‘You are welcome to old Ireland,’ exclaimed my comrade Dennis, holding out his hand to me as I stepped from the boat out of which he had sprung an instant before, ‘welcome to the land of potatoes and buttermilk. Didn’t I tell you that we would live to see this day? May I never die if this isn’t the happiest, minute of my life! my heart’s so light that I think I could jump over the moon. Come along, my gay fellow, we have been long together, “and in spite of wind and weather we will moisten well our clay”—I mean by and by, when we get to our billets. Did you ever drink any potheen, Joseph? Och! there never was drink like it in the universe, for if you wish to be in any mood at all, it’ll do the job for ye. If you want to fight, potheen will make you face the ould boy himself; if you have any notion of making love, with a bumper or two of Inishone you might malvader the heart of Diana; and if crying is your game, it will make your heart as soft as prapeen. Go to the first wake you can in this country, and you’ll see what wonders it works; it will do your heart good to see how it makes the tears trickle down their cheeks, and sets them a counting their pedigree back to the time when Adam was a little boy; ay, indeed, (but I must whisper it,) I have seen it make a voteen of many an old woman that said her Paternave dry enough at any other time. Och, pure potheen’s the liquor for me,—it beats brandy, rum, and gin, out of all razon.’
Whatever I might think of the extravagant praise which Dennis had bestowed on his favourite whisky, I certainly participated in his joyous feelings, and felt an affection at that moment for every thing living, from the half naked urchins that ran about the cabin doors, down to the pigs, cocks, and hens, that participated in their sports, food, and lodging.
We were billeted that day in Cork, on a respectable tradesman,—a kind, cheerful fellow, who exerted himself to make us comfortable; and after a dinner such as we had been long strangers to, he insisted upon us joining him in a tumbler of punch.
‘Come, my dear,’ said the landlord to his wife, who was present, ‘be kind enough to sing us a song.’
‘With all my heart,’ said she, and she began the well-known song of ‘Erin-go-bragh.’ The air is uncommonly plaintive and beautiful, but few who have not heard it can conceive the expression and pathos which an enthusiastic Irishwoman can throw into it. Such was our hostess, and she poured out her strains in a voice so delightfully sweet that my heart thrilled to its core: no doubt association and the state of our minds aided the effect, but I never felt so much pleasure from music. Recollections of former scenes and feelings crowded on my memory, and my eyes filled with tears. Dennis sat entranced in his chair trying to swallow the emotion that he was ashamed to show, while his eye was fixed on the singer as if on some heavenly vision. She had herself caught the infection, and as she repeated
‘Ah! where is the mother that watch’d o’er my childhood?’
her voice faltered, and the tear trembled in her eye. Dennis could contain himself no longer; he covered his face with his hands and wept aloud; a pause ensued, but it was a pause occasioned by revealings of the soul, too purely intellectual for expression.
Silence was broken by our hostess.
‘Poor fellows!’ said she, ‘I see the dreadful scenes you have witnessed have not hardened your hearts: they still beat true to nature.’
‘Oh,’ said Dennis, ‘there’s more in that song than you have any notion of; many’s the time I sung it when I was far from home, and, when I little expected to see old Ireland or my poor mother again—surely it was an Irishman that made that song.’