Just as I was closing my eyes to a twelve hours’ slumber, I distinguished the general roar of “stole away!” which seemed almost to raise up the very roof of old Matt Querns’s cottage.
At noon, next day, a scene of a different nature was exhibited. I found, on waking, two associates by my side, in as perfect insensibility as that from which I had just aroused. Our pipers appeared indubitably dead! but the fiddler, who had the privilege of age and blindness, had taken a hearty nap, and seemed as much alive as ever.
The room of banquet had been re-arranged by the old woman: spitchcocked chickens, fried rashers, and broiled marrowbones appeared struggling for precedence. The clean cloth looked fresh and exciting: jugs of mulled and buttered claret foamed hot upon the refurnished table; and a better or heartier breakfast I never enjoyed in my life.
A few members of the jovial crew had remained all night at their posts; but I suppose alternately took some rest, as they seemed not at all affected by their repletion. Soap and hot water restored at once their spirits and their persons; and it was determined that the rooms should be ventilated and cleared out for a cock-fight, to pass time till the approach of dinner.
In this battle-royal, every man backed his own bird; twelve of which courageous animals were set down together to fight it out—the survivor to gain all. In point of principle, the battle of the Horatii and Curiatii was re-acted; and in about an hour, one cock crowed out his triumph over the mangled body of his last opponent;—being himself, strange to say, but little wounded. The other eleven lay dead; and to the victor was unanimously voted a writ of ease, with sole monarchy over the hen-roost for the remainder of his days; and I remember him, for many years, the proud and happy commandant of his poultry-yard and seraglio. They named him “Hyder Ally;”—and I do not think a more enviable two-legged animal existed.
Fresh visitors were introduced each successive day, and the seventh morning had arisen before the feast broke up. As that day advanced, the cow was proclaimed to have furnished her full quantum of good dishes; the claret was upon its stoop; and the last gallon, mulled with a pound of spices, was drunk in tumblers to the next merry meeting!—All now retired to their natural rest, until the evening announced a different scene.
An early supper, to be partaken of by all the young folks, of both sexes, in the neighbourhood, was provided in the dwelling-house, to terminate the festivities. A dance, as usual, wound up the entertainment; and what was then termed a “raking pot of tea,”[[19]] put a finishing stroke, in jollity and good-humour, to such a revel as I never saw before, and, I am sure, shall never see again.
[19]. A raking pot of tea always wound up an Irish jollification. It consisted of a general meeting about day-break, in the common hall, of all the “young people” of the house—mothers and old aunts of course excluded; of a huge hot cake well buttered—strong tea—brandy, milk, and nutmeg, amalgamated into syllabubs—the fox-hunter’s jig, thoroughly danced—a kiss all round, and a sorrowful “good-morning.”