CHAPTER III.

“Sure such a day as this was never seen!”

--_Thomas Thumb._

“The day, th’ important day!”

--_Addison._

“O giorno felice!”

--_Italian._

The morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered

into the world with a blue sky, and the ringing of bells. Maidens,

united in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the

pipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity

to the union of congenial minds. On the left of the village are some

plantations of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog-kennel

“With venerable grandeur marks the scene,”

while everywhere the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and

minute daisies. In a word,

“All nature wears one universal grin.”

The procession now set forward to the church. The bride was habited in

white drapery. Ten signs of the Zodiac, worked in spangles, sparkled

round its edge, but Virgo was omitted at her desire, and the bridegroom

proposed to dispense with Capricorn. Sweet delicacy! She held a pot

of myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small lighted torch,

emblematical of Hymen.... The marriage ceremony passed off with great

spirit, and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt

how pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue.

_Eaton Stannard Barrett._

_THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS

STRETCHED._[7]

The night before Larry was stretched,

The boys they all paid him a visit;

A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched--

They sweated their duds till they riz it;

For Larry was always the lad,

When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,

To fence all the togs that he had,

Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,

And moisten his gob ’fore he died.

“I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,

“To see you in this situation;

’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,

I’d rather it was my own station.”

“Ochone! ’tis all over,” says he,

“For the neckcloth I am forced to put on,

And by this time to-morrow you’ll see

Your Larry will be dead as mutton;

Bekase why?--his courage was good!”

The boys they came crowding in fast;

They drew all their stools round about him,

Six glims round his trap-case were placed--

He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.

I ax’d him was he fit to die,

Without having duly repented?

Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,

And all by the gownsmen invented,

To make a fat bit for themselves.”

Then the cards being called for, they played,

Till Larry found one of them cheated;

Quick he made a smart stroke at his head--

The lad being easily heated.

“Oh! by the holy, you thief,

I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!

You cheat me bekase I’m in grief,

But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,

And leave you your claret to drink.”

Then in came the priest with his book;

He spoke him so smooth and so civil;

Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,

And pitched his big wig to the divil.

Then stooping a little his head,

To get a sweet drop of the bottle,

And pitiful, sighing he said,

“Oh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,

And choke my poor windpipe to death!”

So moving these last words he spoke,

We all vented our tears in a shower;

For my part, I thought my heart broke,

To see him cut down like a flower!

On his travels we watched him next day,

Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!

Not one word did our poor Larry say,

Nor changed, till he came to “King William”:

Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.

When he came to the nubbling chit,

He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,

The rumbler jogged off from his feet,

And he died with his face to the city.

He kicked, too, but that was all pride,

For soon you might see ’twas all over;

And as soon as the noose was untied,

Then at evening we waked him in clover,

And sent him to take a ground sweat.

_William Maher_ (?) (_fl._ 1780).

DARBY DOYLE’S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC.

I _tuck_ the road, one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an’ got

up to the Cove safe an’ sound. There I saw many ships with big broad

boords fastened to ropes, every one ov them saying, “The first vessel

for Quebec.” Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager; this

one siz she’ll be first, and that one siz she’ll be first. At any rate

I pitched on one that was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax

the fare, who shou’d come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould

townsman ov my own.

“Och, is it yoorself that’s there, Ned?” siz I; “are ye goin’ to

Amerrykey?”

“Why, an’ to be shure,” sez he; “I’m _mate_ ov the ship.”

“Meat! that’s yer sort, Ned,” siz I; “then we’ll only want bread.

Hadn’t I betther go and pay my way?”

“You’re time enough,” siz Ned; “I’ll tell you when we’re ready for

sea--leave the rest to me, Darby.”

“Och, tip us your fist,” siz I; “you were always the broath of a boy;

for the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a

bite to ate.” So, my jewel, Ned brought me to where there was right

good stuff. When it got up to three o’clock I found myself mighty weak

with hunger. I got the smell ov corn-beef an’ cabbage that knock’d me

up entirely. I then wint to the landlady, and siz I to her, “Maybee

your leddyship ’id not think me rood by axin iv Ned an’ myself cou’d

get our dinner ov that fine hot mate that I got a taste ov in my nose?”

“In throath you can,” siz she (an’ she look’d mighty pleasant), “an’

welkim.” So my darlin’ dish and all came up. “That’s what I call a

_flaugholoch_[8] mess,” siz I. So we ate and drank away.

[Illustration: “MANY’S THE SQUEEZE NED GAVE MY FIST.”]

Many’s the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to leave it all to

him, and how comfortable he’d make me on the voyage. Day afther day we

spint together, waitin’ for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to

grow very light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther dinner--

“Darby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow--you’d betther go

on boord an’ pay your way.”

“Is it jokin’ you are, Ned?” siz I; “shure you tould me to leave it all

to you.”

“Ah! Darby,” siz he, “you’re for takin’ a rise out o’ me; shure enough,

ye were the lad that was never without a joke--the very priest himself

couldn’t get over ye. But, Darby, there’s no joke like the thrue one.

I’ll stick to my promise; but, Darby, you must pay your way.”

“Oh, Ned,” siz I, “is this the way you’re goin’ to threat me afther

all? I’m a rooin’d man; all I cou’d scrape together I spint on you. If

you don’t do something for me, I’m lost. Is there no place where you

cou’d hide me from the captin?”

“Not a place,” siz Ned.

“An’ where, Ned, is the place I saw you comin’ up out ov?”

“Oh, Darby, that was the hould where the cargo’s stow’d.”

“An’ is there no other place?” siz I.

“Oh, yes,” siz he, “where we keep the wather casks.”

“An’ Ned,” siz I, “does any one live down there?”

“Not a mother’s soul,” siz he.

“An’ Ned,” siz I, “can’t you cram me down there, and give me a lock ov

straw an’ a bit?”

“Why, Darby,” siz he (an’ he look’d mighty pittyfull), “I must thry.

But mind, Darby, you’ll have to hide all day in an empty barrel, and

when it comes to my watch, I’ll bring you down some prog; but if you’re

diskiver’d, it’s all over with me, an’ you’ll be put on a dissilute

island to starve.”

“Oh, Ned,” siz I, “leave it all to me.”

“Never fear, Darby, I’ll mind my eye.”

When night cum on I got down into the dark cellar, among the barrels;

poor Ned fixt a place in a corner for me to sleep, an’ every night he

brought me down hard black cakes and salt mate. There I lay snug for

a whole month. At last, one night, siz he to me, “Now, Darby, what’s

to be done? we’re within three days’ sail ov Quebec; the ship will

be overhauled, and all the passengers’ names called over; if you are

found, you’ll be sould as a slave for your passage money.” “An’ is that

all that frets you, my jewel?” siz I; “can’t you leave it all to me?

In throath, Ned, I’ll never forget your hospitality, at any rate. But

what place is outside ov the ship?” “Why, the sea, to be shure,” siz

he. “Och! botheration,” siz I. “I mean what’s the outside ov the ship?”

“Why, Darby,” siz he, “part of it’s called the bulwark.” “An’ fire an’

faggots!” siz I, “is it bulls work the vessel along?” “No, nor horses,”

siz he, “neither; this is no time for jokin’; what do you mean to do?”

“Why, I’ll tell you, Ned; get me an empty meal-bag, a bottle, an’ a

bare ham-bone, and that’s all I’ll ax.” So, begad, Ned look’d very

queer at me; but he got them for me, anyhow. “Well, Ned,” siz I, “you

know I’m a great shwimmer; your watch will be early in the mornin’;

I’ll jist slip down into the sea; do you cry out, ‘There’s a man in the

wather,’ as loud as you can, and leave all the rest to me.” Well, to

be shure, down into the sea I dropt without as much as a splash. Ned

roared out with the hoarseness ov a brayin’ ass, “A man in the sea! a

man in the sea!” Every man, woman, and child came running up out ov

the hole, the captain among the rest, who put a long red barrel like a

gun to his eye--gibbet me, but I thought he was for shootin’ me! down

I dived. When I got my head over the wather agen, what shou’d I see

but a boat rowin’ to me, as fast as a throut after a pinkeen. When it

came up close enough to be heard, I roared out: “Bad end to yees, for

a set ov spalpeen rascals, did ye hear me at last?” The boat now run

’pon the top ov me; down I dived agen like a duck afther a frog, but

the minnit my skull came over the wather, I was gript by the scruff ov

the neck and dhragged into the boat. To be shure, I didn’t kick up a

row--“Let go my hair, ye blue divils,” I roared; “it’s well ye have me

in your marcy in this dissilute place, or by the powthers I’d make ye

feel the strinth of my bones. What hard look I had to follow yees, at

all, at all--which ov ye is the masther?” As I sed this every mother’s

son began to stare at me, with my bag round my neck, an’ my bottle

by my side, an’ the bare bone in my fist. “There he is,” siz they,

pointin’ to a little yellow man in a corner ov the boat. “May the----

rise blisthers on your rapin’ hook shins,” siz I, “you yallow-lookin’

monkey, but it’s a’most time for you to think ov lettin’ me into your

ship--I’m here plowin’ and plungin’ this month afther ye: shure I

didn’t care a _thrawneen_ was it not that you have my best Sunday

clothes in your ship, and my name in your books. For three sthraws, if

I don’t know how to write, I’d leave my mark on your skull;” so sayin’,

I made a lick at him with the ham-bone, but I was near tumblin’ into

the sea agen. “An’ pray, what is your name, my lad?” siz the captin.

“What’s my name! What ’id you give to know?” siz I; “ye unmannerly

spalpeen, it might be what’s your name, Darby Doyle, out ov your

mouth--ay, Darby Doyle, that was never afraid or ashamed to own it at

home or abroad!”

“An’, Mr. Darby Doyle,” siz he, “do you mean to persuade us that you

swum from Cork to this afther us?”

