blue!"
"I'm glad oo do; and I love oo too!"
Thro' a heaven of golden hair,
Like silvery bells, was her sweet response,
On the ozoned rose lit air,
And then with his bucket, and spade, he built
For his love, on the sand, that day,
A castle, and pie, till the tide came in,
And washed his castle away.
In many a year thereafter 'twas,
In a box in Drury Lane,
Said a gent, as he used his opera glass,
"Yon lady's remarkably plain!"
And the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time,
When she saw his glass in hand,
"What an ugly fright!" they did not know,
They had loved, on the Margate sand!
JOHN MC KUNE
O PADDY MURPHY—carman of the stand in College Green—
You've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen,
We're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune,
Of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to Knockmaroon.
"O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long,
Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song,
For sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged McKune,
Behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to Knockmaroon.
'Twas in the busy period, whin the Fenians wor at war,
I mopes'd around the Dargle, on a newly painted car;
Whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon,
A man proposed the journey of a dhrive to Knockmaroon.
He might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run,
To Roosha or to Paykin, or the divil or the sun!
He might as well have axed me, for a Rocky Mountain jaunt;
So I bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "I can't!"
The boys to-night are risin' an' I darn't go impugn
Me car into the danger, of a dhrive to Knockmaroon!"
Thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone,
"In fact," siz I, "me car's engaged, in Bray, by Mick Malone;
Besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon,
For the army's out, I hear, upon the road to Knockmaroon!"
He didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car,
An' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war,
By pointin' a revolver at me nose! "I'm John McKune,
Dhrive on," siz he, "I'll guard you on the road to Knockmaroon!"
I never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before,
It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!
The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,
Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!
An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,
I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!
So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,
"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon."
"You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,
He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,
"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,—the featherbed,"—says he,
"I'll guard you, by the barracks of the Polis, at Glencree,
An' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the Royal Mail!
Whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!"
I gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip,
An' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip,
I bowled upon me journey, with the load of John McKune,
An' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to Knockmaroon;
An' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed,
The boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he said
Some hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him,
Presentin' arms, "Dhrive on," they cried, "God speed you Wicklow Jim!"
I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip,
We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip,
We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air,
When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?"
It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon,
Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"—
He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone,
Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on!
He leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more,
"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"
But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,
He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!
Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,
You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;
We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,
So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,
Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!
Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,
An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,
Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!"
I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose,
To bid him go to blakers!—but the barrel at me nose,
Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue,
An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue!
I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an' then,
He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again,
"You'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in Phœnix Park,"
He shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark,
An' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke,
As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke!
Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,
I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;
I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,
That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!
When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,
I read it on a paper,—in the Bowry of New York,—
Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,
Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"
He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor;
And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door,
He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon;
Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!"
He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip,
The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip,
He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart,
Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!
"Hands up!" they shouted "Damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb;
We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"
Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,
An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"
He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,
From collar of his cota—it was there to guard his life—
He hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon,
A pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of John McKune.
I'LL GO FOR A SOJER.
"O
He left me last night, an' "Maggie" says he,
"It's meself an' yerself mam that couldn't agree,
Be dang but I'll go for a sojer!"
He took all the cash that I had in the till,
I followed him round to the butt of the hill,
"Go back, or yerself is the first that I'll kill!"
Says he, "Whin I'm gone for a sojer!"
I hung to his neck, an' I axed him to stay,
Ye might as well ax for the night to be day;
But wringin' his neck from me, shoutin' "Hooray!"
Says he "Whoo! I'll go for a sojer!"
I set the dog afther him, thought that he'd stick
In the tail of his coat, he was up to the thrick;
For he turned on his heel, an' he skelped him a lick,
Of the stick, "I am off for a sojer!"
"O whisht! arrah there, look he's comin'!" she cried,
As far in the distance, her Jack she espied,
With Corporal Quirk on the march by his side,
He's comin' back home with a sojer.
When Johnnie came near enough to her to spake,
"O Johnnie Avourneen!" said she, "did ye take
The shillin'?" "No faith, for I'm too wide awake,
I only wint off for a sojer."
[ODE HERE!]
I
I buttered up the fur upon my tile,
I darned the ventilators in my garments here, and there,
And with my go-to-meeting stick, and smile,
I went to see a widow, I had courted long ago;
She had just been to the Probate for a pile!
Said she, "You are a person that I really do not know"
Her tone was rather cutting, like a file!
A serious alteration in her style;
I knew her when a maiden without guile,
She wouldn't even loan me from her pile,
A widow's mite; it agitates my bile!
[THE SMUGGLER'S FATE]
A Seaside Idyll this;
To teach how oft amiss,
Doth fall the fate of men
who would be free:
It makes me cry heigho,
In minor cadence low,
When I do mind me
Of the fate of three,
To shun hymenial perils,
And tired of mashing girls,
A smuggler's cave, they took beside the sea,
And formed a reckless crew,
That swallowed their own brew,
Of whiskey, punch and coffee, beer and tea;
But most of beer, and whiskey, as you see,
And that's the reason that I cry heigho!
They wrestled with the wave,
Then ran into their cave;
But telescopes above, were taking stock,
Thus fate was on their track,
And soon alas! alack!
