“‘That will do,’ said I, as seizing my hat, I rushed out of the house, and hurrying to the beach, took a boat for the ship. Exactly half an hour had elapsed since my landing, but even those short thirty minutes had fully as many reasons that although there may be few more amusing, there are some safer places to live in than the Green Isle.”
A general burst of laughter followed the cornet’s story, which was heightened in its effect by the gravity with which he told it.
“And after all,” said Maurice Quill, “now that people have given up making fortunes for the insurance companies by living to the age of Methuselah, there’s nothing like being an Irishman. In what other part of the habitable globe can you cram so much adventure into one year? Where can you be so often in love, in liquor, or in debt; and where can you get so merrily out of the three? Where are promises to marry and promises to pay treated with the same gentleman-like forbearance; and where, when you have lost your heart and your fortune, are people found so ready to comfort you in your reverses? Yes,” said Maurice, as he filled his glass up to the brim, and eyed it lusciously for a moment,—“yes, darling, here’s your health; the only girl I ever loved—in that part of the country, I mean. Give her a bumper, lads, and I’ll give you a chant.”
“Name! name! name!” shouted several voices from different parts of the table.
“Mary Draper!” said Maurice, filling his glass once more, while the name was re-echoed by every lip at table.
“The song! the song!”
“Faith, I hope I haven’t forgotten it,” quoth Maurice. “No; here it is.”
So saying, after a couple of efforts to assure the pitch of his voice, the worthy doctor began the following words to that very popular melody, “Nancy Dawson:”—
MARY DRAPER.
AIR,—Nancy Dawson.
Don’t talk to me of London dames,
Nor rave about your foreign flames,
That never lived, except in drames,
Nor shone, except on paper;
I’ll sing you ‘bout a girl I knew,
Who lived in Ballywhacmacrew,
And let me tell you, mighty few
Could equal Mary Draper.
Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,
Her hair was brown of deepest hue,
Her foot was small, and neat to view,
Her waist was slight and taper;
Her voice was music to your ear,
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear,
Oh, the like I ne’er again shall hear,
As from sweet Mary Draper.
She’d ride a wall, she’d drive a team,
Or with a fly she’d whip a stream,
Or may be sing you “Rousseau’s Dream,”
For nothing could escape her;
I’ve seen her, too,—upon my word,—
At sixty yards bring down her bird,
Oh, she charmed all the Forty-third,
Did lovely Mary Draper.
And at the spring assizes’ ball,
The junior bar would one and all
For all her fav’rite dances call,
And Harry Dean would caper;
Lord Clare would then forget his lore;
King’s Counsel, voting law a bore,
Were proud to figure on the floor,
For love of Mary Draper.
The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too,
Were all her slaves, and so would you,
If you had only but one view,
Of such a face and shape, or
Her pretty ankles—But, ohone,
It’s only west of old Athlone
Such girls were found—and now they’re gone—
So here’s to Mary Draper!
“So here’s to Mary Draper!” sang out every voice, in such efforts to catch the tune as pleased the taste of the motley assembly.