“This is more ov your ignorance,” siz I--“ay, an’ if you sted three

days longer and not take me up, I’d be in Quebec before ye, only my

purvisions were out, and the few rags of bank-notes I had all melted

into paste in my pocket, for I hadn’t time to get them changed. But

stay, wait till I get my foot on shore, there’s ne’er a cottoner in

Cork iv you don’t pay for leavin’ me to the marcy ov the waves.”

All this time the blue chaps were pushin’ the boat with sticks through

the wather, till at last we came close to the ship. Every one on board

saw me at the Cove but didn’t see me on the voyage; to be sure, every

one’s mouth was wide open, crying out “Darby Doyle.”

“The---- stop your throats,” siz I, “it’s now you call me loud enough,”

siz I; “ye wouldn’t shout that way when ye saw me rowlin’ like a tub in

a mill-race the other day fornenst your faces.”

When they heard me say that, some of them grew pale as a sheet--every

thumb was at work till they a’most brought the blood from their

forreds. But, my jewel, the captin does no more than runs to the book,

an’ calls out the names that paid, and them that wasn’t paid--to be

shure, I was one ov them that didn’t pay. If the captin looked at

me before with _wondherment_, he now looked with astonishment.

Nothin’ was tawk’d ov for the other three days but Darby Doyle’s great

shwim from the Cove to Quebec. One sed, “I always knew Darby to be a

great shwimmer.” “Do ye remimher,” siz another, “when Darby’s dog was

nigh been dhrownded in the great duck hunt, whin Darby peeled off an’

brought in the dog, an’ made afther the duck himself, and swam for two

hours endways; an’ do ye remimber whin all the dogs gather round the

duck at one time; whin it wint down how Darby dived afther it,--an’

sted below while the creathur was eatin’ a few frogs, for she was weak

an’ hungry; an’ whin everybody thought he was lost, up he came with the

duck by the leg in his kithogue” (left hand). Begar, I agreed to all

they sed, till at last we got to Amerrykey. I was now in a quare way;

the captin wouldn’t let me go till a friend of his would see me. By

this time, my jewel, not only his friends came, but swarms upon swarms,

starin’ at poor Darby.

At last I called Ned. “Ned, avic,” siz I, “I want to go about my

_bisness_.” “Be asy, Darby,” siz he; “haven’t ye your fill ov good

atin’, an’ the captin’s got mighty fond ov ye entirely.” “Is he, Ned?”

siz I; “but tell us, Ned, are all them crowd ov people goin’ to sea?”

“Augh, ye _omadhaun_,”[9] siz Ned, “sure they are come to look at

you.” Just as he said this a tall yallow man, with a black curly head,

comes and stares me full in the face. “You’ll know me agen,” siz I,

“bad luck to yer manners an’ the school-masther that taught ye.” But

I thought he was goin’ to shake hands with me when he tuck hould ov

my fist and opened every finger, one by one, then opened my shirt and

look’d at my breast. “Pull away, _ma bouchal_”[10] siz I, “I’m no

desarthur, at any rate.” But never an answer he made, but walk’d down

into the hole where the captin lived. “This is more ov it,” siz I;

“Ned, what could that tallah-faced man mean?” “Why,” siz Ned, “he was

_lookin’ to see_ if your fingers were webbed, or had ye scales

on your breast.” “His impidence is great,” siz I; “did he take me for

a duck or a bream? But, Ned, what’s the meanin’ ov the boords acrass

the stick the people walk on, and the big white boord up there?” “Why,

come over and read,” siz Ned. But, my jewel, I didn’t know whether

I was stannin’ on my head or my heels when I saw in great big black

letthers:--

THE GREATEST WONDHER OF THE WORLD

TO BE SEEN HERE!

_A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver!_

He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey!!

Proved on oath by ten of the Crew and twenty Passengers.

_Admittance--Half a Dollar._

“Bloody wars! Ned,” siz I, “does this mean your humble sarvint?” “Divil

another,” siz he. So I makes no more ado, than with a hop, skip, and

jump gets over to the captin, who was now talkin’ to the yallow fellow

that was afther starin’ me out ov countenance. “Pardon my roodness,

your honour,” siz I, mighty polite, and makin’ a bow,--at the same time

Ned was at my heels--so risin’ my foot to give the genteel scrape,

shure I scraped all the skin off Ned’s shins. “May bad luck to your

brogues,” siz he. “You’d betther not curse the wearer,” siz I, “or----”

“Oh, Darby!” siz the captin, “don’t be unginteel, an’ so many ladies

and gintlemen lookin’ at ye.” “The never another mother’s soul shall

lay their peepers on me till I see sweet Inchegelagh agen,” siz I.

“Begar, ye are doin’ it well. How much money have ye gother for my

shwimmin’?” “Be quiet, Darby,” siz the captin, an’ he look’d very much

frickened; “I have plenty, an’ I’ll have more for ye if ye do what I

want ye to do.” “An’ what is it, avic?” siz I. “Why, Darby,” siz he,

“I’m afther houldin’ a wager last night with this gintleman for all the

worth ov my ship, that you’ll shwim agen any shwimmer in the world;

an’ Darby, if ye don’t do that, I’m a gone man.” “Augh, give us your

fist,” siz I; “did ye ever hear ov Paddies disheving any man in the

European world yet--barrin’ themselves?” “Well, Darby,” siz he, “I’ll

give you a hundred dollars; but, Darby, you must be to your word, an’

you shall have another hundred.” So sayin’, he brought me down into the

cellar; but, my jewel, I didn’t think for the life of me to see sich

a wondherful place--nothin’ but goold every way I turn’d, an’ Darby’s

own sweet face in twenty places. Begar, I was a’most ashamed to ax the

gintleman for the dollars. “But,” siz I to myself agen, “the gintleman

has too much money, I suppose, he does be throwin’ it into the sea, for

I often heard the sea was much richer than the land, so I may as well

take it, anyhow.” “Now, Darby,” siz he, “here’s the dollars for ye.”

But, begar, it was only a bit of paper he was handin’ me. “Arrah, none

ov yer thricks upon thravellers,” siz I; “I had betther nor that, an’

many more ov them, melted in the sea; give me what won’t wash out ov my

pocket” “Why, Darby,” siz he, “this is an ordher on a marchant for the

amount.” “Pho, pho!” siz I, “I’d sooner take your word nor his oath,”

lookin’ round mighty respectful at the goold walls. “Well, Darby,” siz

he, “ye must have the raal thing.” So, by the powthers, he reckoned

me out a hundred dollars in goold. I never saw the like since the

stockin’ fell out of the chimley on my aunt and cut her forred. “Now,

Darby,” siz he, “ye are a rich man, and ye are worthy ov it all--sit

down, Darby, an’ take a bottle ov wine.” So to please the gintleman I

sat down. Afther a bit, who comes down but Ned. “Captin,” siz he, “the

deck is crowded; I had to block up the gangway to prevint any more from

comin’ in to see Darby. Bring him up, or blow me if the ship won’t be

sunk.” “Come up, Darby,” siz the captin, lookin’ roguish pleasant at

myself. So, my jewel, he handed me up through the hall, as tendher as

if I was a lady, or a pound ov fresh butther in the dog days.

[Illustration: “I WAS MADE TO PEEL OFF BEHIND A BIG SHEET.”]

When I got up, shure enough I couldn’t help starin’; sich crowds of

fine ladies and yallow gintlemen never was seen before in any ship. One

ov them, a little rosy-cheeked beauty, whispered the captin somethin’,

but he shuk his head, and then came over to me. “Darby,” siz he, “I

know an Irishman would do anything to please a lady.” “In throth you

may say that with your own ugly mouth,” siz I. “Well, then, Darby,”

siz he, “the ladies would wish to see you give a few sthrokes in the

sea.” “Och, an’ they shall have them, an’ welkim,” siz I. “That’s a

good fellow,” siz he; “now strip off.” “Decency, captin,” siz I; “is

it in my mother-naked pelt before the ladies? Bad luck to the undacent

brazen-faced--but no matther! Irish girls for ever, afther all!” But

all to no use. I was made to peel off behind a big sheet, and then I

made one race an’ jump’d ten yards into the wather to get out of their

sight. Shure enough, every one’s eyes danced in their head, while they

look’d on the spot where I went down. A thought came into my head while

I was below, how I’d show them a little divarsion, as I could use a

great many thricks on the wather. So I didn’t rise at all till I got

to the other side, an’ every one run to that side; then I took a hoult

ov my two big toes, an’ makin’ a ring ov myself, rowled like a hoop

on the top ov the wather all round the ship. I b’leeve I opened their

eyes! Then I yarded, back swum, an’ dived, till at last the captin made

signs for me to come out so I got into the boat an’ threw on my duds.

The very ladies were breakin’ their necks runnin’ to shake hands with

me. “Shure,” siz they, “you’re the greatest man in the world!!” So for

three days I showed off to crowds ov people, though I was _fryin’_

in the wather for shame.

At last the day came that I was to stand the tug. I saw the captin

lookin’ very often at me. At last, “Darby,” siz he, “are you any way

cow’d? The fellow you have to shwim agenst can shwim down watherfalls

an’ catharacts.” “Can he, avic?” says I; “but can he shwim up agenst

them? Wow, wow, Darby, for that. But, captin, come here; is all my

purvisions ready? don’t let me fall short ov a dhrop ov the raal stuff

above all things.” An’ who should come up while I was tawkin’ to the

captin but the chap I was to shwim with, an’ heard all I sed. Begar!

his eyes grew as big as two oysther-shells. Then the captin called me

aside. “Darby,” siz he, “do you put on this green jacket an’ white

throwsers, that the people may betther extinguish you from the other

chap.” “With all hearts, avic,” siz I; “green for ever! Darby’s own

favourite colour the world over; but where am I goin’ to, captin?” “To

the swhimmin’ place, to be shure,” siz he. “Divil shoot the failers

an’ take the hindmost,” siz I; “here’s at ye.” I was then inthrojuiced

to the shwimmer. I looked at him from head to foot. He was so tall

he could eat bread an’ butther over my head--with a face as yallow

as a kite’s foot. “Tip us the mitten, _ma bouchal_” siz I (but,

begad, I was puzzled. “Begar,” siz I to myself, “I’m done. Cheer up,

Darby. If I’m not able to kill him, I’ll fricken the life out ov him.”)