The smiles of fate fell on them from the rock,
Thus mesmerised by mirth,
They climbed the rocks, and earth,
With fascinated recklessness alack!
My sympathy to show,
Again I say heigho!
'Twere better to their cave they had gone back.
Ah! me, the smugglers three,
Were blind their fate to see,
And lo! capitulation followed soon;
For spite of all their pains,
They soon were in the chains,
That fettered them in bondage 'neath the moon,
That shone on double case, of treble spoon;
Too like the moon, that wanes;
And that is why I sing in minor tune,
And cry again with sympathy, heigho!
Thus ever day by day,
In bondage still they lay,
Surrendering provisions, and their brew,
Until the crew did go
Into the town, and lo!
A parson had some triple work to do,
They're captives now,
hard labour is their due,
Alack! the hapless crew;
I cry again with sympathy, heigho!
[THE LATE FITZ-BINKS.]
I
An hour wherein the ghosts are wont to take their constitutional,
'Twas twenty-four o'clock; an hour that's oftimes deleterious
To many a liver wetted swell, pugnacious or emotional.
The beggared corporation lights, did flick in the nor'wester gale,
That blistering nose, and finger-tips, were loaded well with sleet,
When Binks harrangued a constable, "Good night, it's cold, you're looking pale,"
From where he backed a lamp-post, at the end of Brunswick Street.
"Ah! Sergeant," said Fitz-Binks, "It's late, or I could treat you decently,
And 'twouldn't be too dusty, if we had a flying drink;
But Chap, of Vic., is strict, they passed in Parliament so recently,"
The bobbie was a thirsty one, he winked a thirsty wink.
"Ha! ha!" said Binks, "You know the lines, so don't be too particular,
There's some back door that's open," said the constable, "you're right;
Just move an' there thro' yondher lane an' hide up perpendicular,
Beyant the lamp, I'll folly whin there's nobody in sight."
The thing was managed gracefully, and with an open sesamè,
The constable had stolen to a quiet bar with Binks,
Produced a clay, said he, "I hope yer honor won't think less of me,
To pull a pipe," "By Jove! I don't," said Binks, and bought the drinks.
The moment was so contraband, it gave unto that liquor bar,
A zest, he asked the constable to take another neat,
But lifting out his ticker, says the bobbie, "Well be quick or 'gar!
The sergeant might come whop on me! he's out upon his beat."
The constable decanted it, said he, "Howld on until I look,
Now fly!" said he, and while they dived again into the night,
He fished from out his overcoat, and deftly in his mouth he stuck,
A friendly lump of orris root, to make his breath all right.
That bobbie was a wily one, the act was rather opportune,
For they had scarcely managed to get half-way up the gut
When he was made aware that he must coin a whited whopper soon,
For hark! it was the tramping of the sergeant's heavy foot!
Said he, "We must dissimble, or I'm ruined, and a shapable,
Excuse I'll have to make!" * * *
* * * "What brings the two of you down here?"
"I'm makin' just a Pres'ner, Sir, he's dhrunk, an' he's incapable,"
Exclaimed the bobbie, gripping Binks, just under Binks's ear!
'Twas somewhat ominous for Binks, though he protested not, he chewed
The cud of thought, until he saw that sergeant out of sight;
He had not comprehended yet, the patronising turpitude
Of bobbies, who will take a treat, "well now," said he, "good night,"
But spake that constable, said he, "good night is best for you, ye see,
But it won't answer now for me, I darn't let you go,
It's quietly, and aisily, and dacently, you'll come wid me,
Yer dhrunk, an' yer incapable! I towld the sergeant so."
Fitz-Binks fell plump in mire of doubt, 'twas shocking! thus to realize,
Such treachery, and subterfuge, of ingrate sneak of sin,
But 60 X was bigger in his figure, by a deal of size,
And little Binks, was little, so the bobbie ran him in!
The sergeant,—he who took the charge—was grave, and staid, particular!
He entered Binks upon his book, and sent him to the cell,
And Binks did forfeit half a sov., for standing perpendicular,
Before the Beak, and leaving court, he cursed that bobbie well!
He said the act was scandalous, and of the gutter order, he,—
That bobbie was, "Ah whisht! ye see, an' howld yer tongue, shut up
It's fond of me, you ought to be, if I swore ye wor disordherly,
It would have cost ye exthra, or you'd maybe be put up!"
It used to be a sermonising habit, and methodical,
To tag a moral story, with a warning at its end
And bobbie entertainments in the midnight, might be quodical!
So leave him to his duty, if you'd keep him as a friend.
[A FUGITIVE KISS.]
I WAS on the carpet kneeling,
And fondly, and with feeling,
I pressed her metacarpus,
To my osculating lip,
When flexor,
And extensor,
Of stern Parental censor,
Incontinent did greet me,
And took me near the hip!
I rolled into the fender,
With broken silk suspender,
And motive movement sharp, as
Her Pater gave the tip!
He didn't back the winner,
For sport was not his grip.
The above brief but touching confession of disastrous failure, recorded by Timothy Pipkins,—a sporting student of St. Jago's Hospital,—is indicative of the Nemesis from an offended fate, that frequently foils the improvident hunter of matrimonial adventure.
