The waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the king, and says

he, “I beg God’s pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk; plaze your

holiness, I hope you’ll excuse it.”

“No offince,” says the king; “get up, good man. And what brings you

here?” says he.

“I’m in want o’ work, plaze your riverence,” says the waiver.

“Well, suppose I give you work?” says the king.

“I’ll be proud to sarve you, my lord,” says the waiver.

“Very well,” says the king. “You killed threescore and tin at one blow,

I undherstan’,” says the king.

“Yis,” says the waiver; “that was the last thrifle o’ work I done, and

I’m afeard my hand ’ll go out o’ practice if I don’t get some job to do

at wanst.”

“You shall have a job immediately,” says the king. “It is not

threescore and tin or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard

dhraggin that is disturbin’ the counthry and ruinatin’ my tinanthry wid

aitin’ their powlthry, and I’m lost for want of eggs,” says the king.

“Throth, thin, plaze your worship,” says the waiver, “you look as

yellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.”

“Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,” says the king. “It will be

no throuble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn’t betther

worth your while, for he isn’t worth fearin’ at all; only I must tell

you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he

has an advantage in that.”

“Oh, I don’t value it in the laste,” says the waiver, “for the last

threescore and tin I killed was in a _soft place_.”

“When will you undhertake the job, thin?” says the king.

“Let me be at him at wanst,” says the waiver.

“That’s what I like,” says the king; “you’re the very man for my

money,” says he.

“Talkin’ of money,” says the waiver, “by the same token, I’ll want a

thrifle o’ change from you for my thravellin’ charges.”

“As much as you plaze,” says the king; and with the word he brought

him into his closet, where there was an owld stockin’ in an oak chest,

burstin’ wid goolden guineas.

“Take as many as you plaze,” says the king; and sure enough, my dear,

the little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld

with them.

“Now I’m ready for the road,” says the waiver.

“Very well,” says the king; “but you must have a fresh horse,” says he.

“With all my heart,” says the waiver, who thought he might as well

exchange the miller’s owld garron for a betther.

And maybe it’s wondherin’ you are that the waiver would think of goin’

to fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him, when he was

purtendin’ to be asleep, but he had no sich notion; all he intended

was--to fob the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains and

a good horse. But you see, cute as the waiver was, the king was cuter

still; for these high quality, you see, is great desaivers; and so the

horse the waiver was an was larned on purpose; and sure, the minit he

was mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the divil a toe he’d go but

right down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin’ evermore, until

at last the waiver seen a crowd o’ people runnin’ as if owld Nick was

at their heels, and they shoutin’ a thousand murdhers, and cryin’--“The

dhraggin, the dhraggin!” and he couldn’t stop the horse nor make him

turn back, but away he pelted right forninst the terrible baste that

was comin’ up to him; and there was the most _nefaarious_ smell o’

sulphur, savin’ your presence, enough to knock you down; and, faith,

the waiver seen he had no time to lose; and so he threw himself off

the horse and made to a three that was growin’ nigh-hand, and away

he clambered up into it as nimble as a cat; and not a minit had he to

spare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and he devoured

the horse body and bones, in less than no time; and then he began to

sniffle and scent about for the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye

an him, where he was, up in the three, and says he, “You might as well

come down out o’ that,” says he, “for I’ll have you as sure as eggs is

mate.”

“Divil a fut I’ll go down,” says the waiver.

“Sorra care I care,” says the dhraggin; “for you’re as good as ready

money in my pocket this minit, for I’ll lie undher this three,” says

he, “and sooner or later you must fall to my share;” and sure enough he

sot down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail, afther the heavy

brekquest he made that mornin’ (for he ate a whole village, let alone

the horse), and he got dhrowsy at last, and fell asleep; but before he

wint to sleep he wound himself all round about the three, all as one as

a lady windin’ ribbon round her finger, so that the waiver could not

escape.

Well, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, by the snorin’ of

him--and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o’ thunder--that

minit the waiver began to creep down the three, as cautious as a fox;

and he was very nigh hand the bottom, when a thievin’ branch he was

dipindin’ an bruk, and down he fell right a top o’ the dhraggin; but if

he did, good luck was an his side, for where should he fall but with

his two legs right acrass the dhraggin’s neck, and, my jew’l, he laid

howlt o’ the baste’s ears, and there he kept his grip, for the dhraggin

wakened and endayvoured for to bite him; but, you see, by rayson the

waiver was behind his ears he could not come at him, and, with that,

he endayvoured for to shake him off; but not a stir could he stir the

waiver; and though he shuk all the scales an his body, he could not

turn the scale agin the waiver.

[Illustration: “‘I’LL GIVE YOU A RIDE THAT ’ILL ASTONISH YOUR

SIVEN SMALL SENSES, MY BOY.’”]

“Och, this is too bad intirely,” says the dhraggin; “but if you won’t

let go,” says he, “by the powers o’ wildfire, I’ll give you a ride

that ’ill astonish your siven small senses, my boy;” and, with that,

away he flew like mad; and where do you think did he fly?--bedad, he

flew sthraight for Dublin, divil a less. But the waiver bein’ an his

neck was a great disthress to him, and he would rather have had him an

_inside passenger_; but, anyway, he flew and he flew till he kem

_slap_ up agin the palace o’ the king; for, bein’ blind with the

rage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains out--that is, the

small thrifle he had, and down he fell spacheless. An’ you see, good

luck would have it, that the King o’ Dublin was looking out iv his

dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin, that day also, and whin he seen

the waiver ridin’ an the fiery dhraggin (for he was blazin’ like a tar

barrel), he called out to his coortyers to come and see the show.

“By the powdhers o’ war here comes the knight arriant,” says the king,

“ridin’ the dhraggin that’s all a-fire, and if he gets _into the

palace_, yiz must be ready wid the _fire ingines_,” says he,

“for to _put him out_.”

But when they seen the dhraggin fall outside, they all run

downstairs and scampered into the palace-yard for to circumspect the

_curosity_; and by the time they got down, the waiver had got off

o’ the dhraggin’s neck; and runnin’ up to the king, says he--

“Plaze your holiness, I did not think myself worthy of killin’ this

facetious baste, so I brought him to yourself for to do him the honour

of decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first,

before I allowed him the liberty for to _dar’_ to appear in your

royal prisince, and you’ll obleege me if you’ll just make your mark

with your own hand upon the onruly baste’s neck.” And with that, the

king, sure enough, dhrew out his swoord and took the head aff the

_dirty_ brute, as _clane_ as a new pin.

Well, there was great rejoicin’ in the coort that the dhraggin was

killed; and says the king to the little waiver, says he--

“You are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would be no use for to

knight you over again; but I will make you a lord,” says he.

“O Lord!” says the waiver, thunderstruck like at his own good luck.

“I will,” says the king; “and as you are the first man I ever heer’d

tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called Lord _Mount_

Dhraggin,” says he.

“And where’s my estates, plaze your holiness?” says the waiver, who

always had a sharp look-out afther the main chance.

“Oh, I didn’t forget that,” says the king. “It is my royal pleasure

to provide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of

all the dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this

out,” says he.

“Is that all?” says the waiver.

“All!” says the king. “Why, you ongrateful little vagabone, was the

like ever given to any man before?”

“I b’lieve not, indeed,” says the waiver; “many thanks to your majesty.”

“But that is not all I’ll do for you,” says the king; “I’ll give you my

daughter too, in marriage,” says he.

Now, you see, that was nothin’ more than what he promised the waiver in

his first promise; for, by all accounts, the king’s daughter was the

greatest dhraggin ever was seen....

_Samuel Lover._

_BELLEWSTOWN HILL_.

If a respite ye’d borrow from turmoil or sorrow,

I’ll tell you the secret of how it is done;

’Tis found in this statement of all the excitement

That Bellewstown knows when the races come on.

Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,

Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,

In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,

And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!

On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion,

It Banagher bangs, by the table o’ war!

From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity

Jogging along on an ould jaunting-car.

Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,

Its jigging and jumping to mollify still;

Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly,

From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.

In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,

Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;

While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,

Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.

More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky,

But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.

Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,--he’d jump up ecstatic,

At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill.

Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,

In chattering groups that the quality dine;

Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,

In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.

And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having”

’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.

All we read in the pages of pastoral ages

Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.

Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,

From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,

There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!

To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.

And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet,

The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still;

Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)

Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.

But hark! there’s a shout--the horses are out,--

’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!

To old _Crock-a-Fatha_, the people that dot the

Broad plateau around are all for a view.

“Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow!

Success to the green! faith, we’ll stand by it still!”

The uplands and hollows they’re skimming like swallows,

Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.

_Anonymous._

[Illustration: “FROM THE COACH OF THE QUALITY, DOWN TO THE

JOLLITY JOGGING ALONG ON AN OULD JAUNTING-CAR.”]

_THE PEELER AND THE GOAT._

A Bansha Peeler wint wan night

On duty and pathrollin, O,

An’ met a goat upon the road,

And tuck her for a sthroller, O.

Wud bay’net fixed he sallied forth,

And caught her by the wizzen, O,

And then he swore a mighty oath,

“I’ll send you off to prison, O.”

GOAT.

“Oh, mercy, sir!” the goat replied,

“Pray let me tell my story, O!

I am no Rogue, no Ribbonman,

No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O;

I’m guilty not of any crime

Of petty or high thraison, O,

I’m badly wanted at this time,

For this is the milking saison, O.”

PEELER.

It is in vain for to complain

Or give your tongue such bridle, O;

You’re absent from your dwelling-place,

Disorderly and idle, O.