“Where are we goin’ to shwim to?” But never a word he answered. “Are ye

bothered, neighbour?” “I reckon I’m not,” siz he, mighty chuff. “Well,

then,” siz I, “why didn’t ye answer your betthers? What ’ud ye think if

we shwum to Keep Cleer or the Keep ov Good Hope?” “I reckon neither,”

siz he agen, eyein’ me as if I was goin’ to pick his pockets. “Well,

then, have ye any favourite place?” siz I. “Now, I’ve heard a great

deal about the place where poor Boney died; I’d like to see it, if

I’d any one to show me the place; suppose we wint there?” Not a taste

ov a word could I get out ov him, good or bad. Off we set through the

crowds ov ladies and gintlemen. Sich cheerin’ an’ wavin’ ov hats was

never seen even at _Dan’s_[11] enthry; an’ then the row ov purty

girls laughin’ an’ rubbin’ up agenst me, that I could har’ly get on. To

be shure, no one could be lookin’ to the ground, an’ not be lookin’ at

them, till at last I was thript up by a big loomp ov iron stuck fast in

the ground with a big ring to it. “Whoo, Darby!” siz I, makin’ a hop

an’ a crack ov my finger, “you’re not down yet.” I turn’d round to look

at what thript me.

“What d’ye call that?” siz I to the captin, who was at my elbow.

“Why, Darby,” siz he, “that’s half an anchor.”

“Have ye any use for it?” siz I.

“Not in the least,” siz he; “it’s only to fasten boats to.”

“Maybee you’d give it to a body,” siz I.

“An’ welkim, Darby,” siz he; “it’s yours.”

“God bless your honour, sir,” siz I, “it’s my poor father that will

pray for you. When I left home the creather hadn’t as much as an anvil

but what was sthreeled away by the agint--bad end to them. This will

be jist the thing that’ll match him; he can tie the horse to the ring,

while he forges on the other part. Now, will ye obleege me by gettin’

a couple ov chaps to lay it on my shoulder when I get into the wather,

and I won’t have to be comin’ back for it afther I shake hands with

this fellow.”

Begar, the chap turned from yallow to white when he heard me say this.

An’ siz he to the gintleman that was walkin’ by _his_ side--

“I reckon I’m not fit for the shwimmin’ to-day--I don’t feel

_myself_.”

“An’, murdher an’ Irish, if you’re yer brother, can’t you send him

for yerself, an’ I’ll wait here till he comes. Here, man, take a dhrop

ov this before ye go. Here’s to yer betther health, and your brother’s

into the bargain.” So I took off my glass, and handed him another; but

the never a dhrop ov it he’d take. “No force,” siz I, “avic; maybee you

think there’s poison in it--well, here’s another good luck to us. An’

when will ye be able for the shwim, avic?” siz I, mighty complisant.

“I reckon in another week,” siz he.

So we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow went home, took the

fever, then began to rave. “Shwim up catharacts!--shwim to the Keep ov

Good Hope!--shwim to St Helena!--shwim to Keep Cleer!--shwim with an

anchor on his back!--Oh! oh! oh!”

I now thought it best to be on the move; so I gother up my winners; and

here I sit undher my own hickory threes, as indipindent as any Yankee.

_Thomas Ettingsall_ (17--–1850?).

[Illustration: ST. PATRICK AND THE SNAKES.]

_ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!_

A fig for St. Denis of France--

He’s a trumpery fellow to brag on;

A fig for St. George and his lance,

Which spitted a heathenish dragon;

And the saints of the Welshman or Scot

Are a couple of pitiful pipers;

Both of whom may just travel to pot,

Compared with that patron of swipers,

St Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

He came to the Emerald Isle

On a lump of a paving stone mounted;

The steamboat he beat by a mile,

Which mighty good sailing was counted.

Says he, “The salt water, I think,

Has made me most fishily thirsty;

So bring me a flagon of drink

To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye--

Of drink that is fit for a saint.”

He preached, then, with wonderful force,

The ignorant natives a’ teaching;

With a pint he washed down his discourse,

“For,” says he, “I detest your dry preaching.”

The people, with wonderment struck,

At a pastor so pious and civil,

Exclaimed--“We’re for you, my old buck!

And we pitch our blind gods to the divil,

Who dwells in hot water below!”

This ended, our worshipful spoon

Went to visit an elegant fellow,

Whose practice, each cool afternoon,

Was to get most delightfully mellow

That day, with a black-jack of beer,

It chanced he was treating a party;

Says the Saint--“This good day, do you hear,

I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty!

So give me a pull at the pot!”

The pewter he lifted in sport

(Believe me, I tell you no fable),

A gallon he drank from the quart,

And then placed it full on the table.

“A miracle!” every one said,

And they all took a haul at the stingo;

They were capital hands at the trade,

And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo,

The pot still frothed over the brim!

Next day, quoth his host, “’Tis a fast,

And I’ve naught in my larder but mutton;

And on Fridays, who’d make such repast,

Except an unchristian-like glutton?”

Says Pat, “Cease your nonsense, I beg,

What you tell me is nothing but gammon;

Take my compliments down to the leg,

And bid it come hither a salmon!”

And the leg most politely complied!

You’ve heard, I suppose, long ago,

How the snakes, in a manner most antic,

He marched to the County Mayo,

And trundled them into th’ Atlantic.

Hence, not to use water for drink,

The people of Ireland determine:

With mighty good reason, I think,

Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin,

And vipers and such other stuff!

Oh! he was an elegant blade

As you’d meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper!

And though under the sod he is laid,

Yet here goes his health in a bumper!

I wish he was here, that my glass

He might by art magic replenish;

But since he is not--why, alas!

My ditty must come to a finish,

Because all the liquor is out.

_William Maginn, LL.D._ (1793–1842).

_THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY._

A MOORE-ISH MELODY.

The last lamp of the alley

Is burning alone!

All its brilliant companions

Are shivered and gone;

No lamp of her kindred,

No burner is nigh

To rival her glimmer

Or light to supply.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To vanish in smoke,

As the bright ones are shattered,

Thou too shalt be broke:

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy globe o’er the street,

Where the watch in his rambles

Thy fragments shall meet.

Then home will I stagger

As well as I may,

By the light of my nose, sure,

I’ll find out the way;

When thy blaze is extinguished,

Thy brilliancy gone,

Oh! my beak shall illumine

The alley alone!

_William Maginn, LL.D._

[Illustration: “I’LL NOT LEAVE THEE, THOU LONE ONE.”]

_THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS._

Alas! how we are changed as we progress through the world! That breast

becomes arid which once was open to every impression of the tender

passion. The rattle of the dice-box beats out of the head the rattle

of the quiver of Cupid; and the shuffling of the cards renders the

rustling of his wings inaudible. The necessity of looking after a

tablecloth supersedes that of looking after a petticoat; and we more

willingly make an assignation with a mutton-chop than with an angel

in female form. The bonds of love are exchanged for those of the

conveyancer; bills take the place of billets; and we do not protest,

but are protested against, by a three-and-sixpenny notary. Such are the

melancholy effects of age.

⁂

There are few objects on which men differ so much as in regard to

blue-stockings. I believe that the majority of literary men look upon

them as entirely useless. Yet a little reflection will serve us to

show the unphilosophical nature of this opinion. There seems, indeed,

to be a system of exclusive appropriation in literature, as well as in

law, which cannot be too severely reprobated. A critic of the present

day cannot hear a young woman make a harmless observation on poetry

or politics without starting; which start, I am inclined to think,

proceeds from affectation, considering how often he must have heard

the same remark made on former occasions. Ought the female sex to be

debarred from speaking nonsense on literary matters any more than the

men? I think not. Even supposing that such privilege was not originally

conferred by a law of Nature, they have certainly acquired right to it

by the long prescription. Besides, if commonplace remarks were not

daily and nightly rendered more commonplace by continual repetition,

even a man of original mind might run the hazard of occasionally so far

forgetting himself and his subject as to record an idea which, upon

more mature deliberation, might be found to be no idea at all. This, I

contend, is prevented by the judicious interference of the fair sex.

⁂

Don’t marry any woman hastily at Brighton or Brussels without knowing

who she is, and where she lived before she came there. And whenever you

get a reference upon this or any other subject, always be sure and get

another reference about the person referred to.

⁂

Don’t marry any woman under twenty; she is not come to her wickedness

before that time; nor any woman who has a red nose at any age; because

people make observations as you go along the street. “A cast of the

eye”--as the lady casts it upon you--may pass muster under some

circumstances; and I have even known those who thought it desirable;

but absolute squinting is a monopoly of vision which ought not to be

tolerated.

⁂

Don’t on any account marry a “lively” young lady; that is, in other

words, a “romp”; that is, in other words, a woman who has been hauled

about by half your acquaintance.

⁂

On the very day after your marriage, whenever you do marry, take

one precaution. Be cursed with no more troubles for life than you

have bargained for. Call the roll of all your wife’s even speaking

acquaintance; and strike out every soul that you have--or fancy you

ought to have--or fancy you ever shall have--a glimpse of dislike

to. Upon this point be merciless. Your wife won’t hesitate--a hundred

to one--between a husband and a gossip; and if she does, don’t you. Be

particularly sharp upon the list of women; of course, men--you would

frankly kick any one from Pall Mall to Pimlico who presumed only to

recollect ever having seen her. And don’t be manœuvred out of what

you mean by cards or morning calls, or any notion of what people call

“good breeding.” ... Never dispute with her where the question is of no

importance; nor, where it is of the least consequence, let any earthly

consideration ever once induce you to give way.

