As in duty bound, I admitted that his argument was unanswerable, and thenceforward we were the best friends possible. Grateful for my patience and forbearance, he eternally mangles the three unfortunates for my gratification; and I doubt if I could now relish them with their fair proportions, so accustomed as I have been to Tim’s “short measure!”
After all, Tim Callaghan was a politic fellow; and these three tunes were expressly chosen and learnt to win the ears and suffrages of all denominations of Christian men. Thus, the “Boyne water” is the propitiatory sacrifice at the Protestant’s door, “Patrick’s Day” at that of the Roman Catholic, and when he is not sure of the creed of the party he wishes to conciliate, to suit Quakers, Methodists, Seekers, and Jumpers, “God save the Queen” is the third. For many years he was contented to give these favourite airs in their original purity; but some wicked wight—a gentleman piper, I suspect—has at last persuaded him that his melody would be altogether irresistible if he would introduce some ornamental variations, “such as his own fine taste would suggest;” and poor Tim, unaccustomed to flattery, and wholly unsuspicious of the jest, caught at the bright idea, conquered his natural and acquired laziness, and made an attempt. When he thought he had mastered the difficulties, he did me the honour to select me as judge to pronounce on his melodious acquisitions; and all I shall say anent them is, let the blackest hypochondriac that ever looked wistfully at a marl-hole or his garters, listen to Tim Callaghan’s “varry-a-shins,” and watch his face while performing them, and he will require “both poppy and mandragora to medicine him to sleep,” if sleep he ever will again for laughing!
When Tim arrives at a gentleman’s door, his usual plan is to commence with the suitable serenade, and drone away at that till the few pence he is piping for sends him away content. But if he is detained long, and he sees no great chance of reward or entertainment within doors, he becomes furious, and in his ire he rattles up that one of the three which he supposes most disagreeable and opposite to the politics of the offender. If the party be a Roman Catholic, he will be unpleasantly electrified, and all his antipathies aroused, by “the Boyne water,” performed with unusual spirit; and if a church-goer, he will never recover the shock of “Patrick’s Day,” given with an energy that will render the wound unhealable! If he is asked for any favourite or fashionable air—and you might as well ask Tim Callaghan to repeat a passage of Homer in the original Greek—his civilest reply is, “I haven’t that, but I’ll give yez one as good,” when one of the trio follows of course; and if the impertinent suitor for novelties in his ignorance persists in demanding more than is to be had, he is angrily cut short, especially if of inferior rank, with “How bad ye are for sortins! Yer masther wud be contint wid what I gave ye, an’ thankful into the bargin!” Thus qualified to please, it is not to be wondered at that he is celebrated through three baronies as “the piper!”
When first I had the pleasure to see and hear Tim Callaghan, it was in the middle of winter, dark and dreary, and in a retired country place, where even the “vile screeching of the wry-necked fife” would have been welcome in lieu of better. Conceive our ecstacy, then, when the inspiring drone of the bagpipe startled our ears into attention and expectation! The very servants were clamorous in expressing their delight, and in beseeching that the piper should be brought into the house and entertained. The petition was granted, the minstrel was led in “nothing loth,” and seated in the hall. Well, Tim’s first essay at the minister’s house was of course “the Boyne,” played very spiritedly and accurately on the whole, with the exception of a few rather essential notes that he omitted as unnecessary and troublesome, or (as the servants supposed) in consequence of the cold of his fingers; and finally they took him to the kitchen, and seated him opposite to a blazing fire. “Now he’ll play in airnest!” cried they, as one and all gathered round him in expectation of music.
Our piper being now in the lower regions, among the inferior gentry, and willing to please all orders and conditions, begins to consider whether he shall repeat the “Boyne,” or commence the all-enlivening “Patrick’s Day.”
“What religion is the sarvints ov?” replied he at length to a little cow-boy gaping with wonder at the grand ornaments of the pipes.
“They are ov all soarts, sur,” whispered Tommy in reply, and reddening all over at the great man’s especial notice.
“Ov all soarts!” mutters Tim significantly; then deciding instantly, with much solemnity of face and strength of arm he squeezed forth the conciliating “God save the King.”
The butler listened awhile with the sapient air of a judge. “You’re a capitial performer, piper!” said he at length patronizingly, and with a hand on each hip; “an’ that’s a fine piece ov Hannibal’s composition! but it is not shutable for all occashins, an’ a livelier air would agree with our timperament betther. Change it to somethin’ new.” And tucking his apron aside, he gallantly took the rosy tips of the housemaid’s fingers and led her out, while the gardener as politely handed forth the cook. The piper looked sullen, and still continued the national anthem as if he knew what he was about, and was determined to play out his tune. The butler’s dignity bristled up.
“Railly,” he observed, and smiled superciliously, “we are very loyal people hereabouts, but at this pertickler moment we don’t want to join in a prayer for our savren’s welfare! Stop that melancholic thing, man! an’ give us one of Jackson’s jigs.”