Your hoary locks will not prevail,

Nor your sublime oration, O,

You’ll be thransported by Peel’s Act,

Upon my information, O.

GOAT.

No penal law did I transgress

By deeds or combination, O,

I have no certain place to rest,

No home or habitation, O.

But Bansha is my dwelling-place,

Where I was bred and born, O,

Descended from an honest race,

That’s all the trade I’ve learned, O.

PEELER.

I will chastise your insolince

And violent behaviour, O;

Well bound to Cashel you’ll be sint,

Where you will gain no favour, O.

The Magistrates will all consint

To sign your condemnation, O;

From there to Cork you will be sint

For speedy thransportation, O.

GOAT.

This parish an’ this neighbourhood

Are paiceable an’ thranquil, O;

There’s no disturbance here, thank God!

And long may it continue so.

I don’t regard your oath a pin,

Or sign for my committal, O,

My jury will be gintlemin

And grant me my acquittal, O.

PEELER.

The consequince be what it will,

A peeler’s power I’ll let you know,

I’ll handcuff you, at all events,

And march you off to Bridewell, O.

An’ sure, you rogue, you can’t deny

Before the judge or jury, O,

Intimidation with your horns,

And threatening me with fury, O.

GOAT.

I make no doubt but you are dhrunk

Wud whisky, rum, or brandy, O,

Or you wouldn’t have such gallant spunk

To be so bould or manly, O.

You readily would let me pass

If I had money handy, O,

To thrate you to a potheen glass--

Oh! it’s thin I’d be the dandy, O.

_Jeremiah O’ Ryan_ (17-- –1855).

_THE LOQUACIOUS BARBER._

He had scarcely taken his seat before the toilet, when a soft tap

at the door, and the sound of a small squeaking voice, announced

the arrival of the hair-cutter. On looking round him, Hardress

beheld a small, thin-faced, red-haired little man, with a tailor’s

shears dangling from his finger, bowing and smiling with a timid and

conciliating air. In an evil hour for his patience, Hardress consented

that he should commence operations.

“The piatez were very airly this year, sir,” he modestly began, after

he had wrapped a check apron about the neck of Hardress, and made the

other necessary arrangements.

“Very early, indeed. You needn’t cut so fast.”

“Very airly, sir--the white-eyes especially. Them white-eyes are fine

piatez. For the first four months I wouldn’t ax a better piatie than

a white-eye, with a bit o’ bacon, if one had it; but after that the

meal goes out of ’em, and they gets wet and bad. The cups arn’t so

good in the beginnin’ o’ the saison, but they hould better. Turn your

head more to the light, sir, if you plase. The cups, indeed, are a

fine substantial, lasting piatie. There’s great nutriment in’em for

poor people, that would have nothin’ else with them but themselves,

or a grain o’ salt. There’s no piatie that eats better, when you have

nothin’ but a bit o’ the little one (as they say) to eat with a bit o’

the big. No piatie that eats so sweet with point.”

“With point?” Hardress repeated, a little amused by this fluent

discussion of the poor hair-cutter upon the varieties of a dish which,

from his childhood, had formed almost his only article of nutriment,

and on which he expatiated with as much cognoscence and satisfaction

as a fashionable gourmand might do on the culinary productions of

Eustache Ude. “What is point?”

[Illustration: “ON LOOKING ROUND HIM, HARDRESS BEHELD A SMALL,

THIN-FACED, RED-HAIRED LITTLE MAN.”]

“Don’t you know what that is, sir? I’ll tell you in a minute. A joke

that them that has nothin’ to do, an’ plenty to eat, make upon the poor

people that has nothin’ to eat, and plenty to do. That is, when there’s

dry piatez on the table, and enough of hungry people about it, and the

family would have, maybe, only one bit o’ bacon hanging up above their

heads, they’d peel a piatie first, and then they’d _point_ it up

at the bacon, and they’d fancy that it would have the taste o’ the

mait when they’d be aitin’ it after. That’s what they call point, sir.

A cheap sort o’ diet it is (Lord help us!) that’s plenty enough among

the poor people in this country. A great plan for making a small bit o’

pork go a long way in a large family.”

“Indeed it is but a slender sort of food. Those scissors you have are

dreadful ones.”

“Terrible, sir. I sent my own over to the forge before I left home, to

have an eye put in it; only for that, I’d be smarter a deal. Slender

food it is, indeed. There’s a deal o’ poor people here in Ireland,

sir, that are run so hard at times, that the wind of a bit o’ mait is

as good to ’em as the mait itself to them that would be used to it.

The piatez are everythin’; the _kitchen_[14] little or nothin’.

But there’s a sort o’ piatez (I don’t know did your honour ever taste

’em) that’s gettin’ greatly in vogue now among ’em, an’ is killin’ half

the country,--the white piatez, a piatie that has great produce, an’

requires but little manure, and will grow in very poor land; but has no

more strength nor nourishment in it than if you had boiled a handful o’

sawdust and made gruel of it, or put a bit of a deal board between your

teeth and thought to make a breakfast of it. The black bulls themselves

are better; indeed, the black bulls are a deal a better piatie than

they’re thought. When you’d peel ’em, they look as black as indigo, an’

you’d have no mind to ’em at all; but I declare they’re very sweet in

the mouth, an’ very strengthenin’. The English reds are a nate piatie,

too; and the apple piatie (I don’t know what made ’em be given up),

an’ the kidney (though delicate o’ rearing); but give me the cups for

all, that will hould the meal in ’em to the last, and won’t require any

inthricket tillage. Let a man have a middling-sized pit o’ cups again

the winter, a small _caish_[15] to pay his rent, an’ a handful o’

turf behind the doore, an’ he can defy the world.”

“You know as much, I think,” said Hardress, “of farming as of

hair-cutting.”

“Oyeh, if I had nothin’ to depend upon but what heads comes across me

this way, sir, I’d be in a poor way enough. But I have a little spot o’

ground besides.”

“And a good taste for the produce.”

“’Twas kind father for me to have that same. Did you ever hear tell,

sir, of what they call limestone broth?”

“Never.”

“’Twas my father first made it. I’ll tell you the story, sir, if you’ll

turn your head this way a minute.”

Hardress had no choice but to listen.

“My father went once upon a time about the country, in the idle season,

seeing would he make a penny at all by cutting hair, or setting razhurs

and penknives, or any other job that would fall in his way. Well an’

good--he was one day walking alone in the mountains of Kerry, without

a hai’p’ny in his pocket (for though he travelled a-foot, it cost him

more than he earned), an’ knowing there was but little love for a

county Limerick man in the place where he was, on being half perished

with the hunger, an’ evening drawing nigh, he didn’t know well what

to do with himself till morning. Very good--he went along the wild

road; an’ if he did, he soon sees a farmhouse at a little distance o’

one side--a snug-looking place, with the smoke curling up out of the

chimney, an’ all tokens of good living inside. Well, some people would

live where a fox would starve. What do you think did my father do? He

wouldn’t beg (a thing one of our people never done yet, thank heaven!)

an’ he hadn’t the money to buy a thing, so what does he do? He takes up

a couple o’ the big limestones that were lying on the road in his two

hands, an’ away with him to the house. ‘Lord save all here!’ says he,

walkin’ in the doore. ‘And you kindly,’ says they. ‘I’m come to you,’

says he, this way, looking at the two limestones, ‘to know would you

let me make a little limestone broth over your fire, until I’ll make

my dinner?’ ‘Limestone broth!’ says they to him again; ‘what’s that,

_aroo_?’ ‘Broth made o’ limestone,’ says he; ‘what else?’ ‘We

never heard of such a thing,’ says they. ‘Why, then, you may hear it

now,’ says he, ‘an’ see it also, if you’ll gi’ me a pot an’ a couple

o’ quarts o’ soft water.’ ‘You can have it an’ welcome,’ says they. So

they put down the pot an’ the water, an’ my father went over an’ tuk

a chair hard by the pleasant fire for himself, an’ put down his two

limestones to boil, and kep stirrin’ them round like stirabout. Very

good--well, by-an’-by, when the wather began to boil--‘’Tis thickening

finely,’ says my father; ‘now if it had a grain o’ salt at all, ’twould

be a great improvement to it’ ‘Raich down the salt-box, Nell,’ says

the man o’ the house to his wife. So she did. ‘Oh, that’s the very

thing, just,’ says my father, shaking some of it into the pot. So he

stirred it again awhile, looking as sober as a minister. By-an’-by,

he takes the spoon he had stirring it, an’ tastes it ‘It is very good

now,’ says he, ‘although it wants something yet.’ ‘What is it?’ says

they. ‘Oyeh, wisha nothing,’ says he; ‘maybe ’tis only fancy o’ me.’

‘If it’s anything we can give you,’ says they, ‘you’re welcome to

it’ ‘’Tis very good as it is,’ says he; ‘but when I’m at home, I find

it gives it a fine flavour just to boil a little knuckle o’ bacon, or

mutton trotters, or anything that way along with it.’ ‘Raich hether

that bone o’ sheep’s head we had at dinner yesterday, Nell,’ says

the man o’ the house. ‘Oyeh, don’t mind it,’ says my father; ‘let it

be as it is.’ ‘Sure if it improves it, you may as well,’ says they.