⁂

Few pieces of cant are more common than that which consists in

re-echoing the old and ridiculous cry of “variety is charming,”

“_toujours perdrix_,” etc., etc., etc. I deny the fact. I want

no variety. Let things be really good, and I, for one, am in no

danger of wearying of them. For example, to rise every day about half

after nine--eat a couple of eggs and muffins, and drink some cups of

genuine sound, clear coffee--then to smoke a cigar or so--read the

_Chronicle_--skim a few volumes of some first-rate new novel, or

perhaps pen a libel or two in a slight sketchy vein--then to take a

bowl of strong, rich, invigorating soup--then to get on horseback, and

ride seven or eight miles, paying a visit to some amiable, well-bred,

accomplished young lady, in the course of it, and chattering away an

hour with her,

“Sporting with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neœra’s hair,”

as Milton expresses it--then to take a hot-bath, and dress--then to sit

down to a plain substantial dinner, in company with a select party of

real good, honest, jolly Tories--and to spend the rest of the evening

with them over a pitcher of cool Chateau-Margout, singing, laughing,

speechifying, blending wit and wisdom, and winding up the whole with

a devil, and a tumbler or two of hot rum-punch. This, repeated day

after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year, may

perhaps appear, to some people, a picture pregnant with ideas of the

most sickening and disgusting monotony. Not so with me, however. I am a

plain man. I could lead this dull course of uniform, unvaried existence

for the whole period of the Millennium. Indeed, I mean to do so.

⁂

When a man is drunk, it is no matter upon what he has got drunk.

⁂

In whatever country one is, one should choose the dishes of the

country. Every really national dish is good--at least, I never yet

met with one that did not gratify my appetite. The Turkish pilaws are

most excellent--but the so-called French cookery of Pera is execrable.

In like manner, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding is always a prime

feast in England, while John Bull’s _Fricandeaux soufflées_,

_etc._, are decidedly anathema. What a horror, again, is a

_Bifsteck_ of the Palais Royal! On the same principle--(for

all the fine arts follow exactly the same principles)--on the same

principle it is, that while Principal Robertson, Dugald Stewart, Dr.

Thomas Brown, and all the other would-be English writers of Scotland,

have long since been voted tame, insipid, and tasteless diet, the real

haggis-bag of a Robert Burns keeps, and must always keep, its place.

⁂

The next best thing to a really good woman is a really good-natured

one. The next worst thing to a really bad man (in other words, _a

knave_) is a really good-natured man (in other words, a fool).

[Illustration: “WINDING UP THE WHOLE WITH A DEVIL, AND A TUMBLER

OR TWO OF HOT RUM-PUNCH.”]

A married woman commonly falls in love with a man as unlike her

husband as is possible--but a widow very often marries a man extremely

resembling the defunct. The reason is obvious.

⁂

If you meet with a pleasant fellow in a stage-coach, dine and get drunk

with him, and, still holding him to be a pleasant fellow, hear from his

own lips at parting that he is a Whig--do not change your opinion of

the man. Depend on it, he is quizzing you.

⁂

The safety of women consists in one circumstance--men do not possess at

the same time the knowledge of thirty-five and the blood of seventeen.

⁂

If prudes were as pure as they would have us believe, they would not

rail so bitterly as they do. We do not thoroughly hate that which we do

not thoroughly understand.

⁂

Few idiots are entitled to claver on the same form with the

bibliomaniacs; but, indeed, to be a _collector_ of anything,

and to be an _ass_, are pretty nearly equivalent phrases in the

language of all rational men. No one _collects_ anything of which

he really makes use. Who ever suspected Lord Spencer, or his factotum,

little Dibdin, of reading? The old Quaker at York, who has a museum of

the ropes at which eminent criminals have dangled, has no intention

to make an airy and tassel-like termination of his own terrestrial

career--for that would be quite out of character with a man of his

brims. In like manner, it is now well known that the three thousand

three hundred and thirty-three young ladies who figure on the books

of the Seraglio have a very idle life of it, and that, in point of

fact, the Grand Seignior is a highly respectable man. The people that

collect pictures, also, are, generally speaking, such folk as Sir John

Leicester, the late Angerstein, and the like of that. The only two

things that I have any pleasure in collecting are bottles of excellent

wine and boxes of excellent cigars--articles, of the first of which I

flatter myself I know rather more than Lord Eldon does of pictures; and

of the latter whereof I make rather more use than old Mustapha can be

supposed to do of his 3333 knick-knacks in petticoats--or rather, I beg

their ladyships’ pardon, in trousers.

⁂

As to the beautiful material adaptation of cold rum and cold water,

that is beyond all praise, and indeed forms a theme of never-ceasing

admiration, being one of Nature’s most exquisite achievements.

Sturm has omitted it, but I intend to make a supplement to his

_Reflections_ when I get a little leisure.

_William Maginn, LL.D._

[Illustration]

_THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS._

Jerry Mahony, arrah, my jewel, come let us be off to the fair,

For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be

there;

Say they, “The whole Mahony faction we’ll banish ’em out clear and

clean;”

But it never was yet in their breeches their bullaboo words to

maintain.

There’s Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,

’Twould make your mouth water to see him just giving a bit of a

stroke;

There’s Corney, the bandy-legged tailor, a boy of the true sort of

stuff,

Who’d fight though the black blood was flowing like butter-milk out

of his buff.

There’s broken-nosed Bat from the mountain--last week he burst out

of jail--

And Murty, the beautiful Tory, who’d scorn in a row to turn tail;

Bloody Bill will be there like a darling--and Jerry--och! let him

alone

For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone!

And Tim, who’d served in the Militia, has his bayonet stuck on a

pole;

Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order--a neat sort of tool on the

whole;

A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;

But I think that a man is more handy who fights, as I do, with a

flail.

We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by iligant men,

Who battered the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;

To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of

their talk,

We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the

walk.

After cutting out work for the sexton by smashing a dozen or so,

We’ll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery’s

go;

In gallons we’ll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry

day,

When mustering again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

_William Maginn, LL.D._

_DANIEL O’ROURKE._

People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke,

but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above

and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the

walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well: he lived at the

bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you

go towards Bantry. An old man was he, at the time that he told me the

story, with grey hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June,

1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe

under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the

sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the

morning at Glengariff.

“I am often _axed_ to tell it, sir,” said he, “so that this is

not the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond

foreign parts, in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go,

before Bonaparte or any such was ever heard of; and sure enough there

was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple,

high and low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the

gentlemen after all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a

body a little, to be sure, and maybe give one a cut of a whip now and

then, but we were no losers by it in the end, and they were so easy

and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes;

and there was no grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant

on the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and

often in a year, but now it’s another thing; no matter for that, sir,

for I’d better be telling you my story. Well, we had everything of

the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced,

and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from

the Bohereen--a lovely young couple they were, though they are both

low enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may

say, the same thing as tipsy almost. And so as I was crossing the

stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenogh, I missed my foot, and

souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I, ‘I’ll be drowned

now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear

life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of

me can tell how, upon a _dissolute_ island.

“I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered,

until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as

day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning

her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way,

and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I began to scratch my head,

and sing the _Ullagone_[12]--when all of a sudden the moon grew

black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it

was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was.

Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and

what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom

of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel

O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’

says I; ‘I hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all the time

how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings you here,

Dan?’ says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I; ‘only I wish I was safe

home again.’ ‘Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?’ says he.

‘’Tis, sir,’ says I, so I up and told him how I had taken a drop

too much, and fell into the water. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a minute’s

thought, ’though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day,

yet as you are a decent sober man, who ’tends mass well, and never

flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields--my

life for yours,’ says he, ‘so get up on my back, and grip me well for

fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog.’ ‘I am afraid,’

says I, ‘your honour’s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding

a horseback on an eagle before?’ ‘’Pon the honour of a gentleman,’ says

he, putting his right foot on his breast, ‘I am quite in earnest; and

so now either take my offer or starve in the bog--besides, I see that

your weight is sinking the stone.’

“It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute

going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint

heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. ‘I thank your

honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll take your

kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held

him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark.

Little I knew the thrick he was going to serve me. Up--up--up, God

knows how far up he flew. ‘Why then,’ said I to him--thinking he did

not know the right road home--very civilly, because why? I was in his

power entirely; ‘sir,’ says I, ‘please your honour’s glory, and with

humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit,

you’re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many

thanks to your worship.’

“‘_Arrah_, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? Look down in

the next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it

would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard

that I picked up off a _cowld_ stone in a bog.’ ‘Bother you,’ said

I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir,

up he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down,

and all to no use. ‘Where in the world are you going, sir?’ says I to

him. ‘Hold your tongue, Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and

don’t be interfering with the business of other people.’ ‘Faith, this

is my business, I think,’ says I. ‘Be quiet, Dan,’ says he; so I said

no more.

“At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can’t

see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook

sticking out of the side of the moon, this way [drawing the figure thus

[image] on the ground with the end of his stick].

“‘Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘I’m tired with this long fly; I had no

notion ’twas so far.’ ‘And, my lord, sir,’ said I, ‘who in the world

_axed_ you to fly so far--was it I? did not I beg and pray and

beseech you to stop half-an-hour ago?’ ‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’

says he; ‘I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on

the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘Is it sit down on the moon?’ said I;

‘is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I’d fall off

in a minute, and be _kilt_ and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you

are a vile deceiver, so you are.’ ‘Not at all, Dan,’ said he; ‘you can

catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that’s sticking out of the side

of the moon, and ’twill keep you up.’ ‘I won’t then,’ said I. ‘May be

not,’ said he, quite quiet. ‘If you don’t, my man, I shall just give

you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground,

where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew

on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a fine way,’ said

I to myself, ‘ever to have come along with the likes of you;’ and so

giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I

got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and

sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you

that.

“When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said,

‘Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he, ‘I think I’ve nicked

you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year’ (’twas true enough for

him, but how he found it out is hard to say), ‘and in return you

are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a

cockthrow.’

“‘Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?’ says

I. ‘You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve

me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all

your breed, you blackguard.’ ’Twas all to no manner of use; he spread

out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like

lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and

bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never

saw him from that day to this--sorrow fly away with him! You may be

sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the

bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the

moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month

before--I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there

walks--who do you think, but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by

his bush.

“‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he; ‘how do you do?’

‘Very well, thank your honour,’ said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’

‘What brought you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him how I was a

little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a

_dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the

thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that

he had fled me up to the moon.

“‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was

done, ‘you must not stay here.’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis much

against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back?’ ‘That’s your

business,’ said he; ‘Dan, mine is to tell you that here you must not

stay, so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m doing no harm,’ says I,

‘only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’ ‘That’s

what you must not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may I ask

how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller

lodging; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with strangers

coming to see you, for ’tis a long way.’ ‘I’m by myself, Dan,’ says

he; ‘but you’d better let go the reaping-hook.’ ‘And with your leave,’

says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I

won’t let go--so I will.’ ‘You had better, Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why,

then, my little fellow,’ says I, taking the whole weight of him with my

eye from head to foot, ‘there are two words to that bargain; and I’ll

not budge, but you may if you like.’ ‘We’ll see how that is to be,’

says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him

(for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would

fall down with it.

“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again

he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a

word he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was

keeping me up, and _whap!_ it came in two. ‘Good morning to you,

Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly

falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; ‘I thank you for your

visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.’ I had not time to make

any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and

rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. ‘God help me!’ says I, ‘this is a

pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I

am now sold fairly.’ The word was not out of my mouth when, whiz! what

should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way

from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else how should they know _me_?

The _ould_ gander, who was their general, turning about his head,

cried out to me, ‘Is that you, Dan?’ ‘The same,’ said I, not a bit

daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds

of _bedevilment_, and, besides, I knew him of _ould_. ‘Good

morrow to you,’ says he, ‘Daniel O’Rourke; how are you in health this

morning?’ ‘Very well, sir,’ says I, ‘I thank you kindly,’ drawing my

breath, for I was mightily in want of some. ‘I hope your honour’s the

same.’ ‘I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel,’ says he. ‘You may say

that, sir,’ says I. ‘And where are you going all the way so fast?’ said

the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on

the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an

eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me

out. ‘Dan,’ said he, ‘I’ll save you; put out your hand and catch me by

the leg, and I’ll fly you home.’ ‘Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of

honey, my jewel,’ says I, though all the time I thought within myself

that I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the

gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as

fast as hops.

[Illustration: “I WAS TUMBLING OVER AND OVER, AND ROLLING AND

ROLLING.”]

“We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide

ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking

up out of the water. ‘Ah! my lord,’ said I to the goose, for I thought

it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, ‘fly to land if

you please.’ ‘It is impossible, you see, Dan,’ said he, ‘for a while,

because you see we are going to Arabia.’ ‘To Arabia!’ said I, ‘that’s

surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose; why then,

to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.’ ‘Whist, whist, you

fool,’ said he, ‘hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent

sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only

there is a little more sand there.’

“Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful

before the wind; ‘Ah! then, sir,’ said I, ‘will you drop me on the

ship, if you please?’ ‘We are not fair over her,’ said he. ‘We are,’

said I. ‘We are not,’ said he; ‘if I dropped you now you would go

splash into the sea.’ ‘I would not,’ says I; ‘I know better than that,

for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.’ ‘If you

must, you must,’ said he; ‘there, take your own way;’ and he opened his

claw, and, faith, he was right--sure enough I came down plump into

the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I

gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching

himself after his night’s sleep, and looked me full in the face, and

never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all

over again with the cold salt water till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon

my whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying--’twas a voice I knew

too--‘Get up, you drunken brute, off o’ that;’ and with that I woke up,

and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing

all over me--for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never

could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. ‘Get

up,’ said she again; ‘and of all places in the parish would no place

_sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls

of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure

enough I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles,

and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales driving me through

bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If

I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down in

the same spot again, I know that.”

_William Maginn, LL.D._

_THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR._

Oh! ’twas Dermot O’Nowlan McFigg,

That could properly handle a twig,

He went to the Fair,

And kicked up a dust there,

In dancing the Donnybrook Jig,

With his twig,

Oh! my blessing to Dermot McFigg!

When he came to the midst of the Fair,

He was _all in a paugh_ for fresh air,

For the Fair very soon

Was as full as the moon,

Such mobs upon mobs as were there,

Oh! rare,

So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.

The souls, they came crowding in fast,

To dance while the leather would last,

For the Thomas Street brogue

Was there much in vogue,

And oft with a brogue the joke passed,

Quite fast,

While the Cash and the Whisky did last!

But Dermot, his mind on love bent,

In search of his sweetheart he went;

Peep’d in here and there,

As he walked thro’ the Fair,

And took a small taste in each tent,

As he went,

Och! on Whisky and Love he was bent.

And who should he spy in a jig,

With a Meal-man so tall and so big,

But his own darling Kate

So gay and so neat;

Faith, her partner he hit him a dig,

The pig,

He beat the meal out of his wig!

Then Dermot, with conquest elate,

Drew a stool near his beautiful Kate;

“Arrah! Katty,” says he,

“My own Cushlamachree,

Sure the world for Beauty you beat,

Complete,

So we’ll just take a dance while we wait!”

The Piper, to keep him in tune,

Struck up a gay lilt very soon,

Until an arch wag

Cut a hole in his bag,

And at once put an end to the tune

Too soon,

Oh! the music flew up to the moon!

To the Fiddler says Dermot McFigg,

“If you’ll please to play ‘Sheela na gig,’

We’ll shake a loose toe

While you humour the bow,

To be sure you must warm the wig

Of McFigg,

While he’s dancing a neat Irish jig!”

But says Katty, the darling, says she,

“If you’ll only just listen to me,

It’s myself that will show

Billy can’t be your foe,

Tho’ he fought for his Cousin, that’s me,”

Says she,

“For sure Billy’s related to me!

“For my own cousin-german, Ann Wild,

Stood for Biddy Mulrooney’s first child,

And Biddy’s step-son,

Sure he married Bess Dunn,

Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild

A child

As ever at mother’s breast smiled.

“And maybe you don’t know Jane Brown,

Who served goat’s whey in sweet Dundrum town,

’Twas her uncle’s half-brother

That married my mother,

And bought me this new yellow gown,

To go down,

When the marriage was held in Miltown!”

“By the Powers, then,” says Dermot, “’tis plain,

Like a son of that rapscallion Cain,

My best friend I’ve kilt,

Tho’ no blood it is spilt,

And the devil a harm did I mean,

That’s plain,

But by me he’ll be ne’er kilt again!”

Then the Meal-man forgave him the blow,

That laid him a-sprawling so low,

And being quite gay,

Asked them both to the play,

But Katty, being bashful, said “No,”

“No!” “No!”

Yet he treated them all to the show!

_Charles O’Flaherty_ (1794–1828).

_THE NIGHT-CAP._

Jolly Phœbus his car to the coach-house had driven,

And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;

He gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,

And rubbed them and littered them up for the night.

Then down to the kitchen he leisurely strode,

Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea;

He swore he was tired with that damned up-hill road,

He’d have none of her slops or hot water, not he.

So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen

Well filled with the nectar Apollo loves best,

(From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen);

And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.

His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,

For his bed, faith, ’twas dampish, and none of the best;

All above him the clouds their bright-fringed curtains drew,

And the tuft of his night-cap lay red in the west.

_Thomas Hamblin Porter_ (_fl._ 1820).

_KITTY OF COLERAINE._

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,

When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,

And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain.

“Oh! what shall I do now?--’twas looking at you, now!

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er see again;

’Twas the pride of my dairy--O Barney McCleary,

You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!”

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,

That such a misfortune should give her such pain;

A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,

She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again.

’Twas hay-making season--I can’t tell the reason--

Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain;

For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

_Anonymous._

[Illustration: “I SAT DOWN BESIDE HER, AND GENTLY DID CHIDE HER.”]

_GIVING CREDIT._

In due time it was determined that Peter, as he understood poteen,

should open a shebeen-house. The moment this resolution was made, the

wife kept coaxing him until he took a small house at the cross-roads

before alluded to, where, in the course of a short time, he was

established, if not in his line, yet in a mode of life approximating

to it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would permit. The cabin

which they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and a room at each end

of it, in one of which was their own humble chaff bed, with its blue

quilted drugget cover; in the other stood a couple of small tables,

some stools, a short form, and one chair, being a present from his

father-in-law. These constituted Peter’s whole establishment, so far as

it defied the gauger. To this we must add a five-gallon keg of spirits

hid in the garden and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he

bottled, overnight, as much as was usually drunk the following day;

and from the tobacco, which was also kept underground, he cut, with

the same caution, as much as to-morrow’s exigencies might require.

This he kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never

think of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and pennyworths,

ounces, or half-ounces, according as it might be required; and, as he

had it without duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his

neighbours soon brought him a large increase of custom.

Peter’s wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant,

good-humoured man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of

amusement were of a high order, considering his station in life and his

want of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, to

bring both the young and the old to his house during the long winter

nights, in order to hear the fine racy humour with which he related his

frequent adventures and battles with excisemen. In the summer evenings

he usually engaged a piper or fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance

by which he not only rendered himself popular, but increased his

business.

In this mode of life the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and Ellish

was the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to give

them credit. Many plans were, with great skill and forethought, devised

to obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board was first procured,

on which they got written with chalk--

“No credit giv’n--barrin’ a thrifle to Pether’s friends.”

Before a week passed after this intimation, the number of “Pether’s

friends” increased so rapidly that neither he nor Ellish knew the half

of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him: the

drinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him and

Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his firmest

resolutions too often gave way before the open flattery with which

he was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to bear

the brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons were seen

approaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to expect an attack

upon his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept his eye

to the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the road, he

immediately slipped into bed, and lay close, in order to escape them.

In the meantime they enter.

“God save all here! Ellish, agra machree, how are you?”

“God save you kindly! Faix, I’m middlin’, I thank you, Condy; how is

yourself, an’ all at home?”

“Devil a heartier, barrin’ my father, that’s touched wid a loss of

appetite afther his meals--ha, ha, ha!”