THE BEDROOM CURSE AND THE MURDERED COCKATOO
T
And time there was, that jocks did funk, to mount, and run the race with him.
He won by length, he won by head, he saved the race by nose, and ear,
Till all the jocks, around their pints, exclaimed the thing was devilish queer.
But fortune is a gay coquette; by fickle fortune, Doolin lost,
Till every one who backed him, soon did find him out a fraud and frost.
I've seen him lose at Punchestown, I've seen him last, at Baldoyle too,
At Fairyhouse I've seen him fall—his colours then were black and blue.
He stood and scratched his head amain, beside the stable door one night;
He had been drinking tints of malt, and felt as he were almost tight.
A race was on to run next day; he totted up his chance to win,
When turning thro' the stable-door, he saw a gentleman within!
He thought the thing extremely strange, and asked the man, why he was there,
And stoutly gave the hint, that he was there, to sneak, and dose the mare.
The gentleman, he laughed a laugh. "I've backed the beast myself, by gum!
And you must win, or I will be the loser of a tidy sum."
"Well, look," said Doolin, "pon me sowl, I have me doubts that she's in form."
The stranger glared at Doolin, and with voice, as of a rising storm,
Accused the jock of practices, that were not meet for honest men,
And asked him how he won so oft, and could not pass the post again?
"Well, yis, yer honor, 'pon me faith, it puzzles me the same as you,
That I can't jerk the horse ahead, and win as once I used to do.
I never drink before the race. I always pray before I mount:
And yet I find it's all the same; my prayers have come to no account!"
"I used to curse and swear, but, ah, bedad, my swearing days are done!"
"Then how on earth could you expect to be the man who could get on?"
"I may not dare to curse and swear. I have a rich, religious aunt,
I'm in her will, and I would lose the fortune if I did, and shan't.
She often heard me curse and swear; but warning me one day, says she:
'If you go on to curse and swear, I'll have no more to do with thee!
I've made my will, and left you all my worldly goods, and money, too;
I've got it written, signed and sealed, so you be careful what you do!'
I promised her, upon my oath, that I would neither curse nor swear,
And I have kept my word, and I will keep my word to her, so there!
She lent to me a cockatoo, and cautioned me, I must not lack,
To treat him well; he's in the room I occupy, till she comes back."
"Ah, that, indeed. Well, here's a tip: when in the morning you get up,
Keep cursing all the time you dress, and swear at night, before you sup,
By this no human ear will catch the oathings that will make you light,
And take a load from off your mind, and you will win the race—good night."
That very night when he went home, he slyly locked the bedroom door,
And up and down around the room he scattered curses, and he swore,
He cursed before, he cursed behind, he cursed until his face was red,
By dint of cursing, and at last he stripped, and tumbled into bed.
Next morning many oaths he made, and sandwiched them with many a curse,
That sounded weird, and wry, and strange; his oathings they could not possibly be worse.
He cursed because he had to rise, he cursed to leave the bed so nice,
And warm, and soft, he cursed because the water was as cold as ice.
He cursed around the basin-stand, he cursed the water jug, alas!
The towel and the soap he cursed, with oath that almost broke the glass.
He cursed a button that was loose, he cursed the thread and needle, new,
He cursed the irritating starch, he cursed his washerwoman, too.
He curbed his braces—they were tied with bits of string, that broke in twain,
He fixed them with a pin; it stuck into his spine—he cursed again;
He cursed the postman for his knock—'twas by his tailor he was sent;
He cursed the landlady who brought the bill; and asked him for the rent.
Before, behind, above, below, at right or left, he was not loath
To drop a detonating curse, or fling an alternating oath.
He cursed the razor and the strop, he cursed the wart upon his nose,
He cursed his hair that wouldn't grow, he cursed the corns upon his toes.
He cursed a stud and button-hole that was too big; and in the street,
He saw a burly constable, and cursed the man upon his beat,
He cursed the helmet on his head, the number on his collar, too;
He cursed the stripe upon his arm, his mittens, and his suit of blue.
He cursed his baton right and left, he cursed it also upside down,
He cursed him to the county gaol and back again, and into town.
He cursed the lining of his sleeve, a bottle in his pocket—who
Had put it there he could not tell—he cursed his aunt, her cockatoo.
He cursed the laces of his boots, the cockatoo he cursed again,
Again he swore, unlocked the door, and gaily started for the train.
Hurrah! he won the race that day, and everything for him went right,
And surreptitiously he cursed and swore, and cursed again that night.
A painful shocking thing, that men should stoop to acts like this, for fame or pelf.
Thro' all my friends there's not a man would act so shocking but himself.
His calender grew bright again with fortune's sunlight o'er it cast,
But there must be an end to such, and retribution comes at last.
His aunt returned to town again; he gave her back her cockatoo,
'Twere better he had slain him first; it's what, I think, and so will you.
One day a mortuary note did come—alas! his aunt was dead!
He buried her with decent haste, and then her latest will was read.
But by that testament, he found that he had not been left her purse,
It intimated this, that he had taught her cockatoo to curse!
It intimated this, that she thro' that, had met her death, alas;
And in a codicil expressed a wish they'd send the bird to grass.
