"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"
But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,
He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!
Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,
You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;
We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,
So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,
Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!
Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,
An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,
Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!"
I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose,
To bid him go to blakers!--but the barrel at me nose,
Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue,
An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue!
I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an'
then,
He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again,
"You'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in Phoenix Park,"
He shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark,
An' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke,
As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke!
Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,
I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;
I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,
That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!
* * * * *
When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,
I read it on a paper,--in the Bowry of New York,--
Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,
Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"
[Illustration]
He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor;
And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door,
He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon;
Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!"
He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip,
The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip,
He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart,
Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!
"Hands up!" they shouted "Damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb;
We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"
Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,
An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"
He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,
From collar of his cota--it was there to guard his life--
He hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon,
A pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of John McKune.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: I'LL GO FOR A SOJER.]
"O WHERE is my Johnnie acushla?" says she,
He left me last night, an' "Maggie" says he,
"It's meself an' yerself mam that couldn't agree,
Be dang but I'll go for a sojer!"
He took all the cash that I had in the till,
I followed him round to the butt of the hill,
"Go back, or yerself is the first that I'll kill!"
Says he, "Whin I'm gone for a sojer!"
I hung to his neck, an' I axed him to stay,
Ye might as well ax for the night to be day;
But wringin' his neck from me, shoutin' "Hooray!"
Says he "Whoo! I'll go for a sojer!"
I set the dog afther him, thought that he'd stick
In the tail of his coat, he was up to the thrick;
For he turned on his heel, an' he skelped him a lick,
Of the stick, "I am off for a sojer!"
"O whisht! arrah there, look he's comin'!" she cried,
As far in the distance, her Jack she espied,
With Corporal Quirk on the march by his side,
He's comin' back home with a sojer.
When Johnnie came near enough to her to spake,
"O Johnnie Avourneen!" said she, "did ye take
The shillin'?" "No faith, for I'm too wide awake,
I only wint off for a sojer."
[Decoration]
ODE HERE!
I DYED away the grey, from my sparsy head of hair,
I buttered up the fur upon my tile,
I darned the ventilators in my garments here, and there,
And with my go-to-meeting stick, and smile,
I went to see a widow, I had courted long ago;
She had just been to the Probate for a pile!
Said she, "You are a person that I really do not know"
Her tone was rather cutting, like a file!
A serious alteration in her style;
I knew her when a maiden without guile,
She wouldn't even loan me from her pile,
A widow's mite; it agitates my bile!
[Illustration: THE SMUGGLER'S FATE]
A Seaside Idyll this;
To teach how oft amiss,
Doth fall the fate of men
who would be free:
It makes me cry heigho,
In minor cadence low,
When I do mind me
Of the fate of three,
To shun hymenial perils,
And tired of mashing girls,
A smuggler's cave, they took beside the sea,
And formed a reckless crew,
That swallowed their own brew,
Of whiskey, punch and coffee, beer and tea;
[Illustration]
But most of beer, and whiskey, as you see,
And that's the reason that I cry heigho!
[Illustration]
They wrestled with the wave,
[Illustration]
Then ran into their cave;
[Illustration]
But telescopes above, were taking stock,
Thus fate was on their track,
And soon alas! alack!
The smiles of fate fell on them from the rock,
Thus mesmerised by mirth,
They climbed the rocks, and earth,
With fascinated recklessness alack!
[Illustration]
My sympathy to show,
Again I say heigho!
'Twere better to their cave they had gone back.
Ah! me, the smugglers three,
Were blind their fate to see,
And lo! capitulation followed soon;
[Illustration]
For spite of all their pains,
They soon were in the chains,
That fettered them in bondage 'neath the moon,
[Illustration]
That shone on double case, of treble spoon;
Too like the moon, that wanes;
And that is why I sing in minor tune,
And cry again with sympathy, heigho!
Thus ever day by day,
In bondage still they lay,
Surrendering provisions, and their brew,
[Illustration]
Until the crew did go
Into the town, and lo!
[Illustration]
A parson had some triple work to do,
They're captives now,
[Illustration]
hard labour is their due,
Alack! the hapless crew;
I cry again with sympathy, heigho!
THE LATE FITZ-BINKS.
IT was about an hour they call the small, and the mysterious,
An hour wherein the ghosts are wont to take their
constitutional,
'Twas twenty-four o'clock; an hour that's oftimes deleterious
To many a liver wetted swell, pugnacious or emotional.
The beggared corporation lights, did flick in the nor'wester gale,
That blistering nose, and finger-tips, were loaded well
with sleet,
When Binks harrangued a constable, "Good night, it's cold, you're
looking pale,"
From where he backed a lamp-post, at the end of Brunswick Street.