“Musha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but you’re your father’s

son, anyway; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth,

whether you’re jokin’ or not, I’d be sarry to hear of anything to his

disadvantage, dacent man. Boys, won’t yees go down to the other room?”

[Illustration: “HE KEPT HIS EYE TO THE WINDOW, AND IF THEY TURNED

FROM THE DIRECT LINE OF THE ROAD, HE SLIPPED INTO BED.”]

“Go way wid yees, boys, till I spake to Ellish here about the affairs

o’ the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the

contints o’ the book, you do; Pether doesn’t stand it half so well. How

is he, the thief?”

“Throth, he’s not well to-day, in regard of a smotherin’ about the

heart he tuck this morning, afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself

on the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him--God be praised

for all his marcies!”

“Thin, upon my _sole_vation, I’m sorry to hear it, and so will

all at home, for there’s not in the parish we’re sittin’ in a couple

that our family has a greater regard an’ friendship for than him an’

yourself. Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued

down Bartle Meegan’s throath that you and Biddy Martin war the two

portliest weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I

was near quarrellin’ wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase I tuck my

modher’s part, as I had good right to do.”

“Thrath, I’m thankful to you both, Condy, for your kindness.”

“Oh, the sarra taste o’ kindness was in it all, Ellish, ’twas only the

thruth; an’ as long as I live I’ll stand up for that.”

“Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall?”

“Indeed, thin, but middlin’, not gettin’ her health: she’ll soon give

the crow a puddin’, anyway; thin, Ellish, you thief, I’m _in_ for

the yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me?”

“Why, thin, I can’t say I do. Who are they, Condy?”

“Why, one o’ thim’s a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent boy,

indeed--him wid the frieze jock upon him, an’ the buckskin breeches.

The other three’s from Teenabraighera beyant. They’re related to my

brother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife’s brother-in-law’s

uncle. They’re come to this neighbourhood till the ’Sizes, bad luck to

them, goes over; for, you see, they’re in a little throuble.”

“The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys!”

“I brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows; an’ Ellish,

avourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth

is, you see, that when we left home none of us had any notion of

dhrinkin’, or I’d a put a something in my pocket, so that I’m taken

at an average.--Bud-an’-age--how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, that

goor-soon, when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don’t think

there’s a finer child in Europe of his age, so there isn’t.”

“Indeed, he’s a good child, Condy. But, Condy, avick, about givin’

credit:--by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy in

the parish, it ud be to yourself. It was only last night that I made

a promise against doin’ sich a thing for man or mortual. We’re a’most

broken an’ harrish’d out o’ house an’ home by it; an’ what’s more,

Condy, we intend to give up the business. The landlord’s at us every

day for his rint, an’ we owe for the two last kegs we got, but hasn’t

a rap to meet aither o’ thim; an’ enough due to us if we could get

it together: an’ whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that’s what ails

Pether, although he doesn’t wish to let an to any one about it.”

“Well, but you know I’m safe, Ellish?”

“I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself; an’ should have what

you want wid a heart an’ a half, only for the promise I made an my two

knees last night aginst givin’ credit to man or woman. Why the dickens

didn’t you come yistherday?”

“Didn’t I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an’ that I

wished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish;

don’t disgrace me afore my sisther’s bachelor an’ the sthrange boys

that’s to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn’t for the best

cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an’ besides, there’s a

_cleeveenship_ atween your family an’ ours.”

“Condy, avourneen, say no more: if you were fed from the same breast

wid me, I couldn’t, nor wouldn’t break my promise. I wouldn’t have the

sin of it an me for the wealth o’ the three kingdoms.”

“Bedad, you’re a quare woman; an’ only that my regard for you is great

entirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you’re dacent still.”

He then left her, and joined his friends in the little room that was

appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he

related the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter

and Ellish.

“Boys,” said he, “she’s too many for us! St. Pether himself wouldn’t

make a hand of her. Faix, she’s a cute one. I palavered her at the

rate of a hunt, an’ she ped me back in my own coin, wid dacent

intherest--but no whisky!--Now to take a rise out o’ Pether. Jist sit

where yees are, till I come back.”

He then left them enjoying the intended “spree,” and went back to

Ellish.

“Well, I’m sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you’d

refuse my father’s son sich a thrifle, I wouldn’t believe them. It’s

not wid Pether’s knowledge you do it, I’ll be bound. But bad as you

thrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at any rate.”

As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into

the room where Peter lay.

“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, at this hour o’ the

day?”

“Eh? What’s that--who’s that? Oh!”

“Why, thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”

“Oh!--oh! Eh? Is that Condy?”

“All that’s to the fore of him. What’s asthray wid you, man alive?”

“Throth, Condy, I don’t know rightly. I went out, wantin’ my coat,

about a week ago, an’ got cowld in the small o’ the back: I’ve a pain

in it ever since. Be sittin’.”

“Is your _heart_ safe? You have no smotherin’ or anything upon

_it_?”

“Why, thin, thank goodness, no; it’s all about my back an’ my hinches.”

“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_

ails you, you shkaimer o’ the world wide. ’Tis the oil o’ the hazel, or

a rubbin’ down wid an oak towel, you want. Get up, I say, or, by this

an’ by that, I’ll flail you widin an inch o’ your life.”

“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”

“No, no, faix; I’ve found you out: Ellish is afther tellin’ me that it

was a smotherin’ on the heart; but it’s a pain in the small o’ the back

wid _yourself_. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I

take the stick to you!”

“Why, thin, all sorts o’ fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you’re

the sarra’s pet, for there’s no escapin’ you. What was that I hard

atween you an’ Ellish?” said Peter, getting up.

“The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into

the wrong side o’ the sacret afore you die. Go an’ get us a pint o’

what you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.

“Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose you must give it to thim. Give

it--give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin’ll you pay me for this?”

“Never fret yourself about that; you’ll be ped. Honour _bright_,

as the black said whin he stole the boots.”

“Now, Pether,” said the wife, “sure it’s no use axin me to give it,

afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I’ll

have no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we’ll soon get out of

it altogether, for myself’s sick an’ sore of it, dear knows!”

Peter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise

that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday,

which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant at

Condy’s success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after

pint followed in rapid succession.

Every additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from

Ellish; and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations

deepened. When the night was far advanced they departed, after having

first overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest friendship,

promising that in future she exclusively should reap whatever benefit

was to be derived from their patronage.

In the meantime Condy forgot to perform his promise. The next Sunday

passed, but Peter was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at

mass, or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month

afterwards--an instance of ingratitude which mortified his creditor

extremely. The latter, who felt that it was a _take in_, resolved

to cut short all hopes of obtaining credit from them in future. In

about a week after the foregoing hoax he got up a board, presenting a

more vigorous refusal of _score_ than the former. His friends,

who were more in number than he could possibly have imagined, on this

occasion were altogether wiped out of the exception. The notice ran to

the following effect:--

“Notice to the Public, _and to Pether Connell’s friends in

particular_--Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got

or given in this house, while there is stick or stone of it

together, barrin’ them that axes it has the _ready money_.

“PETHER X CONNELL, his mark.

“ELLISH X CONNELL, her mark.”

_William Carleton_ (1794–1869).

_BRIAN O’LINN._

Brian O’Linn was a gentleman born,

His hair it was long and his beard unshorn,

His teeth were out and his eyes far in--

“I’m a wonderful beauty,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was hard up for a coat,

He borrowed the skin of a neighbouring goat,

He buckled the horns right under his chin--

“They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Linn;

Brian O’Linn had no breeches to wear,

He got him a sheepskin to make him a pair,

With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in--

“They are pleasant and cool,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no hat to his head,

He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,

He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin--

“’Twill pass for a feather,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shirt to his back,

He went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack.

He puckered a meal-bag under his chin--

“They’ll take it for ruffles,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shoes at all,

He bought an old pair at a cobbler’s stall,

The uppers were broke and the soles were thin--

“They’ll do me for dancing,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no watch for to wear,

He bought a fine turnip and scooped it out fair,

He slipped a live cricket right under the skin--

“They’ll think it is ticking,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was in want of a brooch,

He stuck a brass pin in a big cockroach,

The breast of his shirt he fixed it straight in--

“They’ll think it’s a diamond,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went a-courting one night,

He set both the mother and daughter to fight--

“Stop, stop,” he exclaimed, “if you have but the tin,

I’ll marry you both,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went to bring his wife home,

He had but one horse, that was all skin and bone--

“I’ll put her behind me, as nate as a pin,

And her mother before me,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn and his wife and wife’s mother,

They all crossed over the bridge together,

The bridge broke down and they all tumbled in--

“We’ll go home by water,” says Brian O’Linn!

_Anonymous._

[Illustration]

_THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE._

Did yir honor ever hear of the wager ’tween the goose and the turkey?