‘_Baithershin!_’[16] says my father, putting it down. So after

boiling it a good piece longer, ‘’Tis as fine limestone broth,’ says

he, ‘as ever was tasted; an’ if a man had a few piatez,’ says he,

looking at a pot of ’em that was smokin’ in the chimney-corner, ‘he

couldn’t desire a better dinner.’ They gave him the piatez, and he

made a good dinner of themselves an’ the broth, not forgetting the

bone, which he polished equal to chaney before he let it go. The people

themselves tasted it, an’ thought it as good as any mutton broth in the

world.”

_Gerald Griffin_ (1803–1840).

_NELL FLAHERTY’S DRAKE._

My name it is Nell, quite candid I tell,

That I live near Coote hill, I will never deny;

I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,

That my grandmother left me and she going to die;

He was wholesome and sound, he would weigh twenty pound,

The universe round I would rove for his sake--

Bad wind to the robber--be he drunk or sober--

That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

His neck it was green--most rare to be seen,

He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;

His body was white--and would you delight--

He was plump, fat and heavy, and brisk as a bee.

The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,

He would fly like a swallow and dive like a hake,

But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,

Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,

May a ghost ever haunt him at dead of the night;

May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,

May his goat fly away like an old paper kite.

That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease,

And the piercing north breeze make him shiver and shake,

May a lump of a stick raise bumps fast and thick

On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his cradle ne’er rock, may his box have no lock,

May his wife have no frock for to cover her back;

May his cock never crow, may his bellows ne’er blow,

And his pipe and his pot may he evermore lack.

May his duck never quack, may his goose turn black,

And pull down his turf with her long yellow beak;

May the plague grip the scamp, and his villainy stamp

On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke,

And to add to the joke, may his kettle ne’er boil;

May he keep to the bed till the hour that he’s dead,

May he always be fed on hogwash and boiled oil.

May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,

May he roll, howl and shout with the horrid toothache;

May the temples wear horns, and the toes many corns,

Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,

May each hair in his wig be well thrashed with a flail;

May his door have no latch, may his house have no thatch,

May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.

May every old fairy, from Cork to Dunleary,

Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,

Where the eel and the trout may feed on the snout

Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his dog yelp and howl with the hunger and could,

May his wife always scold till his brains go astray;

May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bag

Alight on the vag. till his hair turns grey.

May monkeys affright him, and mad dogs still bite him,

And every one slight him, asleep or awake;

May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him--

The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

The only good news that I have to infuse

Is that old Peter Hughes and blind Peter McCrake,

And big-nosed Bob Manson, and buck-toothed Ned Hanson,

Each man had a grandson of my lovely drake.

My treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins,

And one I must get or my heart it will break;

To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy--

This ends the whole song of my beautiful drake.

_Anonymous._

_ELEGY ON HIMSELF._

Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourned

This priest devout;

Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurned

The bones of Prout!

Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column

His place of rest,

Whose soul, above earth’s homage, meek, yet solemn,

Sits ’mid the blest.

Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke

O’erawed sheep-stealers;

And rogues feared more the good man’s single look

Than forty Peelers.

He’s gone, and discord soon I ween will visit

The land with quarrels;

And the foul demon vex with stills illicit

The village morals.

No fatal chance could happen more to cross

The public wishes;

And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,

Except the fishes;

For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring

Preferred to gammon.

Grim death has broke his angling rod: his _berring_

Delights the salmon.

No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,

For fasting pittance--

Arts which St. Peter loved, whose gate to Prout

Gave prompt admittance.

Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep

His sainted dust,

The bad man’s death it well becomes to weep--

Not so the just!

_Francis Sylvester Mahony_ (“_Father Prout_”) (1804–1866).

_BOB MAHON’S STORY._

Father Tom rubbed his hands pleasantly, and related story after story

of his own early experiences, some of them not a little amusing.

The major, however, seemed not fully to enjoy the priest’s anecdotal

powers, but sipped his glass with a grave and sententious air. “Very

true, Tom,” said he, at length breaking silence; “you have seen a fair

share of these things for a man of your cloth; but where’s the man

living--show him to me, I say--that has had my experience, either as

principal or second: haven’t I had my four men out in the same morning?”

“Why, I confess,” said I meekly, “that does seem an extravagant

allowance.”

“Clear waste, downright profusion, _du luxe, mon cher_, nothing

else,” observed Father Tom. Meanwhile the major rolled his eyes

fearfully at me, and fidgeted in his chair with impatience to be asked

his story, and as I myself had some curiosity on the subject, I begged

him to relate it.

“Tom, here, doesn’t like a story at supper,” said the major, pompously;

for, perceiving our attitude of attention, he resolved on being a

little tyrannical before telling it.

The priest made immediate submission; and, slyly hinting that his

objection only lay against stories he had been hearing for the last

thirty years, said he could listen to the narration in question with

much pleasure.

“You shall have it, then!” said the major, as he squared himself in his

chair, and thus began:--

“You have never been in Castle Connel, Hinton? Well, there is a wide

bleak line of country there, that stretches away to the westward, with

nothing but large round-backed mountains, low boggy swamps, with here

and there a miserable mud hovel, surrounded by, maybe, half an acre

of lumpers, or bad oats; a few small streams struggle through this on

their way to the Shannon, but they are brown and dirty as the soil they

traverse; and the very fish that swim in them are brown and smutty also.

“In the very heart of this wild country, I took it into my head to

build a house. A strange notion it was, for there was no neighbourhood

and no sporting; but, somehow, I had taken a dislike to mixed society

some time before that, and I found it convenient to live somewhat in

retirement; so that, if the partridges were not in abundance about me,

neither were the process-servers; and the truth was, I kept a much

sharper look-out for the sub-sheriff than I did for the snipe.

“Of course, as I was over head and ears in debt, my notion was to build

something very considerable and imposing; and, to be sure, I had a

fine portico, and a flight of steps leading up to it; and there were

ten windows in front, and a grand balustrade at the top; and, faith,

taking it all in all, the building was so strong, the walls so thick,

the windows so narrow, and the stones so black, that my cousin, Darcy

Mahon, called it Newgate; and not a bad name either--and the devil

another it ever went by: and even that same had its advantages; for

when the creditors used to read that at the top of my letters, they’d

say--‘Poor devil! he has enough on his hands; there’s no use troubling

him any more.’ Well, big as Newgate looked from without, it had not

much accommodation when you got inside. There was, ’tis true, a fine

hall, all flagged; and, out of it, you entered what ought to have been

the dinner-room, thirty-eight feet by seven-and-twenty, but which was

used for herding sheep in winter. On the right hand, there was a cozy

little breakfast-room, just about the size of this we are in. At the

back of the hall, but concealed by a pair of folding-doors, there was

a grand staircase of old Irish oak, that ought to have led up to a

great suite of bedrooms, but it only conducted to one, a little crib I

had for myself. The remainder were never plastered nor floored; and,

indeed, in one of them, that was over the big drawing-room, the joists

were never laid, which was all the better, for it was there we used to

keep our hay and straw.

“Now, at the time I mention, the harvest was not brought in, and

instead of its being full, as it used to be, it was mighty low; so

that, when you opened the door above stairs, instead of finding the hay

up beside you, it was about fourteen feet down beneath you.

“I can’t help boring you with all these details--first, because they

are essential to my story; and next, because, being a young man, and a

foreigner to boot, it may lead you to a little better understanding of

some of our national customs. Of all the partialities we Irish have,

after lush and the ladies, I believe our ruling passion is to build a

big house, spend every shilling we have, or that we have not, as the

case may be, in getting it half finished, and then live in a corner

of it, ‘just for grandeur,’ as a body may say. It’s a droll notion,

after all; but show me the county in Ireland that hasn’t at least six

specimens of what I mention.

“Newgate was a beautiful one; and although the sheep lived in the

parlour, and the cows were kept in the blue drawing-room, Darby Whaley

slept in the boudoir, and two bull-dogs and a buck-goat kept house in

the library--faith, upon the outside it looked very imposing; and not

one that saw it, from the high road to Ennis--and you could see it for

twelve miles in every direction--didn’t say, ‘That Mahon must be a snug

fellow: look what a beautiful place he has of it there! ‘Little they

knew that it was safer to go up the ’Reeks’ than my grand staircase,

and it was like rope-dancing to pass from one room to the other.

“Well, it was about four o’clock in the afternoon of a dark louring day

in December, that I was treading homewards in no very good humour; for,

except a brace and a half of snipe, and a grey plover, I had met with

nothing the whole day. The night was falling fast; so I began to hurry

on as quickly as I could, when I heard a loud shout behind me, and a

voice called out--

“‘It’s Bob Mahon, boys! By the hill of Scariff, we are in luck!’

“I turned about, and what should I see but a parcel of fellows in red

coats--they were the blazers. There was Dan Lambert, Tom Burke, Harry

Eyre, Joe M’Mahon, and the rest of them; fourteen souls in all. They

had come down to draw a cover of Stephen Blake’s about ten miles from

me; but, in the strange mountain country, they lost the dogs--they

lost their way and their temper; in truth, to all appearance they lost

everything but their appetites. Their horses were dead beat too, and

they looked as miserable a crew as ever you set eyes on.

“‘Isn’t it lucky, Bob, that we found you at home?’ said Lambert.

“‘They told us you were away,’ said Burke.

“‘Some said that you were grown so pious, that you never went out

except on Sundays,’ added old Harry, with a grin.

“‘Begad,’ said I, ‘as to the luck, I won’t say much for it; for here’s

all I can give you for your dinner;’ and so I pulled out the four birds

and shook them at them; ‘and as to the piety, troth, maybe you’d like

to keep a fast with as devoted a son of the church as myself.’

