“Don't be crowdin' an me that a way. There it is now,—ye 're tearin' the cloak off the back o' me! Divil receave the note I 'll sing, if ye don't behave! And look at his honor up there, with a tenpenny bit in the heel of his fist for me. The Lord reward your purty face; 't is yourself has the darlin' blue eyes! Bad scran to yez, ye blaggards! look at my elegant bonnet the way you 've made it!”
“Arrah! rise the tune, and don't be blarneying the young gentleman,” said a voice from the crowd,—and then added, in a lower but very audible tone, “Them chaps hasn't a farthin' beyond their pay,—three and ninepence a day, and find themselves in pipeclay!”
A rude laugh followed this insolent speech; and the ballad-singer, whose delay had only been a ruse to attract a sufficient auditory, then began to a very well-known air:
“Come hither, M.P.'s, and I 'll tell
My advice, and I 'm sure you 'll not mock it:
Whoe'er has a country to sell,
Need never want gold in his pocket.
Your brother a bishop shall be;
Yourself—if you only will make a
Voice in our ma-jo-rity—
We'll make you chief judge In Jamaica.
Tol, lol de rol, tol de rol lay!”
The mob chorus here broke in, and continued with such hearty enthusiasm that I lost the entire of the next verse in the tumult.
“Your father, they say, is an ass,
And your mother not noted for knowledge;
But he 'll do very well at Madras,
And she shall be provost of college.
Your aunt, lady's-maid to the Queen;
And Bill, if he 'll give up his rakin',
And not drunk in daytime be seen,
I 'll make him a rosy archdeacon.
Tol, lol de rol, tol de rol lay!
“A jollier set ne'er was seen
Than you 'll be, when freed from your callin';
With an empty house in College Green,—
What an elegant place to play ball in!
Ould Foster stand by with his mace,
He 'll do mighty well for a marker;
John Toler—”
“Here 's the pollis!” said a gruff voice from the crowd; and the word was repeated from mouth to mouth in every accent of fear and dread; while in an instant all took to flighty—some dashing down obscure lanes and narrow alleys, others running straight onwards towards Dame Street, but all showing the evident apprehension they felt at the approach of these dreaded officials. The ballad' singer alone did not move,—whether too old or too infirm to trust to speed, or too much terrified to run, I know not; but there she stood, the last cadence of her song still dying on her lips, while the clattering sounds of men advancing rapidly were heard in the distant street.
I know not why,—some strange momentary impulse, half pity, half caprice, moved me to her rescue, and I called out to the sentry, “Let that woman pass in!” She heard the words, and with an activity greater than I could have expected, sprang into the barrack yard, while the police passed eagerly on in vain pursuit of their victims.
I remained motionless in the window-seat, watching the now silent street, when a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and there stood the figure of the ballad-singer, her ragged cloak gathered closely across her face with one hand, while with the other she held the bundle of printed songs, her only stock-in-trade.