Oncet upon a time an ould cock-turkey lived in the barony of Brawny,

or, let me see, was it in Inchebofin or Tubbercleer? faix, an’ it’s

meself forgets that same at the present writin’,--but Jim Gurn--you

know Jim Gurn, yir honor, Jim Gurn the nailer that lives hard by,--him

that fought his black-and-tan t’other day ’gainst Tim Fagan’s silver

hackle,--oh! Jim is the boy that’ll tell ye the _ins_ and

_outs_ of it any day yir honor wud pay him a visit, ’caze Jim’s in

the way of it. Well, as I was relatin’, the turkey was a parson’s bird,

and as proud as Lucifer, bein’ used to the best of livin’; while the

gander was only a poor _commoner_, for he was a _Roman_,[13]

and oblidged to live upon what he could get by the roadside. These two

fowls, yir honor, never could agree anyhow,--never could put up their

horses together on any blessed p’int,--till one day a big row happened

betune them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeplechase

across the country, day and dark, for twenty-four hours. Well, to my

surprise,--though I wasn’t there at the time, but Jim Gurn was, who

gave me the whole history,--to my surprise, the turkey didn’t say

_no_ to it, but was quite agreeable to it, all of a suddent; so

away they started from Jim Gurn’s dunghill one Sunday after mass, for

the gander wouldn’t stir a step afore prayers. Well, to be sure, to

give the divil his due, the turkey took the lead in fine style, and

was soon clane out of sight; but the gander kept movin’ on, no ways

downhearted, after him. About nightfall it was his business to pass

through an ould archway across the road; and as he was stoopin’ his

head to get under it,--for yir honor knows a gander will stoop his

head under a doorway if it was only as high as the moon,--who should

he see comfortably sated in an ivy-bush but the turkey himself, tucked

in for the night. The gander, winkin’ to himself, says, “Is it there

ye are, honey?”--but he kept never mindin’ him for all that, but only

walked bouldly on to his journey’s end, where he arrived safe and sound

next day, afore the turkey was out of his first sleep; ’caze why, ye

see, sir, a goose or a gander will travel all night; but in respect of

a turkey, once the day falls in, divil another inch of ground he’ll

put his futt to, barrin’ it’s to roost in a tree or the rafters of a

cow-house! Oh! maybe the parson’s bird wasn’t ashamed of himself! Jim

Gurn says he never held his head up afterward, though to be sure he

hadn’t long to fret, for Christmas was nigh at hand, and he had to

stand sentry by the kitchen fire one day without his body-clothes till

he could bear it no longer; so they dished him entirely. Them that

ett him said he was as tough as leather, no doubt from the grief; but

divil’s cure to him! what business had he to be so proud of himself,

the spalpeen?

_Joseph A. Wade_ (1796–1845).

_WIDOW MACHREE._

Widow Machree, it’s no wonder you frown,

Och hone, Widow Machree--

Faith, it ruins your looks that same dirty black gown,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

How altered your air,

With that close cap you wear--

It’s destroying your hair,

Which should be flowing free,

Be no longer a churl

Of its black silken curl,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, now the summer is come,

Och hone, Widow Machree,

When everything smiles--should a beauty look glum,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

See the birds go in pairs,

And the rabbits and hares--

Why even the bears,

Now in couples agree,

And the mute little fish,

Though they can’t speak, they wish,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, when the winter comes in,

Och hone, Widow Machree,

To be poking the fire, all alone, is a sin,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

Why the shovel and tongs,

To each other belongs,

And the kettle sings songs,

Full of family glee,

While alone with your cup,

Like a hermit you sup,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

And how do you know, with the comforts I’ve told,

Och hone, Widow Machree,

But you’re keeping some poor divil out in the cold?

Och hone, Widow Machree.

With such sins on your head,

Sure your peace would be fled,

Could you sleep in your bed,

Without thinking to see,

Some ghost or some sprite,

Come to wake you each night,

Crying, och hone, Widow Machree.

Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,

Och hone, Widow Machree,

And with my advice, faith, I wish you’d take me,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

You’d have me to desire.

Then to stir up the fire,

And sure hope is no liar,

In whispering to me,

That the ghosts would depart,

When you’d me near your heart,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

_Samuel Lover_ (1797–1868).

[Illustration]

_BARNEY O’HEA._

Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,

I know you won’t,

I know you won’t,

Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

It makes me outrageous when you’re so contagious--

You’d better look out for the stout Corney Creagh!

For he is the boy that believes me his joy;--

So you’d better behave yourself, Barney O’Hea.

Impudent Barney--

None of your blarney,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

I hope you’re not going to Bandon fair,

To Bandon fair,

To Bandon fair,

For sure I’m not wanting to meet you there,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

For Corney’s at Cork, and my brother’s at work,

And my mother sits spinning at home all the day;

So no one will be there, of poor me to take care,

And I hope you won’t follow me, Barney O’Hea.

Impudent Barney--

None of your blarney,

Impudent Barney O’Hea.

But as I was walking up Bandon Street,

Just who do you think ’twas myself should meet

But impudent Barney O’Hea!

He said I look’d killin’,

I call’d him a villain,

And bid him that minute get out of my way.

He said I was jokin’,

And look’d so provokin’,--

I could not help laughing with Barney O’Hea!

Impudent Barney--

’Tis he has the blarney,

Impudent Barney O’Hea!

He knew ’twas all right when he saw me smile,

For he is the rogue up to every wile,

Is impudent Barney O’Hea!

He coax’d me to choose him,

For, if I’d refuse him,

He swore he’d kill Corney the very next day;

So for fear ’twould go further,

And--just to save murther--

I think I must marry that mad-cap O’Hea.

Botherin’ Barney--

’Tis he has the blarney

To make a girl Misthress O’Hea!

_Samuel Lover._

[Illustration]

_MOLLY CAREW._

Och hone, and what will I do?

Sure, my love is all crost

Like a bud in the frost,

And there’s no use at all in my going to bed;

For ’tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head;

And ’tis all about you,

My sweet Molly Carew--

And indeed ’tis a sin and a shame;

You’re complater than Nature

In every feature,

The snow can’t compare

With your forehead so fair;

And I rather would see just one blink of your eye

Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky--

And by this and by that,

For the matter of that,

You’re more distant by far than that same!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

I’m alone in this world without you.

Och hone! but why should I spake

Of your forehead and eyes,

When your nose it defies

Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme?

Tho’ there’s one Burke, he says, that would call it _snublime_.

And then for your cheek!

Throth, ’twould take him a week

Its beauties to tell as he’d rather.

Then your lips! oh, Machree!

In their beautiful glow

They a patthern might be

For the cherries to grow.

’Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know--

For apples were _scarce_, I suppose, long ago;

But at this time o’ day,

’Pon my conscience, I’ll say,

Such cherries might tempt a man’s father!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

I’m alone in this world without you.

Och hone! by the man in the moon,

You _taze_ me all ways,

That a woman can plaze,

For you dance twice as high with that thief Pat Magee,

As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me,

Tho’ the piper I bate,

For fear the ould chate

Wouldn’t play you your favourite tune;

And when you’re at mass

My devotion you crass,

For ’tis thinking of you

I am, Molly Carew;

While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,

That I can’t at your sweet purty face get a peep:

Oh! lave off that bonnet,

Or else I’ll lave on it

The loss of my wandherin’ sowl!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

Och hone, like an owl,

Day is night, dear, to me, without you!

Och hone! don’t provoke me to do it;

For there’s girls by the score

That love me--and more;

And you’d look very quare if some morning you’d meet

My wedding all marchin’ in pride down the sthreet;

Throth, you’d open your eyes,

And you’d die with surprise,

To think ’twasn’t you was come to it!

And, faith, Katty Naile,

And her cow, I go bail,

Would jump if I’d say,

“Katty Naile, name the day.”

And tho’ you’re fair and fresh as a morning in May,

While she’s short and dark like a cowld winther’s day,

Yet if you don’t repent

Before Easther, when Lent

Is over I’ll marry for spite;

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

And when I die for you,

My ghost will haunt you every night.

_Samuel Lover._

_HANDY ANDY AND THE POSTMASTER._

“Ride into the town, and see if there’s a letter for me,” said the

Squire one day to our hero.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know where to go?”

“To the town, sir.”

“But do you know where to go in the town?”

“No, sir.”

“And why don’t you ask, you stupid fellow?”

“Sure, I’d find out, sir.”

“Didn’t I often tell you to ask what you’re to do when you don’t know?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why don’t you?”

“I don’t like to be throublesome, sir.”

“Confound you!” said the Squire, though he could not help laughing at

Andy’s excuse for remaining in ignorance.

“Well,” continued he, “go to the post-office. You know the post-office,

I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, where they sell gunpowder.”

“You’re right for once,” said the Squire; for his Majesty’s postmaster

was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid

combustible. “Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for

me. Remember,--not gunpowder, but a letter.”

“Yes, sir,” said Andy, who got astride of his hack and trotted away to

the post-office. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that

person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and

linen drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said--

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“Who do you want it for?” said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy

considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life; so

Andy thought the coollest contempt he could throw upon the prying

impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“And who do you want it for?” repeated the postmaster.

“What’s that to you?” said Andy.

The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell

what letter to give unless he told him the direction.

“The directions I got was to get a letther here--that’s the directions.”

“Who gave you those directions?”

“The masther.”

“And who’s your master?”

“What consarn is that o’ yours?”

“Why, you stupid rascal! if you don’t tell me his name, how can I give

you a letter?”

“You could give it if you liked; but you’re fond of axin’ impident

questions, bekase you think I’m simple.”

“Go along out o’ this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself

to send such a messenger.”

“Bad luck to your impidence,” said Andy; “is it Squire Egan you dar’ to

say goose to?”

“Oh, Squire Egan’s your master, then?”

“Yes; have you anything to say agin it?”

“Only that I never saw you before.”

“Faith, then, you’ll never see me agin if I have my own consint.”

“I won’t give you any letter for the Squire unless I know you’re his

servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?”

“Plenty,” said Andy; “it’s not every one is as ignorant as you.”

Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house,

who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the Squire’s

letter. “Have you one for me?”

“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one--“four pence.”

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop with his

letter.

“Here’s a letter for the Squire,” said the postmaster; “you’ve to pay

me elevenpence postage.”

“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?”

“For postage.”

“To the divil wid you! Didn’t I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for

fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? and now you want

me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing. Do you think I’m a

fool?”

“No, but I’m sure of it,” said the postmaster.

“Well, you’re welkim to be sure, sure;--but don’t be delayin’ me now;

here’s fourpence for you, and gi’ me the letther.”

“Go along, you stupid thief!” said the postmaster, taking up the

letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.

While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down

the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the

customers, and saying, “Will you gi’ me the letther?”

He waited for above half-an-hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the

postmaster, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common

justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another

man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than

the fourpence.

The Squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and

when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.

“There is, sir,” said Andy.

“Then give it to me.”

“I haven’t it, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wouldn’t give it to me, sir.”

“Who wouldn’t give it to you?”

“That ould chate beyant in the town--wanting to charge double for it.”

“Maybe it’s a double letter. Why the devil didn’t you pay what he

asked, sir?”

“Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It’s not a double letther

at all; not above half the size o’ one Mr. Durfy got before my face for

fourpence.”