“‘But isn’t that Newgate up there?’ said one.

“‘That same.’

“‘And you don’t mean to say that such a house as that hasn’t a good

larder and a fine cellar?’

“‘You’re right,’ said I, ‘and they’re both full at this very

moment--the one with seed-potatoes, and the other with Whitehaven

coals.’

“‘Have you got any bacon?’ said Mahon.

“‘Oh, yes!’ said I, ‘there’s bacon.’

“‘And eggs?’ said another.

“‘For the matter of that, you might swim in batter.’

“‘Come, come,’ said Dan Lambert, ‘we’re not so badly off after all.’

“‘Is there whisky?’ cried Eyre.

“‘Sixty-three gallons, that never paid the king sixpence!’

“As I said this, they gave three cheers you’d have heard a mile off.

“After about twenty minutes’ walking, we go up to the house, and when

poor Darby opened the door, I thought he’d faint; for, you see, the red

coats made him think it was the army coming to take me away; and he was

for running off to raise the country, when I caught him by the neck.

“‘It’s the blazers, ye old fool,’ said I. ‘The gentlemen are come to

dine here.’

“‘Hurroo!’ said he, clapping his hands on his knees--‘there must be

great distress entirely, down about Nenagh and them parts, or they’d

never think of coming up here for a bit to eat.’

“‘Which way lie the stables, Bob?’ said Burke.

“‘Leave all that to Darby,’ said I; for ye see he had only to whistle

and bring up as many people as he liked--and so he did too; and as

there was room for a cavalry regiment, the horses were soon bedded

down and comfortable; and in ten minutes’ time we were all sitting

pleasantly round a big fire, waiting for the rashers and eggs.

“‘Now, if you’d like to wash your hands before dinner, Lambert, come

along with me.’

“‘By all means,’ said he.

“The others were standing up too; but I observed that, as the house was

large, and the ways of it unknown to them, it was better to wait till

I’d come back for them.

“This was a real piece of good luck, Bob,’ said Dan, as he followed me

upstairs: ‘capital quarters we’ve fallen into; and what a snug bedroom

ye have here.’

“‘Yes,’ said I carelessly; ‘it’s one of the small rooms--there are

eight like this, and five large ones, plainly furnished, as you see;

but for the present, you know----’

“‘Oh, begad! I wish for nothing better. Let me sleep here--the other

fellows may care for your four-posters with satin hangings.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you are really not joking, I may tell you that the

room is one of the warmest in the house’--and this was telling no lie.

“‘Here I’ll sleep,’ said he, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and

giving the bed a most affectionate look. ‘And now let us join the rest.’

“When I brought Dan down, I took up Burke, and after him M’Mahon, and

so on to the last; but every time I entered the parlour, I found them

all bestowing immense praises on my house, and each fellow ready to bet

he had got the best bedroom.

“Dinner soon made its appearance; for if the cookery was not very

perfect, it was at least wonderfully expeditious. There were two men

cutting rashers, two more frying them in the pan, and another did

nothing but break the eggs, Darby running from the parlour to the

kitchen and back again, as hard as he could trot.

“Do you know, now, that many a time since, when I have been giving

venison, and Burgundy, and claret, enough to swim a life-boat in, I

often thought it was a cruel waste of money; for the fellows weren’t

half as pleasant as they were that evening on bacon and whisky!

“I’ve a theory on that subject, Hinton, I’ll talk to you more about

another time; I’ll only observe now, that I’m sure we all over-feed

our company. I’ve tried both plans; and my honest experience is, that,

as far as regards conviviality, fun, and good-fellowship, it is a

great mistake to provide too well for your guests. There is something

heroic in eating your mutton-chop, or your leg of a turkey among

jolly fellows; there is a kind of reflective flattering about it that

tells you you have been invited for your drollery, and not for your

digestion; and that your jokes, and not your flattery, have been your

recommendation. Lord bless you! I’ve laughed more over red herrings and

poteen than I ever expect to do again over turtle and toquay.

“My guests were, to do them justice, a good illustration of my theory.

A pleasanter and a merrier party never sat down together. We had good

songs, good stories, plenty of laughing, and plenty of drink; until

at last poor Darby became so overpowered, by the fumes of the hot

water I suppose, that he was obliged to be carried up to bed, and so

we were compelled to boil the kettle in the parlour. This, I think,

precipitated matters; for, by some mistake, they put punch into it

instead of water, and the more you tried to weaken the liquor, it was

only the more tipsy you were getting.

“About two o’clock five of the party were under the table, three more

were nodding backwards and forwards like insane pendulums, and the rest

were mighty noisy, and now and then rather disposed to be quarrelsome.

“‘Bob,’ said Lambert to me, in a whisper, ‘if it’s the same thing to

you, I’ll slip away and get into bed.’

“‘Of course, if you won’t take anything more. Just make yourself at

home; and, as you don’t know the way here--follow me!’

“‘I’m afraid,’ said he, ‘I’d not find my way alone.’

“‘I think,’ said I, ‘it’s very likely. But come along.’

“I walked upstairs before him; but instead of turning to the left, I

went the other way, till I came to the door of the large room, that I

have told you already was over the big drawing-room. Just as I put my

hand on the lock, I contrived to blow out the candle, as if it was the

wind.

“‘What a draught there is here!’ said I; ‘but just step in, and I’ll go

for a light.’

“He did as he was bid; but instead of finding himself on my beautiful

little carpet, down he went fourteen feet into the hay at the bottom. I

looked down after him for a minute or two, and then called out--

“‘As I am doing the honours of Newgate, the least I could do was to

show you the drop. Good night, Dan! but let me advise you to get a

little farther from the door, as there are more coming.’

“Well, sir, when they missed Dan and me out of the room, two or three

more stood up and declared for bed also. The first I took up was

Ffrench, of Green Park; for indeed he wasn’t a cute fellow at the best

of times; and if it wasn’t that the hay was so low, he’d never have

guessed it was not a feather-bed till he woke in the morning. Well,

down he went. Then came Eyre! Then Joe Mahon--two-and-twenty stone--no

less! Lord pity them!--this was a great shock entirely! But when I

opened the door for Tom Burke, upon my conscience you’d think it was

Pandemonium they had down there. They were fighting like devils, and

roaring with all their might.

“‘Good night, Tom,’ said I, pushing Burke forward. ‘It’s the cows you

hear underneath.’

“‘Cows!’ said he. ‘If they’re cows, begad, they must have got at that

sixty-three gallons of poteen you talked of; for they’re all drunk.’

“With that, he snatched the candle out of my hand, and looked down

into the pit. Never was such a scene before or since. Dan was pitching

into poor Ffrench, who, thinking he had an enemy before him, was

hitting out manfully at an old turf-creel, that rocked and creaked at

every blow as he called out--

“‘I’ll smash you! I’ll dinge your ribs for you, you infernal scoundrel!’

“Eyre was struggling in the hay, thinking he was swimming for his life;

and poor Joe Mahon was patting him on the head, and saying, ‘Poor

fellow! good dog!’ for he thought it was Towser, the bull-terrier, that

was prowling round the calves of his legs.

“‘If they don’t get tired, there will not be a man of them alive by

morning!’ said Tom, as he closed the door. ‘And now, if you’ll allow me

to sleep on the carpet, I’ll take it as a favour.’

“By this time they were all quiet in the parlour, so I lent Tom a

couple of blankets and a bolster, and having locked my door, went to

bed with an easy mind and a quiet conscience. To be sure, now and then

a cry would burst forth, as if they were killing somebody below stairs,

but I soon fell asleep and heard no more of them.

“By daybreak next morning they made their escape; and when I was trying

to awake at half-past ten, I found Colonel M’Morris, of the Mayo, with

a message from the whole four.

“‘A bad business this, Captain Mahon,’ said he; ‘my friends have been

shockingly treated.’

“‘It’s mighty hard,’ said I, ‘to want to shoot me, because I hadn’t

fourteen feather-beds in the house.’

“‘They will be the laugh of the whole country, sir.’

“‘Troth!’ said I, ‘if the country is not in very low spirits, I think

they will.’

“‘There’s not a man of them can see!--their eyes are actually closed

up!’

“‘The Lord be praised!’ said I. ‘It’s not likely they’ll hit me.’

“But, to make a short story of it; out we went. Tom Burke was my

friend; I could scarce hold my pistol with laughing; for such faces no

man ever looked at. But, for self-preservation sake, I thought it best

to hit one of them; so I just pinked Ffrench a little under the skirt

of the coat.

“‘Come, Lambert!’ said the colonel, ‘it’s your turn now.’

“‘Wasn’t that Lambert,’ said I, ‘that I hit?’

“‘No,’ said he, ‘that was Ffrench.’

“‘Begad, I’m sorry for it. Ffrench, my dear fellow, excuse me; for, you

see, you’re all so like each other about the eyes this morning----’

“With this there was a roar of laughing from them all, in which, I

assure you, Lambert took not a very prominent part; for somehow he

didn’t fancy my polite inquiries after him; and so we all shook hands,

and left the ground as good friends as ever, though to this hour the

name of Newgate brings less pleasant recollections to their minds than

if their fathers had been hanged at its prototype.”

_Charles Lever_ (1806–1872).

_THE WIDOW MALONE._

Did ye hear of the widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,

Alone?

Oh! she melted the hearts

Of the swains in them parts,

So lovely the widow Malone,

Ohone!

So lovely the widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more;

And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;

From the minister down

To the Clerk of the Crown,

All were courting the widow Malone,

Ohone!

