SHAMUS O'BRIEN: A TALE OF '98.
BY J. SHERIDAN LE FANU.
Jist afther the war, in the year '98,
As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got,
To hang him by thrial—barrin' sich as was shot.—
There was trial by jury goin' on in the light,
And martial-law hangin' the lavins by night
It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon:
If he got past the judges—he'd meet a dragoon;
An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sintance,
The divil an hour they gev for repintance.
An' it's many's the boy that was then on his keepin',
Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin';
An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned for to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet—
Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,
With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay.
The bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all,
Was Shamus O'Brien, o' the town iv Glingall.
His limbs were well-set, an' his body was light,
An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white.
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
And his cheeks never warmed with the blush of the red;
But for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye,
For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye,
So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright,
Like a fire-flash crossing the depth of the night;
He was the best mower that ever was seen,
The handsomest hurler that ever has been.
An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare,
An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare;
Be gorra, the whole world gev in to him there.
An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught,
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought,
An' it's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he done: an' it's often heerd tell
How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four,
An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.—
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
An' treachery play on the blood iv the best.—
Afther many brave actions of power and pride,
An' many a hard night on the bleak mountain's side,
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.
Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon,
An' take your last look on her dim lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley this night;—
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood.
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still;
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,
And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.—
An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail;
The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound,
An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground.
An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there,
As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air;
An' happy rememberances crowding on ever,
As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river,
Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by,
Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye.
But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart
Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start;
Then he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave,
An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave,
By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave,
That when he was mouldering low in the grave
His enemies never should have it to boast
His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost;
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry,
For, undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem on;
There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
The sodgers on guard, the dhragoons sword-in-hand.
An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered.
Attorneys an' criers were just upon smothered;
An' counsellers almost gev over for dead.
The jury sat up in their box overhead;
An' the judge on the bench so detarmined an' big,
With his gown on his back, and an illigent wig;
Then silence was called, and the minute 'twas said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the turn of a key in a lock,—
An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.—
For a minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An' he looked at the irons, so firm and so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
A chance of escape, nor a word to defend;
Then he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Jim didn't hear it, nor mind it a taste,
An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?"
An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread
As Shamus O'Brien made answer and said: