“I wasn’t aware of it,” says Essex; “the fact is,” says he, “I only landed from England just this minute.”
“Ay,” says the ould man bitterly, “it’s little they know about us over there. I’ll hould you,” says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice, “that the Queen herself doesn’t know there is to be fireworks in the Sorrento Gardens this night.”
Well, when Essex heard that, he disremembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found plenty of them—thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day—one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord Montaigle, a play-boy like himself. I’ll read you the one to the Queen first:—
“Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.
“Fair Enchantress,—I wish I was back in London, baskin’ in your sweet smiles and listenin’ to your melodious voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin’ lookin’ for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O’Neil or his men can I find. A policemin at the corner o’ Nassau Street told me they wor hidin’ in Wicklow. So I am makin’ up a party to explore the Dargle on Easter Monda’. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and every minute o’ the day I do be wishin’ it was your good-lookin’ self I was gazin’ at instead o’ these ignorant scarecrows. Hopin’ soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin’ subjec’,
“Essex.
“P.S.—I hear Hugh O’Neil was seen on the top o’ the Donnybrook tram yesterday mornin’. If I have any luck the head ’ll be off him before you get this.
“E.”
The other letter read this way—
“Dear Monty—This is a great place all out. Come over here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and the girls—oh! don’t be talkin’—’pon me secret honour you’ll see more loveliness at a tay and supper ball in Rathmines than there is in the whole of England. Tell Ned Spenser to send me a love-song to sing to a young girl who seems taken wid my appearance. Her name’s Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, so he oughtent to find it hard. I hear Hugh O’Neil’s a terror, and hits a powerful welt, especially when you’re not lookin’. If he tries any of his games on wid me, I’ll give him in charge. No brawlin’ for yours truly,