All were courting the widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,

’Twas known

No one ever could see her alone,

Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne’er catch her eye,

So bashful the widow Malone,

Ohone!

So bashful the widow Malone.

Till one Mr. O’Brien from Clare--

How quare,

It’s little for blushing they care

Down there--

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste--

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,

My own;”--

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!

Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh--

For why?

But “Lucius,” says she,

“Since you’ve now made so free,

You may marry your Molly Malone,

Ohone!

You may marry your Molly Malone.”

There’s a moral contained in my song,

Not wrong;

And, one comfort, it’s not very long,

But strong

If for widows you die,

Learn _to kiss_, not to sigh,

For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone.

_Charles Lever._

_THE GIRLS OF THE WEST_

You may talk, if you please,

Of the brown Portuguese,

But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,

You nothing will meet

Half so lovely or sweet

As the girls at home, the girls at home.

Their eyes are not sloes,

Nor so long is their nose,

But, between me and you, between me and you,

They are just as alarming,

And ten times more charming,

With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.

They don’t ogle a man

O’er the top of their fan,

Till his heart’s in a flame, his heart’s in a flame

But though bashful and shy,

They’ve a look in their eye

That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.

No mantillas they sport,

But a petticoat short

Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,

And a leg--but, O murther!

I dare not go further,

So here’s to the West; so here’s to the West.

_Charles Lever._

_THE MAN FOR GALWAY._

To drink a toast

A proctor roast,

Or bailiff, as the case is;

To kiss your wife,

Or take your life

At ten or fifteen paces;

To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,

To drink in punch the Solway--

With debts galore, but fun far more--

Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”

The King of Oude

Is mighty proud,

And so were onst the Caysars;

But ould Giles Eyre

Would make them stare

With a company of the Blazers.

To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,

He’s only a prince in a small way,

And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall--

Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”

Ye think the Blakes

Are no great shakes--

They’re all his blood relations;

And the Bodkins sneeze

At the grim Chinese,

For they come from the _Phenaycians_;

So fill to the brim, and here’s to him

Who’d drink in punch the Solway;

With debts galore, but fun far more--

Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”

_Charles Lever._

_HOW CON CREGAN’S FATHER LEFT

HIMSELF A BIT OF LAND._

I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King’s County;

it stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road;

and although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were

never able to say to which county we belonged; there being just the

same number of arguments for one side as for the other--a circumstance,

many believed, that decided my father in his original choice of the

residence; for while, under the “disputed boundary question,” he paid

no rates or county cess, he always made a point of voting at both

county elections. This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a

naturally acute habit; and, indeed, the way he became possessed of the

bit of ground will confirm that impression.

There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, not even

“squireen”; the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one

Harry McCabe, that had two sons, who were always fighting between

themselves which was to have the old man’s money. Peter, the elder,

doing everything to injure Mat, and Mat never backward in paying off

the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he

would bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next

day set off for Dublin, and listed in the “Buffs.” Three weeks after

he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to

his bed, and never arose from it after. Not that his death was any

way sudden, for he lingered on for months long; Peter always teasing

him to make his will, and be revenged on “the dirty spalpeen” that

disgraced the family, but old Harry as stoutly resisting, and declaring

that whatever he owned should be fairly divided between them. These

disputes between them were well known in the neighbourhood. Few of the

country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old

man’s weak, reedy voice, and Peter’s deep hoarse one, in altercation.

When, at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the

house; not a word, not a footstep could be heard, no more than if it

were uninhabited, the neighbours looked knowingly at each other, and

wondered if the old man was worse--if he were dead!

It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our

cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket

near the fire; but I didn’t speak, for I was frightened. It was

repeated still louder, and then came a cry--

“Con Cregan! Con, I say! open the door! I want you.”

I knew the voice well, it was Peter McCabe’s; but I pretended to be

fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door,

and I heard him say--

“Oh, Mr. Peter, what’s the matter? is the ould man worse?”

“Faix! that’s what he is, for he’s dead!”

“Glory be his bed! when did it happen?”

“About an hour ago,” said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner

could perceive was greatly agitated. “He died like an ould haythen,

Con, and never made a will!”

“That’s bad,” said my father; for he was always a polite man, and said

whatever was pleasing to the company.

“It is bad,” said Peter; “but it would be worse if we couldn’t help it.

Listen to me now, Conny, I want ye to help me in this business; and

here’s five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye

were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye

were mistaken for each other every day of the week.”

“Anan!” said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion,

without well knowing why.

“Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house and get into

the bed.”

“Not beside the corpse?” said my father, trembling.

“By no means; but by yourself; and you’re to pretend to be my father,

and that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I’ll send for

the neighbours, and Billy Scanlan the schoolmaster, and ye’ll tell him

what to write, laving all the farm and everything to me--ye understand.

And as the neighbours will see ye and hear yer voice, it will never be

believed but it was himself that did it.”

“The room must be very dark,” says my father.

“To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh

the bed; and ye’ll only have to make a cross with your pen under the

name.”

“And the priest?” said my father.

“My father quarrelled with him last week about the Easter dues, and

Father Tom said he’d not give him the ‘rites’; and that’s lucky now!

Come along now, quick, for we’ve no time to lose; it must be all

finished before the day breaks.”

My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped

his big coat ’round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house.

I sat up in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes;

and then, in a costume light as my parent’s, set out after them, to

watch the course of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut and

be before them; but by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only

escaped being drowned by a chance. As it was, when I reached the house

the performance had already begun. I think I see the whole scene this

instant before my eyes, as I sat on a little window with one pane, and

that a broken one, and surveyed the proceeding. It was a large room, at

one end of which was a bed, and beside it a table, with physic-bottles,

and spoons, and tea-cups; a little farther off was another table, at

which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of writing materials before

him. The country people sat two, sometimes three deep round the walls,

all intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself

went from place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally

helping the company to whisky--which was supplied with more than

accustomed liberality. All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery

could not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance

of the half-lighted room; the highly-wrought expression of the country

people’s faces, never more intensely excited than at some moment of

this kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a

sob--the tribute of some affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose

memory was thus forcibly brought back; these, I repeat it, were all so

real that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I

actually shook with fear.

A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to

cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing

of a fly would have been heard, my father said--

“Where’s Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!”

“He’s here, father!” said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading

him to the bedside.

“Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick, for I hav’n’t a long time

before me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O’Rafferty won’t

give me the ‘rites’!”

A general chorus of “Oh, musha, musha,” was now heard through the

room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the

unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

“I die in peace with all my neighbours and all mankind!”

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable

expressions.

“I bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or

a decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter,

the whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboorn, with

the fallow meadows behind Lynch’s house; the forge, and the right

of turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him,

Lanty Cassarn’s acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln--and that

reminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in

the jug.”

Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably

refreshed by it.

“Where was I, Billy Scanlan?” says he; “oh, I remember, at the

limekiln; I leave him--that’s Peter, I mean--the two potato-gardens at

Noonan’s Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there.”

“An’t you gettin’ wake, father, darlin’?” says Peter, who began to be

afraid of my father’s loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch

got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

“I am, Peter, my son,” says he, “I am getting wake; just touch my lips

again with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!”

“No, indeed, father, but it’s the taste is leavin’ you,” says Peter;

and again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

“Well, I’m nearly done now,” says my father; “there’s only one little

plot of ground remaining, and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to

live a good man, and die with the same asy heart I do now--that ye

mind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbours

listening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, father. We’re all minding,” chorused the audience.

[Illustration: “‘YOU WATERED THE DRINK!’ ‘NO, INDEED, FATHER, BUT

IT’S THE TASTE IS LEAVIN’ YOU,’ SAYS PETER.”]

“Well, then, it’s my last will and testament, and may--give me over the

jug”--here he took a long drink--“and may that blessed liquor be poison

to me if I’m not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I

say, then, I bequeath the little plot at the cross-roads to poor Con

Cregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hard-working

a man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him

want while ye have it yerself; think of me on my death-bed whenever he

asks ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at

the cross to Con Cregan and his heirs, in _secla seclorum_. Ah,

blessed be the saints! but I feel my heart lighter after that,” says

he; “a good work makes an easy conscience; and now I’ll drink all the

company’s good health, and many happy returns----”

What he was going to add there’s no saying; but Peter, who was now

terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming,

hurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in

peace. When they were all gone Peter slipped back to my father, who was

putting on his brogues in a corner.

“Con,” says he, “ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the

two acres at the cross.”

“Of course it was,” says he; “sure it was all a joke for the matter of

that; won’t I make the neighbours laugh hearty to-morrow when I tell

them all about it!”

“You wouldn’t be mean enough to betray me?” says Peter, trembling with

fright.

“Sure ye wouldn’t be mean enough to go against yer father’s dying

words?” says my father; “the last sentence ever he spoke;” and here he

gave a low, wicked laugh that made myself shake with fear.

“Very well, Con!” says Peter, holding out his hand; “a bargain’s a

bargain; yer a deep fellow, that’s all!” and so it ended; and my father

slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the

legacy he left himself. And thus we became the owners of the little

spot known to this day as Con’s Acre.

_Charles Lever._

_KATEY’S LETTER._

Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter?

And although he cannot read, sure, I thought ’twas all the better,

For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,

When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully?

I love him faithfully--

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;

’Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet--

For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,

As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.

I love him faithfully--

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;

The neighbours know I love him, and they’re mighty fond of

chaffing,

So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be

laughing,

So I wrote “From Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.”

