Whilst, to wind up the climax of our happiness, a gossoon who had been dispatched for a grey-beard full of “the native,” now returned, and in a few minutes a huge jug of half and half smoked on the table, and was circulated around the smiling and expectant ring, with an impetus of which the peasantry of Ireland will in a short time, from certain existing causes, have not even the remotest idea.
Well! such an evening as we had, I shall never forget; it would be vain to attempt a description. Those who have witnessed similar scenes require none, and to those who have not, any attempt at one would be useless. All therefore I shall say, is, that such a scene of fun and frolic and harmless waggery could not be found any where outside that ring which encircles the Emerald Isle, and even within that bright zone, nowhere but in the cabin of an Irish “scullogue.”
The songs of our sires, chanted with all that melancholy softness and pathetic sweetness for which the voices of our wild Irish girls are remarkable, the wild legend recited with that rich brogue and waggish humour peculiar alone to the Irish peasant, and the romantic and absurd fairy tale, told with all the reverential awe and caution which the solemnity of the subject required, long amused and excited the captivated auditors; but at length, more’s the pity, the vocalist could sing no more, having “a mighty great could intirely.” The story-teller was “as dry as a chip wid all he talked,” and even the sides of most of the company “war ready to split wid the rale dint of laughin’;” whilst, as if to afford us another illustration of the truth of the old proverb, “one trouble never comes alone,” even the old crone who had astonished us with the richness and extent of her fairy lore, was also knocked up, or rather knocked down, for the quantity of earthly spirits she had put in, entirely put out all memory of un-earthly spirits, and sent her disordered fancy, all confused as it was, wool-gathering to the classic regions of Their-na-noge.[3]
Well, what was to be done? It was still young in the night, and, better than that, a good “slug” still remained in the grey-beard, and as we all had contributed to procure the stock, so all declared that none should depart until the very last drop was drained. But how was the interval to be employed? The singer was hushed, the story-teller was exhausted, and vollies of wit and waggery had exploded until every one was tired; yet to remain silent was considered by all as the highest degree of discomfort. In this dilemma the man of the house scratched his pericranium, and, as acting by some sudden impulse, started up and handed me an old sooty book, “hoping that I would read a wollume for the edication of the company, until it would be time to retire.”
I agreed without hesitation, and on opening the dusty and smoke-begrimed volume found that it was “Sir Charles Coote’s Statistical Survey of the Queen’s County,” printed in Dublin by Graisberry and Campbell, and published by direction of the Dublin Society in the year 1801. Although well aware that the dry details of a work professedly and almost exclusively statistical, were little calculated to amuse or interest such an audience, yet, as the library of an Irish peasant is always unfortunately scanty, and in this instance, with the exception of a few trifling works on religious subjects, limited to the book in question, I determined to make the best I could of it, and for that purpose opened it at Sir Charles’s description of the immediate district in which we were situated, namely, the barony of Maryborough West, and town-land of Killeany. I read on thus:—“On Sir Allen Johnson’s estate stand the ruins of Killeany Castle; the walls are injudiciously built of very bad stones, though excellent quarry is contiguous. … Poor-man’s Bridge over the Nore was lately widened, and is very safe, but I cannot learn the tradition why it was so called.”
“Read that again, sir,” said a fine grey-headed, patriarchal old man who was present; “read that again,” said he emphatically. I did so.
“He cannot learn the tradition of Poor-man’s Bridge, inagh!” said the old man with a sneer; “faith, I believe not; I’d take his word for more nor that. But had he come to me when he was travelling the country making up his statisticks, I could open his eyes on that subject, and many others too.”
Some of those present laughed outright at the old man’s gravity of manner as he made this confident boast.
“You need not laugh—you may shut your potato-traps,” said the old man indignantly. “Grand as he was, with his gold and silver, his coach and horses, and servants with gold and scarlet livery, I could enlighten him more on the ancient history and traditions of our country than all the boddaghs of squireens whom he visited on his tour through the Queen’s County.”
These assertions served only to increase the storm of ridicule which was gathering around the old man’s head; and to put a stop to any bad blood which the occasion might call forth, I requested of him to tell us the tradition of “the Boccough Ruadh.”