No mortal eye but his, beheld the deed he then essayed to do—
'Twas murder! for he wrung the neck of his dead aunt, her cockatoo,
No mortal eye beheld the deed; but things again with him went queer,
Till one day looking down the street, he saw a stranger prowling near.
The man who told him thus to swear, 'twas on a dark November eve,
He knew that stranger held a secret stone for him inside his sleeve;
He knew that he had run a score of heavy debt, was due for sin,
And darting back, he closed the door. Said he to Bridget "I'm not in.
Just say that I am out," said he, and quickly up the stairs he flew,
The stranger knocked. "Ah, let me see," and up the stairs he mounted, too.
The servant sneaked the key-hole then, and saw a struggle on the bed,
Then ran below—"Mavrone, asthore, come up, agrah, the lodger's dead!"
The moral is of gentlemen you do not know, you should beware:
You should not use your bedroom, for a hiding-place, to curse, and swear.
To curse a harmless constable upon his beat, is even worse;
'Twas he who caught the jurymen, who gave the verdict on his corse.
That shocking room is haunted now; it may not raise a shock in you,
But every dark November eve, there comes a shrouded cockatoo,
And gliding in his pallid shirt, a wretched spectre doth rehearse,
The record of his oathings dire! the cockatoo then shrieks a curse!
The man of easy habits then will see the deadly deed anew,
Of how the neck was wrung by him, who slew his aunt, her cockatoo.
The man of easy habits then, will see the evil sprite of gloom,
Come prowling for his guilty soul, and bear it down the trap of doom.
The landlady can never make the lodgers in that room content,
They never stay, beyond the day that she has asked them for the rent,
But men are not so wicked now; they will not swear an oath for pelf.
They're much about the same as you—almost exactly like myself.
[A GUN SOLO.]
BY a lonely dried up fountain,
In a purple Irish mountain,
My talk was interesting,
With a female of that spot,
When she sprang from off my knees;
For rasping thro' the trees,
A bullet stopped our jesting,
I started at the shot!
"It's my husband's gun!" she murmured,
I sauntered from the spot!!
[THE SEMI-GRAND PIANO]
I WAS walking thro' the darkness of
The pleasant town of Birr,
'Twas late, and very lonely,
You could not hear a stir
When turning round a corner, I heard the music sweet,
Of a semi-grand piano, and a singing down the street.
You will say it's not uncommon to hear the pleasant sound,
Of a semi-grand piano upon a midnight round,
But O the silver music, of the voice that mingled there,
With the semi-grand piano, was wonderful, and rare!
I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain,
I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again,
And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd
"I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade."
And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill,
All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill,
I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old,
Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold!
It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same,
It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name,
And if it doesn't bore you, I'll sing you just a verse,
You'll say it might be better; but I think it might be worse.
"O lady who was singing
With happy semi-grand,
A troubadour is waiting,
He's asking for your hand,
Carrissima! Mia! Agrah!
From other lands I roam,
Be ready with the trousseau,
I'll come, and take you home!
Recordar, how I love you,
This lay of mine will tell,
O willow! willow! wirrasthrue!
Mavrone! I love you well!
L'ami l'amo l'amantibus
Ri foldherando dum,
Mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah!
Get up your traps, and come!"
It wasn't all Italian, this song of mine you see,
It wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee,
'Twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made,
I think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade.
I felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new,
'Twas making an impression, a thing I always do,
As tho' the middle ages, were back again in Birr,
Hark! hark behind her lattice, at last I heard a stir!
O there's nothing like the feeling that passes through the mind
When you know a lovely lady is pulling up her blind,
And my heart was all a-flutter, in that lonely street of Birr,
When I heard the curtains rustle, with the sylphid hand of her.
I saw the window open, I saw a face to scarce!
I heard a voice that muttered "What are ye doin' there?"
And over me was emptied a full and flowing can!
Which made me hurry homewards, a wet and wiser man!
I sang my song that midnight, with voice of dulcet tone,
My dulcet voice next morning was like a bagpipe groan,
A blanket round my shoulders, my feet were in a pan,
Some doctor's stuff beside me, a sad and wiser man!
[CANTICRANK.]
I
You would never for a moment say that Nature took the prize,
For the elegance of figure, or tint upon her hair,
Of Mother Becca Canticrank, you wouldn't like her eyes;
Her nose you couldn't admirate,
Her teeth are in a chippy state,
Her voice is like a corncrake, her manner like a knife;
A cutting way of dealing
With sentimental feeling,
You wouldn't altogether care to choose her for a wife.
But ah! she is the casket of a compensating excellence,
The odour of a sanctity peculiarly her own,
She knows she is, without a doubt,
Intensely moral out and out,
And so she sits in judgment on a self-constructed throne.
As Censor of corruptousness,
Of Nature in voluptousness,
She rails in holy horror, with a Puritanic rage,
That beauty's form is shocking,
In semi-raiment mocking,
Her own upholstered scragginess in picture or on stage.
Her loathing is the ballet;
For lo! from court and alley,
The thousand Cinderellas are fairy clad and bright,
A direr deed of sinning—
By dint of beauty winning
Their bread, than by the needle, in the murky candlelight,
O Mother Becca Canticrank,
The ways of earth are very rank;
But women live by beauty, intelligence, and toil.