I love him faithfully--

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman’s so consated,

No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited--

But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,

That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me

faithfully,

He loves me faithfully,

And I know where’er my love is that he is true to me.

_Lady Dufferin_ (1807–1867).

[Illustration: “AS I SAID INSIDE THE LETTER THAT I LOVED HIM

FAITHFULLY.”]

_DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES

UNDER YOUR FEET._

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel--

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;

Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,

Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.

The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;

While all the air rings with the soft loving things

Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley!”

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,

Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;

’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,--

So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.

And now on the green the glad groups are seen,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;

And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,--

Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;

With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,--

The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.

Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,--

Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,

No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,

Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,--

Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,--

Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?

Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;

The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,

“_Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!_”

_John Francis Waller, LL.D._ (1809–1894).

_FATHER TOM’S WAGER WITH THE POPE._

“I’d hould you a pound,” says the Pope, “that I’ve a quadruped in my

possession that’s a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel.”

“Done,” says his riv’rence, and they staked the money. “What can this

larned quadhruped o’ yours do?” says his riv’rence.

“It’s my mule,” says the Pope; “and if you were to offer her goolden

oats and clover off the meadows o’ Paradise, sorra taste ov aither

she’d let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or

holiday in the year.”

“Well, and what ’ud you say if I showed you a baste ov mine,” says his

riv’rence, “that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only,

fasts out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday

in the week as reg’lar as a Christian?”

“Oh, be asy, Misther Maguire,” says the Pope.

“You don’t b’lieve me, don’t you?” says his riv’rence; “very well, I’ll

soon show you whether or no,” and he put his knuckles in his mouth,

and gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The

aycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish,

when the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be

sitting next the door, betuxt him and his riv’rence, and may I never

die if he didn’t clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang.

[Illustration: “‘HERE, SPRING, MY MAN,’ SAYS HE.”]

“God’s presence be about us!” says the Pope, thinking it was an evil

spirit come to fly away wid him for the lie that he hed tould in regard

ov his mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in

grazing the brute’s teeth); but seeing it was only one ov the greatest

beauties ov a greyhound that he’d ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he

soon recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom

ris and went to the sideboard, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice

ov beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice ov salmon, and put them all on

a plate thegither. “Here, Spring, my man,” says he, setting the plate

down afore him on the hearthstone, “here’s your supper for you this

blessed Friday night.” Not a word more he said nor what I tell you;

and, you may believe it or not, but it’s the blessed truth that the

dog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted

his nose out ov the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his

tail wagging, looking up in his riv’rence’s face, as much as to say,

“Give me your absolution, till I hide them temptations out ov my sight.”

“There’s a dog that knows his duty,” says his riv’rence; “there’s a

baste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlour or the

field. You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you

seen him on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you’d say the

hill was running away from undher him. Oh, I wisht you had been wid

me,” says he, never letting on to see the dog at all, “one day last

Lent, that I was coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile

behind me, for the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at

the chapel door; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations

ov Grouse Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and

knowing that she’d take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch,

and up through Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping

her in view, but afore I hed gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away

the two went like the wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over

the river, widout his being able onst to turn her. Well, I run on

till I came to the Diffagher, and through it I went, for the wather

was low, and I didn’t mind being wet shod, and out on the other side,

where I got up on a ditch, and seen sich a coorse as I’ll be bound to

say was never seen afore or since. If Spring turned that hare onst

that day, he turned her fifty times, up and down, back and for’ard,

throughout and about. At last he run her right into the big quarry-hole

in Mullaghbawn, and when I went up to look for her fud, there I found

him sthretched on his side, not able to stir a fut, and the hare lying

about an inch afore his nose as dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark

ov a tooth upon her. Eh, Spring, isn’t that thrue?” says he.

Jist at that minit the clock sthruck twelve, and afore you could say

_thrap-sticks_, Spring had the plateful ov mate consaled. “Now,”

says his riv’rence, “hand me over my pound, for I’ve won my bet fairly.”

“You’ll excuse me,” says the Pope, pocketing the money, “for we put the

clock half-an-hour back, out ov compliment to your riv’rence,” says he,

“and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all.”

“Well, it’s no matter,” says his riv’rence, “only,” says he, “it’s

hardly fair to expect a brute baste to be so well skilled in the

science ov chronology.”

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_ (1810–1886).

_THE OULD IRISH JIG._

My blessing be on you, old Erin,

My own land of frolic and fun;

For all sorts of mirth and diversion,

Your like is not under the sun.

Bohemia may boast of her polka,

And Spain of her waltzes talk big;

Sure, they are all nothing but limping,

Compared with our ould Irish jig.

Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,

Imported from Spain and from France;

And a fig for the thing called the polka--

Our own Irish jig we will dance.

I’ve heard how our jig came in fashion--

And believe that the story is true--

By Adam and Eve ’twas invented,

The reason was, partners were few.

And, though they could both dance the polka,

Eve thought it was not over-chaste;

She preferred our ould jig to be dancing--

And, faith, I approve of her taste.

Then a fig, etc.

The light-hearted daughters of Erin,

Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,

Their feet never touch the green island,

But music is struck from the ground.

And oft in the glens and green meadows,

The ould jig they dance with such grace,

That even the daisies they tread on,

Look up with delight in their face.

Then a fig, etc.

An ould Irish jig, too, was danced by

The kings and the great men of yore;

King O’Toole could himself neatly foot it

To a tune they call “Rory O’More.”

And oft in the great hall of Tara,

Our famous King Brian Boru,

Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,

And played his own harp to them, too.

Then a fig, etc.

And sure, when Herodias’ daughter

Was dancing in King Herod’s sight,

His heart that for years had been frozen,

Was thawed with pure love and delight;

And more than a hundred times over,

I’ve heard Father Flanagan tell,

’Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,

That pleased the ould villain so well.

Then a fig, etc.

_James M’Kowen_ (1814–1889).

_MOLLY MULDOON._

Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,

And as fine a one

As you’d look upon

In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.

Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,

And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;

Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,

But owned that a power o’ beauty was there.

Now many a hearty and rattling _gorsoon_,

Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,

Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,

But for _that_ in her eye

Which made most of them shy

And look quite ashamed, though they couldn’t tell why--

Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,

And heart and mind seemed in them blended.

If _intellect_ sent you one look severe,

_Love_ instantly leapt in the next to mend it.

Hers was the eye to check the rude,

And hers the eye to stir emotion,

To keep the sense and soul subdued,

And calm desire into devotion.

There was Jemmy O’Hare,

As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair,

And wherever Molly was he was there.

His face was round and his build was square,

And he sported as rare

And tight a pair

Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.

And Jemmy would wear

His _caubeen_[17] and hair

With such a peculiar and rollicking air,

That I’d venture to swear

Not a girl in Kildare,

Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there,

Could resist his wild way--called “Devil may care.”

Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,

Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run

With Jemmy--no _gorsoon_ could equal him--none,

At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,

At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight,--

He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight.

Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare,

And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.

I believe in my conscience a purtier pair

Never danced in a tent at a patthern in June,--

To a bagpipe or fiddle

On the rough cabin-door

That is placed in the middle--

Ye may talk as ye will,

There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there

With which people of quality couldn’t compare.

And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two

That could keep up the longest and go the best through

All the jigs and the reels

That have occupied heels

Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.

It was on a long bright sunny day

They sat on a green knoll side by side,

But neither just then had much to say;

Their hearts were so full that they only tried

To do anything foolish, just to hide

What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.

They plucked the speckled daisies that grew

Close by their arms,--then tore them too;

And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk

They threw at each other for want of talk;

While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,

Reflected pure souls without art or guile;

And every time Molly sighed or smiled,

Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;

And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,

The grass so green, the daisies so white;

Everything looked so gay in his sight

That gladly he’d linger to watch them till night--

And Molly herself thought each little bird,

Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,--

Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.

An Irish courtship’s short and sweet,

It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;

But who is wise when his young heart’s heat

Whips the pulse to a galloping beat--

Ties up his judgment neck and feet,

And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?

Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,

Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;

They look not by art, and they love not by rule,

For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.

Oh! give me the love that endures no control

But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,

As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,

Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.

Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,

By rank unallured and by riches unbought;

Whose very simplicity keeps it secure--

The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.

All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,

As one week before Lent

Jem procured her consent

To go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.

Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,

And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see.

And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep,

For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.

A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,

He took from a chest and carefully put on--

And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,

Were greased with the fat of _a quare sort of mutton_!

Then a tidier _gorsoon_ couldn’t be seen

Treading the Emerald Isle so green--

Light was his step, and bright was his eye,

As he walked through the _slobbery_ streets of Athy.

And each girl he passed bid “God bless him” and sighed,

While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.

Hush! here’s the Priest--let not the least

Whisper be heard till the father has ceased.

“Come, bridegroom and bride,

That the knot may be tied

Which no power on earth can hereafter divide.”

Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,

And a passage was made for them both to walk through;

And his Riv’rence stood with a sanctified face,

Which spread its infection around the place.

The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,

Who felt so confused that she almost cried,

But at last bore up and walked forward, where

The Father was standing with solemn air;

The bridegroom was following after with pride,

_When his piercing eye something awful espied!_

He stopped and sighed,

Looked round and tried

To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:

With a spring and a roar

He jumped to the door,

AND THE BRIDE LAID HER EYES ON THE BRIDEGROOM NO MORE!

Some years sped on,

Yet heard no one

Of Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone.

But since the night of that widow’d feast,

The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;

Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul released,

Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.

And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,

Just five years after the widow’d feast,

An American letter was brought to the priest,

Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceased!

Who, ere his death,

With his latest breath,

To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,

And the cause of his sudden departure confest.--

“Oh, Father,” says he, “I’ve not long to live,

So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive--

That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;

Ay, as well as the Creed

That was never forsaken by one of my breed;

But I couldn’t have married her, after I saw--”

“Saw what?” cried the Father, desirous to hear--

And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking--

“Not in her _karàcter_, yer Riv’rince, a flaw”--

The sick man here dropped a significant tear,

And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear--

“But I saw, God forgive her, A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!”

THE MORAL.

Lady readers, love may be

Fixed in hearts immovably,

May be strong and may be pure;

Faith may lean on faith secure,

Knowing adverse fate’s endeavour

Makes that faith more firm than ever;

But the purest love and strongest,

Love that has endured the longest,

Braving cross, and blight, and trial,

Fortune’s bar or pride’s denial,

Would--no matter what its trust--

Be uprooted by disgust:--

Yes, the love that might for years

Spring in suffering, grow in tears,

Parents’ frigid counsel mocking,

Might be--where’s the use of talking?--

Upset by a BROKEN STOCKING!

_Anonymous._

[Illustration: “WITH A SPRING AND A ROAR HE JUMPED TO THE DOOR.”]

[Illustration: “THE GANDHER ID BE AT HIS HEELS, AN’ RUBBIN’

HIMSELF AGIN HIS LEGS.”]

_THE QUARE GANDER._

Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do, an’ he rinted the

biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an’ bein’ mighty cute an’

a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every

harvest; but unluckily he was blessed with an iligant large family iv

daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin’ to make

up fortunes for the whole of them--an’ there wasn’t a conthrivance iv

any soart or discription for makin’ money out iv the farm but he was up

to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world, he

always kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultry; an’ he was

out iv all raison partial to geese--an’ small blame to him for that

same--for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an’ get

a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizable eggs--an’

when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an’ sell

them to the gintlemen for gozlings, d’ye see,--let alone that a goose

is the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse

iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin’ to Terence,

an’ divil a place he could go serenadin’ about the farm, or lookin’

afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an’ rubbin’

himself agin his legs, and lookin’ up in his face just like any other

Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen,--Terence Mooney

an’ the gandher wor so great. An’ at last the bird was so engagin’ that

Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an’ kept it from

that time out, for love an’ affection--just all as one like one iv

his childhren. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an’ the

neighbours bigin’d to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher;

an’ some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a

fairy. Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’,

and you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an’

from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself,

until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in

Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the iligant hand at the business, and divil

a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An’ moreover

he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man’s father that was.

So without more about it, he was sint for; an’ sure enough the divil a

long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin’ along wid the

boy that was sint for him; an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuck his

supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, he bigined of coorse to look

into the gandher. Well, he turned it this away an’ that away, to the

right, and to the left, an’ straight-ways an’ upside down, an’ when he

was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney--

“Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird into the next room,” says

he, “an’ put a pettycoat,” says he, “or any other convaynience round

his head,” says he.

“An’ why so?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, says he.

“Becase what?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done--you’ll never be asy agin,” says

he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” says he; “so ax no more questions,

but do my biddin’,’ says he.

“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.

An’ wid that he tuck the ould gandher, and giv’ it to one iv the

gossoons.

“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” says he.

Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, “Do you

know what that ould gandher _is_, Terence Mooney?”

“Divil a taste,” says Terence.

“Well then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.

“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an

ould gandher be my father?” says he.

“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer; “it’s thrue what I tell

you--it’s your father’s wandhrin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally

tuck pissession iv the ould gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many

ways, and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye

yourself,” says he.

“Oh, blur an’ ages!” says Terence, “what the divil will I ever do at

all at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve

times at the laste,” says he.

“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer; “it was a sevare act surely,”

says he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only

way to prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it

happens,” says he.

“Thrue for you,” says Terence; “but how the divil did you come to the

knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’ in the ould gandher?”

says he.

“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not undherstand me,” says

he, “without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no

questions,” says he, “an’ I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this

much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if I

don’t make him spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave

to call me a fool,” says he.

“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the business,” says he; “an’

oh! blur an’ ages, is it not a quare thing,” says he, “for a dacent,

respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the counthry in the

shape iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and oh, murdher, murdher! isn’t

it often I plucked him,” says he; “an’ tundher an’ ouns, might not I

have ate him,” says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration,

savin’ your prisince, an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare

notions iv it.

Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quiet an’

asy--“Terence,” says he, “don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,” says he,

“for I have a plan composed that ’ill make him spake out,” says he,

“an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind

an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say agin anything I

tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought

back,” says he, “how that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to

market,” says he; “an’ if he don’t spake tonight,” says he, “or gother

himself out iv the place,” says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and

sind him in the cart,” says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould

for aiting,” says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he; “an’ my

name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t spake out before he’s

half-way,” says he; “an’ mind,” says he, “as soon as ever he says

the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring him off to Father

Crotty,” says he, “an’ if his raverince doesn’t make him ratire,” says

he, “like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,” says he,

“into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory, there’s no vartue in

my charums,” says he.

Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they

all bigined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for

roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled;

but not a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking

iv the Lord Liftinant; an’ Terence desired the boys to get ready the

kish for the poulthry, “an’ to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,”

says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ’ill get

in this world,” says he. Well, as the night was getting late, Terence

was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ downhearted in himself entirely wid

the notions iv what was goin’ to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’

the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some iligant potteen,

an’ himself an’ Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more anasy Terence

got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart

betune them: it wasn’t an imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for

them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it

signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what

it does, sinst Father Mathew--the Lord purloin his raverince--bigin’d

to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate

Ireland. An’ begorra, I have the medle myself; an’ its proud I am iv

that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty

dhry. Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well

stop, “for enough is as good as a faste,” says he, “an’ I pity the

vagabond,” says he, “that is not able to conthroul his licquor,” says

he, “an’ to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,” says he, an’ wid

that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an’ walked out iv the room.

But he wint out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an’

not rightly knowin’ whether he was standin’ on his head or his heels,

or both iv them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed,

where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys

had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin’; an’ sure enough

he sunk down soft an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid

the turnin’ an’ roulin’ about in the night, not a bit iv him but was

covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’. So

wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit,

as they consaved, to Tipperary; an’ they cotched the ould gandher, an’

put him in the hamper and clapped a good wisp iv hay on the top iv him,

and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the

crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an’ put the hamper up on the

car, wontherin’ all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould

bird so surprisin’ heavy. Well, they wint along quiet an’ asy towards

Tipperary, wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the

same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn’t half like the

notions iv havin’ no company but the bewitched gandher, an’ small blame

to them for that same. But, although they wor shakin’ in their shkins

in dhread iv the ould bird biginin’ to convarse them every minute, they

did not let on to one another, but kep singin’ and whistlin’, like mad,

to keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the

road betther nor half-an-hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father

Crotty’s, an’ there was one divil iv a rut three feet deep at the

laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’ through it, that

it wakened Terence within the basket.

“Oh!” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what the divil are

ye doin’ wid me?”

“Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the boy that was next to the

car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a musharoon; “did ye hear anything

quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.

“No, nor you,” says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself; “it’s the ould

gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,” says he.

“Where the divil have ye put me into?” says Terence inside; “let me

out, or I’ll be smothered this minute,” says he.

“There’s no use in purtendin’,” says the boy; “the gandher’s spakin’,

glory be to God!” says he.

“Let me out, you murdherers,” says Terence.

“In the name iv all the holy saints,” says Thady, “hould yer tongue,

you unnatheral gandher,” says he.

“Who’s that, that dar’ to call me nicknames?” says Terence inside,

roaring wid the fair passion; “let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,”

says he, “or by this crass I’ll stretch ye,” says he.

“In the name iv heaven,” says Thady, “who the divil are ye?”

“Who the divil would I be but Terence Mooney,” says he. “It’s myself

that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,” says he; “let me out, or by

the holy I’ll get out in spite iv yez,” says he, “an’ be jabers I’ll

wallop yez in arnest,” says he.

“It’s ould Terence, sure enough,” says Thady; “isn’t it cute the fairy

docthor found him out?” says he.

“I’m on the pint iv snuffication,” says Terence; “let me out I tell

you, an’ wait till I get at ye,” says he, “for begorra, the divil a

bone in your body but I’ll powdher,” says he; an’ wid that he bigined

kickin’ and flingin’ inside in the hamper, and dhrivin’ his legs agin

the sides iv it, that it was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces.

Well, as soon as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a

gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest’s house, through the

ruts, an’ over the stones; an’ you’d see the hamper fairly flyin’ three

feet up in the air with the joultin’, glory be to God; so it was small

wondher, by the time they got to his raverince’s door, the breath was

fairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin’ speechless in

the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up

an’ they tould him all that happened, an’ how they put the gandher into

the hamper, an’ how he bigined to spake, an’ how he confissed that he

was ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how

to get rid iv the sperit for good an’ all. So says his raverince, says

he--

“I’ll take my book,” says he, “an’ I’ll read some rale sthrong holy

bits out iv it,” says he, “an’ do you get a rope and put it round the

hamper,” says he, “an’ let it swing over the runnin’ wather at the

bridge,” says he, “an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the sperit come

out iv it,” says he.

Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an’ tuck his book in undher

his arum, an’ the boys follied his raverince, ladin’ the horse down to

the bridge, an’ divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it

was no use spakin’, an’ he was afeard if he med any noise they might

thrait him to another gallop an’ finish him intirely. Well, as soon as

they war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with

them, an’ med it fast to the top iv the hamper an’ swung it fairly over

the bridge; lettin’ it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the

wather; an’ his raverince rode down to the bank iv the river, close

by, an’ bigined to read mighty loud and bould intirely. An’ when he

was goin’ on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper

kem out, an’ down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the water,

an’ the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they both went to the bottom

wid a souse you’d hear half-a-mile off; an’ before they had time to

rise agin, his raverince, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse

one dig iv the spurs, an’ before he knew where he was, in he went,

horse and all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the bottom. Up they all kem

agin together, gaspin’ an’ puffin’, an’ off down wid the current wid

them, like shot in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the

shallow wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an’ the priest and

Terence kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half dhrounded;

an’ his raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin’ he got, and wid

the sight iv the sperit as he consaved, that he wasn’t the better iv

it for a month. An’ as soon as Terence could spake, he said he’d have

the life iv the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his

will; an’ as soon as he was got quiter they all endayvoured to explain

it, but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an’ his

wife said the same to shilter him from the suspicion ov having the

dhrop taken. An’ his raverince said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if he

cotched any one laughin’ at the accident, he’d lay the horsewhip across

their shouldhers; an’ Terence grew fonder an’ fonder iv the gandher

every day, until at last he died in a wondherful ould age, lavin’ the

gandher afther him an’ a large family iv childher.

_Joseph Sheridan Lefanu_ (1814–1873).

_TABLE-TALK._

If the age of women were known by their teeth, they would not be so

fond of showing them.

* * * * *

What is an Irishman but a mere machine for converting potatoes into

human nature?

* * * * *

The smiles of a pretty woman are glimpses of Paradise.

* * * * *

Military men never blush; it is not in the articles of war.

* * * * *

We look with pleasure even on our shadows.

* * * * *

It is particularly inconvenient to have a long nose--especially if you

are in company with Irishmen after dinner.

* * * * *

Weak-minded men are obstinate; those of a robust intellect are firm.

* * * * *

Bear-baiting has gone down very much of late. The best exhibitions of

that manly and rational amusement take place nightly in the House of

Commons.

* * * * *

When you are invited to a drinking-party you do not treat your host

well if you do not eat at least six salt herrings before you sit down

to his table. I have never known this to fail in ensuring a pleasant

evening.

* * * * *

Butchers and doctors are with great propriety excluded from being

jurymen.

* * * * *

Few men have the moral courage _not_ to fight a duel.

* * * * *

It is a saying of the excellent Tom Brown, “No poet ever went to a

church when he had money to go to a tavern.” This may be looked on as

an indisputable axiom; there is no truer proposition in Euclid. Indeed,

the very name of poet is derived from _potare_--to drink; and it

is not by mere accident that the same word signifies _Bacchus_ and

a _book_.

* * * * *

The most ferocious monsters in existence are authors who insist on

reading their MSS to their friends and visitors.

* * * * *

A friend of mine, one of the wittiest and most learned men of the day,

once recommended a Frenchman, who expressed an anxiety to possess the

autographs of literary men, to cash their bills. “And, believe me,”

says he, “if you do, you will get the handwriting of the best of the

tribe.”

* * * * *

Tailors call Adam and Eve the first founders of their noble art; they

have them depicted on their banners and escutcheons. But they would be

nearer the truth if they called the devil the first master-tailor; as

only for him a coat and breeches would be unnecessary and useless. This

would be giving the devil his due.

* * * * *

A very acute man used to say, “Tell me your second reason; I do not

want your first. The second is the true motive of your actions.”

* * * * *

Youth and old age seem to be mutual spies on each other--blind, each,

to its own imperfections, but extremely quick-sighted to those of its

opposite.

* * * * *

HINTS TO MEN OF BUSINESS.--Whenever you are in a hurry engage

a drunken cabman; he will drive you at double the speed of a sober one.

Also, be sure not to engage a cabman who owns the horse he drives; he

will spare his quadruped, and carry you at a funeral pace. Both these

maxims are as good as any in Rochefoucault.

* * * * *

Man is a twofold creature; one half he exhibits to the world, and the

other to himself.

_Edward V. H. Kenealy, LL.D._ (1819–1880).

_ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET._

Snooks, my friend, I see with sorrow

How you waste much precious time--

Notwithstanding all you borrow--

In concocting wretched rhyme.

Do not think that I fling any

Innuendoes at your head,

When I state the fact that many

Mines of Wicklow teem with lead.

Snooks, my friend, you are a ninny

(Class, mammalia-genus, muff),

If you hope to make a guinea

By such caterwauling stuff.

Lives of poets all remind us

We may write “demnition” fine,

Leaving still unsolved behind us

The problem, “How are bards to dine?”

Problem which perhaps some others,

As through life they dodge about,

Seeing, shall suppose our mothers

Did not know that we were out.

Hang the bard, and cut the punster,

Fling all rhyming to the deuce,

Take a business tour through Munster,

Shoot a landlord--be of use.

_Richard Dalton Williams_ (1822–1862).

[Illustration: “SAINT KEVIN TOOK THE GANDER FROM THE ARMS OF THE

KING.”]

_SAINT KEVIN AND KING O’TOOLE._

As Saint Kevin once was travelling through a place called

Glendalough,

He chanced to meet with King O’Toole, and asked him for a

_shough_;[18]

Said the king, “You are a stranger, for your face I’ve never seen,

But if you have a taste o’ weed, I’ll lend you my _dhudeen_.”[19]

While the saint was kindling up the pipe the monarch fetched a

sigh;

“Is there anything the matter,” says the saint, “that makes you

cry?”

Said the king, “I had a gander, that was left me by my mother,

And this morning he cocked up his toes with some disease or other.”

“And are you crying for the gander, you unfortunate ould goose?

Dhry up your tears, in frettin’, sure, there’s ne’er a bit o’ use;

As you think so much about the bird, if I make him whole and sound,

Will you give to me the taste o’ land the gander will fly round?”

“In troth I will, and welcome,” said the king, “give what you ask;”

The saint bid him bring out the bird, and he’d begin the task;

The king went into the palace to fetch him out the bird,

Though he’d not the least intention of sticking to his word.

Saint Kevin took the gander from the arms of the king,

He first began to tweak his beak, and then to pull his wing,

He _hooshed_ him up into the air--he flew thirty miles around;

Said the saint, “I’ll thank your majesty for that little bit o’

ground.”

The king, to raise a ruction next, he called the saint a witch,

And sent in for his six big sons, to heave him in the ditch;

“_Nabocklish_,” said Saint Kevin, “I’ll soon settle these young

urchins,”

So he turned the king and his six sons into the seven churches.

_Thomas Shalvey_ (_fl._ 1850).

_THE SHAUGHRAUN._

_Scene_--EXTERIOR OF FATHER DOLAN’S COTTAGE.

_Enter_ MOYA.

_Moya._ There! now I’ve spancelled the cow and fed the pig, my

uncle will be ready for his tay. Not a sign of Conn for the past three

nights. What’s come to him?

_Enter_ MRS. O’KELLY.

_Mrs. O’K._ Is that yourself, Moya? I’ve come to see if that

vagabond of mine has been round this way.

_Moya._ Why would he be here--hasn’t he a home of his own?

_Mrs. O’K._ The shebeen is his home when he’s not in gaol. His

father died o’ drink, and Conn will go the same way.

_Moya._ I thought your husband was drowned at sea?

_Mrs. O’K._ And, bless him, so he was.

_Moya_ (_aside_). Well, that’s a quare way of dying o’ drink.

_Mrs. O’K._ The best of men he was, when he was sober--a betther

never dhrawed the breath o’ life.

_Moya._ But you say he never was sober.

_Mrs. O’K._ Nivir! An’ Conn takes afther him!

_Moya._ Mother.

_Mrs. O’K._ Well?

_Moya._ I’m afeard I’ll take afther Conn.

_Mrs. O’K._ Heaven forbid, and purtect you agin him. You are a

good, dacent girl, an’ desarve the best of husbands.

_Moya._ Them’s the only ones that gets the worst. More betoken

yourself, Mrs. O’Kelly.

_Mrs. O’K._ Conn nivir did an honest day’s work in his life--but

dhrinkin’, an’ fishin’, an’ shootin’, and sportin’, and love-makin’.

_Moya._ Sure, that’s how the quality pass their lives.

_Mrs. O’K._ That’s it. A poor man that spoorts the sowl of a

gentleman is called a blackguard.

_Enter_ CONN.

_Conn._ There’s somebody talking about me.

_Moya_ (_running to him_). Conn!

_Conn._ My darlin’, was the mother makin’ little of me? Don’t

believe a word that comes out o’ her! She’s jealous--a devil a haporth

less. She’s choking wid it this very minute, just bekase she sees my

arms about ye. She’s as proud of me as an ould hen that’s got a duck

for a chicken. Hould your whist now! Wipe your mouth, an’ give me a

kiss!

_Mrs. O’K._ (_embracing him_). Oh, Conn, what have you been

afther? The polis were in my cabin to-day about ye. They say you stole

Squire Foley’s horse.

_Conn._ Stole his horse! Sure the baste is safe and sound in his

paddock this minute.

_Mrs. O’K._ But he says you stole it for the day to go huntin’.

[Illustration: “JUST THEN WE TOOK A STONE WALL AND A DOUBLE DITCH

TOGETHER.”]