“You’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back

for your life, you _omadhaun_; and pay whatever he asks, and get

me the letter.”

“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my face for fourpence

apiece.”

“Go back, you scoundrel! or I’ll horsewhip you; and if you’re longer

than a hour, I’ll have you ducked in the horsepond!”

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he

arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was

selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him

on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be

served.

“I’m come for that letther,” said Andy.

“I’ll attend to you by-and-by.”

“The masther’s in a hurry.”

“Let him wait till his hurry’s over.”

“He’ll murther me if I’m not back soon.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these

appeals for despatch, Andy’s eye caught the heap of letters which lay

on the counter; so while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going

forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap,

and having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the great

man’s pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the

postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could

carry him. He came into the Squire’s presence, his face beaming with

delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite

unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had

been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding

three letters over his head, while he said, “Look at that!” he next

slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the Squire,

saying--

“Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour

the worth o’ your money, anyhow!”

_Samuel Lover._

_THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE._

There was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by

the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife,

and av coorse they had childhre, and plenty of them, and small blame to

them, so that the poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers

to the bone a’most to get them the bit and the sup, but he didn’t

begridge that, for he was an industherous craythur, as I said before,

and it was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’

still.

Well, it was one mornin’ that his wife called to him, “Come here,”

says she, “jewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it’s ready.” But he

never minded her, but wint an workin’. So in a minit or two more, says

she, callin’ out to him agin, “Arrah, lave off slavin’ yourself, my

darlin’, and ate your bit o’ brekquest while it is hot.”

“Lave me alone,” says he, and he dhruv the shuttle fasther nor before.

Well, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and

says she, coaxin’ him like, “Thady, dear,” says she, “the stirabout

will be stone cowld if you don’t give over that weary work and come and

ate it at wanst.”

“I’m busy with a patthern here that is brakin’ my heart,” says the

waiver; “and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won’t quit”

“Oh, think of the iligant stirabout that ’ill be spylte intirely.”

“To the divil with the stirabout,” says he.

“God forgive you,” says she, “for cursin’ your good brekquest.”

“Ay, and you too,” says he.

“Throth, you’re as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,”

says the poor wife; “and it’s a heavy handful I have of you when you

are cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your

stirabout grow cowld, and not a one o’ me ’ill ax you agin;” and with

that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed,

and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know,

is only nath’ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the

stirabout; and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as

black as a crow--for you see, it was in the hoighth o’ summer, and the

flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered

with them.

“Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,” says the waiver, “would no

place sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you

dirty bastes?” And with that, bein’ altogether cruked-tempered at the

time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o’

stirabout, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at the one

blow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he counted the carcases

one by one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them.

[Illustration: “HE KEM HOME IN THE EVENIN’, AFTHER SPENDIN’ EVERY

RAP HE HAD.”]

Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin’ in him, when he seen the

slaughther he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as

the very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he’d do that day, but out

he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was

squarin’ up into their faces and sayin’, “Look at that fist! that’s

the fist that killed threescore and tin at one blow--Whoo!”

With that all the neighbours thought he was crack’d, and faith, the

poor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin’,

afther spendin’ every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin’ about the

place, and lookin’ at his hand every minit.

“Indeed, an’ your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,” says

the poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin’

home. “You had betther wash it, darlin’.”

“How dar’ you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?” says he,

going to bate her.

“Well, it’s nat dirty,” says she.

“It is throwin’ away my time I have been all my life,” says he; “livin’

with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin’ but a poor waiver, when

it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two o’ the

siven champions o’ Christendom.”

“Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,” says the wife,

“sure, what’s that to uz?”

“Don’t put in your prate,” says he, “you ignorant sthrap,” says he.

“You’re vulgar, woman--you’re vulgar--mighty vulgar; but I’ll have

nothin’ more to say to any dirty snakin’ thrade again--divil a more

waivin’ I’ll do.”

“Oh, Thady, dear, and what’ll the children do then?”

“Let them go play marvels,” says he.

“That would be but poor feedin’ for them, Thady.”

“They shan’t want for feedin’,” says he, “for it’s a rich man I’ll be

soon, and a great man too.”

“Usha, but I’m glad to hear it, darlin’, though I dunna how it’s to be;

but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.”

“Don’t talk to me of any bed but the bed o’ glory, woman,” says he,

lookin’ mortial grand.

“Oh! God sind we’ll all be in glory yet,” says the wife, crossin’

herself; “but go to sleep, Thady, for this present.”

“I’ll sleep with the brave yit,” says he.

“Indeed, an’ a brave sleep will do you a power o’ good, my darlin’,”

says she.

“And it’s I that will be the knight!” says he.

“All night, if you plaze, Thady,” says she.

“None o’your coaxin’,” says he. “I’m detarmined on it, and I’ll set off

immediately and be a knight arriant.”

“A what?” says she.

“A knight arriant, woman.”

“Lord, be good to me! what’s that?” says she.

“A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,” says he; “goin’ round the world

for sport, with a swoord by his side, takin’ whatever he plazes for

himself; and that’s a knight arriant,” says he.

Well, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and

he got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he

took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o’ tin clothes

like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he

was very partic’lar about bekase it was his shield, and he went to a

frind o’ his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield

in big letthers:--

“I’M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,

THAT KILL’D THREESCORE AND TIN

AT A BLOW.”

“When the people sees _that_” says the waiver to himself, “the

sorra one will dar’ for to come near me.”

And with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for

him, “for,” says he, “it will make an illigant helmet;” and when it was

done, he put it on his head, and his wife said, “Oh, murther, Thady,

jewel; is it puttin’ a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by

way iv a hat?”

“Sartinly,” says he, “for a knight arriant should always have _a

weight an his brain_.”

“But, Thady, dear,” says the wife, “there’s a hole in it, and it can’t

keep out the weather.”

“It will be the cooler,” says he, puttin’ it an him; “besides, if I

don’t like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o’ sthraw, or the like

o’ that.”

“The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin’ up,” says she.

“Every helmet has a spike stickin’ out o’ the top of it,” says the

waiver, “and if mine has three, it’s only the grandher it is.”

“Well,” says the wife, getting bitther at last, “all I can say is, it

isn’t the first sheep’s head was dhress’d in it”

“_Your sarvint, ma’am_,” says he; and off he set.

Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by,

where the miller’s horse was grazin’, that used to carry the ground

corn round the counthry. “This is the idintical horse for me,” says the

waiver; “he is used to carryin’ flour and male, and what am I but the

_flower_ o’ shovelry in a coat o’ _mail_; so that the horse

won’t be put out iv his way in the laste.”

But as he was ridin’ him out o’ the field, who should see him but the

miller. “Is it stalin’ my horse you are, honest man?” says the miller.

“No,” says the waiver; “I’m only goin’ to exercise him,” says he, “in

the cool o’ the evenin’; it will be good for his health.”

“Thank you kindly,” says the miller; “but lave him where he is, and

you’ll obleege me.”

“I can’t afford it,” says the waiver, runnin’ the horse at the ditch.

“Bad luck to your impidince,” says the miller, “you’ve as much tin

about you as a thravellin’ tinker, but you’ve more brass. Come back

here, you vagabone,” says he. But he was too late; away galloped the

waiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing

he could do was to go to the King o’ Dublin (for Dublin was a grate

place thin, and had a king iv its own). Well, he was four days goin’

to Dublin, for the baste was not the best, and the roads worse, not

all as one as now; but there was no turnpikes then, glory be to God!

When he got to Dublin, he wint sthrait to the palace, and whin he got

into the coortyard he let his horse go and graze about the place,

for the grass was growin’ out betune the stones; everything was

flourishin’ thin in Dublin, you see. Well, the king was lookin’ out

of his dhrawin’-room windy for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but

the waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sate,

undher the windy--for, you see, there was stone sates all round about

the place, for the accommodation o’ the people--for the king was a

dacent obleeging man; well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay

down an one o’ the sates, just undher the king’s windy, and purtended

to go asleep; but he took care to turn out the front of his shield that

had the letthers an it. Well, my dear, with that, the king calls out to

one of the lords of his coort that was standin’ behind him, howldin’ up

the skirt of his coat, accordin’ to rayson, and says he: “Look here,”

says he, “what do you think of a vagabone like that, comin’ undher

my very nose to sleep? It is thrue I’m a good king,” says he, “and I

’commodate the people by havin’ sates for them to sit down and enjoy

the raycreation and contimplation of seein’ me here, lookin’ out o’ my

dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin; but that is no rayson they are to

_make a hotel_ o’ the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at

all?” says the king.

“Not a one o’ me knows, plaze your majesty.”

“I think he must be a furriner,” says the king, “bekase his dhress is

outlandish.”

“And doesn’t know manners, more betoken,” says the lord.

“I’ll go down and _circumspect_ him myself,” says the king; “folly

me,” says he to the lord, wavin’ his hand at the same time in the most

dignacious manner.

Down he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and when he wint over

to where the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his

shield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord,

“Bedad,” says he, “this is the very man I want.”

“For what, plaze your majesty?” says the lord.

“To kill the vagabone dhraggin, to be sure,” says the king.

“Sure, do you think he could kill him,” says the lord, “whin all the

stoutest knights in the land wasn’t aiquil to it, but never kem back,

and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver?”

“Sure, don’t you see there,” says the king, pointin’ at the shield,

“that he killed threescore and tin at one blow; and the man that done

_that_, I think, is a match for anything.”

So, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shoulder

for to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and

the king says to him, “God save you,” says he.

“God save you kindly,” says the waiver, _purtendin_’ he was quite

onknownst who he was spakin’ to.

“Do you know who I am,” says the king, “that you make so free, good

man?”

“No, indeed,” says the waiver, “you have the advantage o’ me.”

“To be sure I have,” says the king, _moighty high_; “sure ain’t I

the King o’ Dublin?” says he.

[Illustration: “‘SURE, DON’T YOU SEE THERE,’ SAYS THE KING, ‘THAT

HE KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT ONE BLOW.’”]