And toil is overcrowded, Mam,
Intelligence is got by cram;
And what's for lovely Sally of the garret, shall she spoil?
No! pray for her, and set her,
As toiler for the sweater,
Or freeze her in the winter, on your doorstep in the street,
With penance to her bones,
By whiting up the stones,
That you may moil her handiwork with smirch of dirty feet.
Or pray for her, and crape her,
As vestal to the draper,
To do the woful penance, of Canticranks to please;
Till worn out and weary,
Unto her bedroom eyrie,
She staggers up at midnight, then bring her to her knees;
Do anything, but let her
Enjoy a way, to better
The miserable midnight of her life, into the day
Of brighter fortune's light;
Aye, crush her back to night,
And teach her how to thank you, by kneeling down to pray.
Yes, hound away the ballet,
Destroy the chance of Sally,
For she has many prizes in the marriage market won.
By hypocritic prudity,
Go boom the semi-nudity,
Of drawing room and salon, for the first and second son.
[CAUGHT IN THE BREACH.]
O
He played with female hearts;
'Twas reprehensible, as you may guess;
But still it was his way,
Continued he to play,
Until a maiden asked him for redress,
And folly bore the fruit,
Of breach of promise suit,
He owns a couple of thousand pounds the less,
He's a sorry man to-day, he does confess,
And the wily way of woman he does bless,
And his pipe is all that he will now caress,
He doesn't care to think of it, the mess!
[A KLEPTOMANIAC'S DOOM.]
T
A golden zone of strawberry leaves, and rays with pips of pearls,
Tho' he was called an Englishman his blood was Prussian blue,
Which unto his complexion gave a gallimaufry hue,
The Earl of Masherdudom, he was just as he began,
He seemed in perpetuity, a fossil ladies' man,
And yet he wasn't what you'd call an absolute success,
He hankered to be more, than most; he wasn't, he was less,
For he was poisoned with the grip of miser hungered greed,
And racking rent upon the screw, he made his tenants bleed.
He loved his Parson; for he taught that gold was dross, and scutch,
To men who of the sinful chink, had not got overmuch;
He taught by unctions homily, how really false, the leaven
Of gold is to a tenant here, compared with gold in Heaven;
But man with base ingratitude is rife, they did not bless
The Earl of Masherdudom, so he wasn't a success.
One day 'twas ruminating thus, alone, and in his club,
"My politics do fail" he said "to fail, aye there's the rub,
I was a high conservative; I am, what am I now?
An India rubber ball of wind, a pinhole in my brow,
Evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust,
A something must be done I wot, I wis a something must;"
He took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck,
He poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck,
Into his æsophagus then decanting it straightway
He lit a weed,—he was a man who never smoked a clay,—
"Oddsbodkins to that liberal!"—He swore in antient guise
Of quaintly oath—"He's more than I, I wot, for he is wise
Unto the leading, and the light
That gives to men a glim
Of what they know is just, I'm but
A farthing dip to him,"
Twas thro' his indignation he did make a vulgar slip
And coined so rude a simile,—in re the farthing dip;
"I find my brains have broken loose, my occiputs to let,
But ha! I've got a last resource, that none may wot of yet,
I'll take my diamond ring to-night, and use it round his panes,
And in a mask I'll burgle him, and steal his liberal brains!"
He quaffed the glorious fizz again, a swill both deep and strong
Nor witted he, nor wotted he, it was a lawless wrong
To steal another's brains. He then invested in some crape,
And putty, thus to make his nose more liberal of shape;
He turned his coat, its lining was of party colored trim,
And got a life preserver "now I'll go and burgle him!"
That night
He sneaked the toepath o'er,
With serpentine device,
And round a postal pillar red,
He scouted slyly twice,
Until on india rubber soles,
At length he reached the goal,
And up the garden wall
He clomb,
And down the wall he stole!
Then knotting on his mask of crape, with spry ambition fain,
He slid, and worked his diamond ring around the window pane,
He crept into the servant's hall, no maid, or cook was there;
He took his boots, and gaiters off, and climbed along the stair;
He sought to catch the banister, to guide his pilot fist;
But headlong down the flight he fell, the banister he missed!
And lo! from every room above, the shrieks of horror rose,
From girls in papered tresses, bereft of daylight clothes,
And full for twenty minutes by the clock, their cries increase,
Of "ho! Police" and "robbers hi!" and "murder ho Police!"
The butler fired a pistol shot, the cook discharged a spit!
The boots let fly a bootjack, and the footman all his kit!
The groom ran down the stable stairs with horsey oathings dire,
And a constable came knocking said he "are you's on fire?"
He put his bull's eye on him "Ha! well here's a putty case!
You needn't hide, behind that putty nose upon your face;
I'm on the 'wanted' tack for you a couple of months or three,
So don't you be disorderly, move on, and come with me,"
They put him on his country, and the evidence was queer,
But said his Lordship solemnly,
"The crime that we have here,
Is rare in English jurisprud', a noble drinks, and goes
With mask of crape upon his eyes, and putty on his nose,
To burgle certain premises, but drink being in his head,
Mistook the house, attacked his own, and burgled it instead!
Now this is queer; but I have here, a very antient law,
And from its context, you will mark, I this deduction draw,
That should a man by suicide, attempt to sneak away,
From curses that grow thick on him, we make the coward stay,
And if a man by putty nose, and mask, and diamond ring,
Do burgle his own home, It's just a similar sort of thing,
And so unto the upper house, for thy remaining years,
I sentence thee!" and with his wig, the judge mopped up his tears.
[AN ILL WIND BLEW HIM GOOD!]
I WAS to the windward walking,
Of love and marriage talking,
When, zephyr like a feather,
Took my topper on its wing
And I hollo'd! and I hollo'd!
While another fellow followed,
It stopped, they came together,
With his foot upon the thing!
Æsthetic oaths I uttered,
A threat for damage muttered,
And my popping of the question,
Had also lifted wing.
She's wedded to another,
And now I cannot smother,
My blessing on that zephyr,
And that fugitive top hat,
For had I not been checked,
My happiness was wrecked,
I wouldn't be so rosy
To-day, and round and fat.
[THE GHOST OF HIRAM SMIKE.]
S
Of roses, her complexion, belike a charming dream.
Her eyes were sapphire lighted, her lips, with peachen bloom,
Paterre of pearls were framing, but in her heart a tomb;
For many loves lay buried, that cemet'ry below—
O fie on it for ladies, with love, to trifle so.
At last unto a stranger, her stony heart, did strike,
His wealth was most romantic, his name was Hiram Smike.
'Twas on her mother's sofa he looked at her, said he,
"I'm kinder sweet on you, love, will you accept of me?
I've travelled half this orange, and never saw your likes;
I calculate you oughter join the wigwams of the Smikes."
His wealth was most romantic, she answered him with tact,
Said he, "I'm off to-morrow, my trunk is ready packed;
I must be off to 'Frisco, to see my corn is barned,
Don't marry in my absence, for if you do, I'm darned!
Now play some tune, that's proper, to show that you're engaged,
Expressive of your promise, and how your heart is caged;
Strike up some soothin ballad, to tell how you'll be true,
And I'll work in a chorus, of Yankee-doodle-do."
Her fairy fingers wandered, along the ivory keys,
Of her new rosewood cottage, like warble thro' the trees;
She sang, that she'd be faithful, all in a soothing strain,
While he worked in a chorus—and then he crossed the main.
It was a level twelve months, a fortnight, and a day,
Since Hiram Smike departed, and yet he stayed away;
But she did wait no longer, and they were back from church,
It was the wedding breakfast, she's left him in the lurch.
"A health unto the bridegroom," and up they rose to drink;
When hark! a cry was uttered that made the lady think;
A voice of an old woman, employed upon that day,
To do some extra tending, "look here," said she, "I say,
I guess you do not know me because I've shaved my chin,
I'm dressed like an old woman, but I'm a man within;
I'm Hiram Smike, your lover, who left the Yankee shore,
To come back here to wed you, I'm darned for evermore.
You've lifted me like thunder, but you shall never boast
Of how you jilted Hiram—I'm off to make a ghost!"
He said, tucked up his flounces, and, fluttering through the door,
He left them all astounded, and he was seen no more.
Next morning in the Dodder, upon the city side,
A man beheld a woman, come floating down the tide.
And far away in London, a bride, and bridegroom fled
From their hotel at midnight—a ghost was round the bed!
They sought a second lodging, but in the room, as host,
Was waiting to receive them that sad, intruding ghost.
They tried a cabman's shelter, but it was all in vain,
That tantalizing spectre was by their sides again.
Aye, even in the daylight, in Rotten Row, aloud
They heard an awful murmur like water thro' the crowd;
A moan as from neuralgia did on each tympan strike,
"His ghost is on the war path avenging Hiram Smike."
They tried the penny steam-boats, the railway underground,
The busses and the tramcars, but still they always found
That busy ghost around them, their lives could not be worse.
"O thunder!" shrieked the bridegroom, "I'll seek for a divorce."
But when the court was opened, the judge refused to sit,
For every pleading lawyer had got a sneezing fit;
And then there came the earthquake, the ruddy sunsets came,
When lo! quite unexpected, one night, they saw a flame.
A flash like a vesuvian, did by the table strike,
With a Satanic whisper, "You're wanted, Hiram Smike."
And from that curious moment, there is no more to tell,
They're having every comfort, I hear they're doing well.
[WHY DID YE DIE?]
"O
You're white, an' cowld an' still,
I'm all alone, an' by your side,
Upon the bleak damp hill.
The beatin' from your heart is gone!
The starlight from your eye,
Mavrone Asthore, O Pat agra!
Arrah! why did ye die?
A sthrake of blood is on your breast,
An' blood is on your brow,
O let me die meself, an' rest,
It's all I care for now.
I want to go where you are gone,
An' in your grave to lie!
Ah! Pat avrone, I'm all alone,
Arrah! why did ye die?
Me curse is on the men avick!
That brought you out this night,
That took you off an' made me sick,
An' coaxed ye to the fight,
O sure 'twas wrong to give your life,
An' lave your wife to cry,
Ah! Pat you should have stayed at home,
Arrah! why did ye die?
You wouldn't take me warnin', Pat,
An' shun the moonlight boys,"—
"Ah! Biddy whisht! wake out of that,
You're dhramin'! stop yer noise!
Ye've dhragged the blankets off of me,
I'm jammed against the wall,
An' you're bawlin' all for nothin' for
I'm not dead at all!"
A PRETTY LITTLE LAND I KNOW
A
Surrounded by the pearly spray;
It's where the em'rald shamrocks grow
In fertile propagation.
The great bear in the polar sky
Can see it at the fall of day,
When peeping with his glistening eye,
Towards Britain's mighty nation.
For when the sun is rolling down
Into the ocean for the night,
In all his radiant golden crown,
And purple-flecker'd rays;
While tucking on his dreaming cap,
Inside the crimson curtains bright,
The great warm-hearted kingly chap,
Looks back with loving gaze.
And where the shining waters dance
Across the wild Atlantic deeps,
He takes a sudden, pleasing glance;
And when the twilight cometh grey
On other shores, with coaxing glow,
He winks his eye before he sleeps,
Upon that charming land I know,
That's jewel'd in the pearly spray.
There, lore of bravest deeds enshrine
Great phantoms of historic days;
There, myrtle wreaths of memory twine
O'er many storied graves;
There, many marble brows are bound
By sculpture of the poet's bays,
The while their souls are still in sound
From harp strings to the waves.
With glorious wealth of hair in curls,
And beauty, real elating, boys,
It's there you'll find most darling girls
In plentiful diffusion.
And Cupid, with his bow and darts,
His murders perpetrating, boys,
Don't care at all what crowds of hearts
He slays by love's delusion.
[HOW THEY ENLIST]
WO guardsmen, and a Dublin boy
Were drinking in a bar
The Dublin boy was standing treat,
Unto the men of War,
And thus to one, he speaketh so—
The taller of the two—
"I wonder how men come to go
And list, now how did you?
The soldier grinned a stately grin,
In military style,
He meant it for the Dublin boy
As patronising smile!
"It kind of sort like worries me,—
This was the cause of that,
I always liked to feed on lean,
I couldn't bolt the fat!
"One day, it was at dinner, see,
A big disgustin' lump
Of fat, was dumped upon my plate,
I got the bloomin' hump!
I merely took the thing upon
My fork, and with a sigh,
I let my father have the fat
Whop in his bloomin' eye!
"A sign of partnership dissolved
Between my boss, and me,
I took the shillin', and became
A guardsman, as you see,
But there! my appetite has been
Most tricky like, and mean,
Now I can eat a pound of fat,
And I detest the lean!"
[THE KINDERGARTEN WAY.]
I N a perfumed orange grove, ajacent to Cordova,
I taught the English Grammar unto a lady gay;
The verb "to osculate"
I taught to conjugate,
Corporeally depicted, in kindergarten way.
But by eavesdropping trick,
A caballero quick,
With lapse of condescension,—
But where I may not mention,—
In dexter handed flick,
The Spanish verb to "stick"
Corporeally inflicted, in kindergarten way.
The verb "to do," he did it,
For Spanish laws forbid it;
To translate free,
Corporeallee,
The verb "to love," and practice it,
Upon the pupil, 'tis unfit,
To illustrate,
Its active state,
When passive hate,
Behind a gate,
Doth lie in wait,
To teach the verb "to suffer,"
In kindergarten way;
He taught the verb "to suffer,"
By impromt sword display,
I learnt the verb "to suffer!"
And would not, could not stay,
So left upon that day,
My fee he did not pay,
His ingrate, Spanish way!
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
ON
THE BARNEY BRADEY BROCHURES
BY
WM. THEODORE PARKES.
"It is pleasant to turn from these gloomy details to the hearty, rollicking, honest, joyous spirit of Barney Bradey. He sings the Prince's Installation to the tune to which Ingoldsby sang the Queen's Coronation, and with very much of the same spirit and success. The details are full of real good humour, and are thus picturesquely concluded with a touch of the Ulster King at Arms.... Barney Bradey's eye was pretty well everywhere but it failed to see one incident of the day.... All this is worthy of being sung by such a bard as the author of 'St. Patrick's Ruction.'"—Athenæum.
"Most people know Barney Bradey, and the more you know of him the better you like him. Perhaps very few of your comic poets have achieved such legitimate success as Barney, whether in 'St. Patrick's Ruction' or, the 'Queer Papers,' or even in the fugitive pieces which come to us from time to time. The whole story of Napoleon's war is told in verse, with a genuine Irish humour, abounding in good points and suggestive images. The fun is quite of an original kind, and is really sui generis. The author has great command of language, expressive yet simple, and manages meter with uncommon skill. The strange inversions, provoking hyberbole, and quaint terms characteristic of Irish humour, are here lavishly displayed; and the man who would not laugh with Barney, while yet appreciating his satirical truth, must be unhappy indeed. The range of thought, though extensive, is very germane, and the humourist discovers a tinge of that Byronic happiness in soaring high and still keeping the game in sight. We regret that we cannot quote a stanza or two from 'The Christening Cake' to prove to our readers that our praise is as well deserved as it is genuine."—Freeman's Journal.
"This is a humourous extravaganza, by the author of 'St. Patrick's Ruction' and other comic rhymes, and is characterized by the same cleverness and quaint drollery. The 'baptism of fire,' the proclamations, letters, telegrams, projects, and incidents of the war, are represented in fantastic forms of illustration. The effect is as ridiculous as the author intends it to be."—Daily Express.
"Welcome Barney!—In many a quaint, merry, and most grotesque "fytte," our rollicking Irish Rabelais runs over the most marked opening incidents of the Franco-Prussian war. All the outlandishness of diction; the funniness of Hibernian phonetic spelling; the strange, wild, yet always true, similes and comparisons; the madcap, boisterous, merry-making that characterized 'St. Patrick's Ruction,' and the 'Queer Papers,' are repeated, equalled, aye, surpassed in the Christening Cake. Barney's history of the war ends at Saarbruck. We long to hear him on Weissembourg, Sedan, Strasbourg, Metz, and Paris. We lately noticed 'St. Patrick's Ruction,' a work as full of real Irish witticisms as any we ever perused, and one that has won its author unstinted praise. The orthography of the present brochure is as comically outrageous, the similes and comparisons as far-fetched, and yet as true to nature—the whole dainty tome as full of genuine, rollicking, open-hearted Irish fun and humour as 'The Installation' or 'Sods from Puncherstown.' It is pathetic, comical—true to nature, true to art."—Tyrone Constitution.
"It is seldom in these days that one comes upon anything thoroughly and undeniably Irish in the matter of witty writing. But the productions of 'Barney Bradey' are a refreshing exception to this doleful rule. In 'St. Patrick's Ruction,' and the 'Queer Papers,' we rejoiced to find that an original had arisen among us; and now, in another production, we are pleased to see our first opinion verified. The design of the piece lies in the combination of fifteen poems in one 'harmonious whole.' The story ends with the capture of Saarbruck, and all throughout runs a vein of most pungent and telling satire."—Post.
"The clever author of 'St. Patrick's Ruction has presented the public with another exceedingly witty pamphlet. The language is well chosen, and is sure heartily to amuse the reader; there is a vein of well-directed satire in every line that exhibits the thoughtfulness of the apparent careless writer."—Limerick Chronicle.
"Barney sings in Anglo-Irish doggrel of the most exquisite and original kind. His readers, whose name is legion, will find him quite as entertaining in those 'Queer Papers' as when his comet-like genius first blazed upon the world in 'St. Patrick's Ruction."—Limerick Reporter.
"Barney Bradey is a poet of no ordinary powers. It is not going too far to say that he has acquitted himself to his own satisfaction, and also to that of others. His orthography is peculiar, and his fun and wit are thoroughly Irish. The droll and clever Barney is a queer character, but he is so full of humour and says so many witty things that he must become a favourite with every one."—Dundalk Democrat.
"This poem under notice is merry in the extreme, and displays an accurate knowledge of Irish character, and of the peculiar English in which it likes to display itself. The author wishes everybody to be agreeable, and sets a good example himself. Here is a description of the ladies present at the installation service, full of the gentlest satire.... In addition, there is prose, entitled 'Sods from the Turf of Puncherstown.' It makes merry, but most good-humouredly, with everybody and everything, and by many readers will be regarded as fully equal to most of Artemus Ward's attempts. We have not seen his 'Tails and Ballids,' but it is spoken of highly, and we do not think the present attempt is deserving of less praise."—Portadown News.
"This is a whimsical and clever little production, written in a style of orthography peculiarly its own, and conveying a vast amount of humour. The lines entitled 'O Law! there's a Star from the Sky,' are rich and full of humorous comicality, greatly heightened by their droll versification."—Derry Journal.
"The grand processions, crushing, crowding, cheering, are all graphically detailed by the poetic 'Barney.' Altogether, a very pleasant hour may be spent in company with our facetious friend, 'Barney Bradey.'"—Carlow Sentinel.
"Barney Bradey has acquired considerable success in his treatment of Irish wit and character, partly in prose and partly in poetry: the latter runs on in a clear stream of merriment, while the former, with rollicking fun, possesses an undercurrent of light wit, and occasionally of caustic sarcasm. Taken as a whole the little book is exceedingly readable, and as a bold venture on a very delicate field of literature, may be looked on as a decided success."—Herald.
"Barney Bradey will cause a merry laugh to many by his piquant humour and droll conceits. They display at times an acuteness of observation and a pungency of wit which is heightened by the quaint mode of expression used."—King's County Chronicle.
"Over Barney Bradey's Papers every reader is sure to laugh. They are full of fun and jollity. The only fault is their brevity."—Malvern News.
"Barney Bradey is one gem of the Isle. He understands the 'boys,' and expresses their opinions in a very cute sensible way."—Kirkcudbrightshire Advertiser.
"Barney Bradey's Papers are so droll that we cannot do better than give our readers the one 'Matrimonial.'"—Eastern Post.
"Barney Bradey's Papers will afford considerable amusement.'—Ayrshire Express.
"Barney Bradey's Papers are full of genuine humour."—Greenwich Gazette.
"The facetious style has an excellent exponent in the person of Barney Bradey."—Brighton Daily News.
"Prose or verse come equally facile to his exceedingly humorous and racy pen."—Ecclesiastical Gazette.