"Ah! Sergeant," said Fitz-Binks, "It's late, or I could treat
you decently,
And 'twouldn't be too dusty, if we had a flying drink;
But Chap, of Vic., is strict, they passed in Parliament so recently,"
The bobbie was a thirsty one, he winked a thirsty wink.
"Ha! ha!" said Binks, "You know the lines, so don't be too particular,
There's some back door that's open," said the constable,
"you're right;
Just move an' there thro' yondher lane an' hide up perpendicular,
Beyant the lamp, I'll folly whin there's nobody in sight."
The thing was managed gracefully, and with an open sesamè,
The constable had stolen to a quiet bar with Binks,
Produced a clay, said he, "I hope yer honor won't think less of me,
To pull a pipe," "By Jove! I don't," said Binks, and bought
the drinks.
The moment was so contraband, it gave unto that liquor bar,
A zest, he asked the constable to take another neat,
But lifting out his ticker, says the bobbie, "Well be quick or 'gar!
The sergeant might come whop on me! he's out upon his beat."
The constable decanted it, said he, "Howld on until I look,
Now fly!" said he, and while they dived again into the night,
He fished from out his overcoat, and deftly in his mouth he stuck,
A friendly lump of orris root, to make his breath all right.
That bobbie was a wily one, the act was rather opportune,
For they had scarcely managed to get half-way up the gut
When he was made aware that he must coin a whited whopper soon,
For hark! it was the tramping of the sergeant's heavy foot!
Said he, "We must dissimble, or I'm ruined, and a shapable,
Excuse I'll have to make!" * * *
* * * "What brings the two of you down here?"
"I'm makin' just a Pres'ner, Sir, he's dhrunk, an' he's incapable,"
Exclaimed the bobbie, gripping Binks, just under Binks's ear!
'Twas somewhat ominous for Binks, though he protested not, he chewed
The cud of thought, until he saw that sergeant out of sight;
He had not comprehended yet, the patronising turpitude
Of bobbies, who will take a treat, "well now," said he,
"good night,"
But spake that constable, said he, "good night is best for you, ye
see,
But it won't answer now for me, I darn't let you go,
It's quietly, and aisily, and dacently, you'll come wid me,
Yer dhrunk, an' yer incapable! I towld the sergeant so."
Fitz-Binks fell plump in mire of doubt, 'twas shocking! thus
to realize,
Such treachery, and subterfuge, of ingrate sneak of sin,
But 60 X was bigger in his figure, by a deal of size,
And little Binks, was little, so the bobbie ran him in!
The sergeant,--he who took the charge--was grave, and staid,
particular!
He entered Binks upon his book, and sent him to the cell,
And Binks did forfeit half a sov., for standing perpendicular,
Before the Beak, and leaving court, he cursed that bobbie well!
He said the act was scandalous, and of the gutter order, he,--
That bobbie was, "Ah whisht! ye see, an' howld yer tongue,
shut up
It's fond of me, you ought to be, if I swore ye wor disordherly,
It would have cost ye exthra, or you'd maybe be put up!"
It used to be a sermonising habit, and methodical,
To tag a moral story, with a warning at its end
And bobbie entertainments in the midnight, might be quodical!
So leave him to his duty, if you'd keep him as a friend.
[Illustration: A FUGITIVE KISS.]
I WAS on the carpet kneeling,
And fondly, and with feeling,
I pressed her metacarpus,
To my osculating lip,
When flexor,
And extensor,
Of stern Parental censor,
Incontinent did greet me,
And took me near the hip!
I rolled into the fender,
With broken silk suspender,
And motive movement sharp, as
Her Pater gave the tip!
He didn't back the winner,
For sport was not his grip.
The above brief but touching confession of disastrous failure, recorded
by Timothy Pipkins,--a sporting student of St. Jago's Hospital,--is
indicative of the Nemesis from an offended fate, that frequently foils
the improvident hunter of matrimonial adventure.
[Illustration: THE BEDROOM CURSE AND THE MURDERED COCKATOO]
TIM DOOLIN was a well known jock, an active sprite, and light
and trim,
And time there was, that jocks did funk, to mount, and run the race
with him.
He won by length, he won by head, he saved the race by nose, and ear,
Till all the jocks, around their pints, exclaimed the thing was
devilish queer.
But fortune is a gay coquette; by fickle fortune, Doolin lost,
Till every one who backed him, soon did find him out a fraud
and frost.
I've seen him lose at Punchestown, I've seen him last, at
Baldoyle too,
At Fairyhouse I've seen him fall--his colours then were black
and blue.
He stood and scratched his head amain, beside the stable door one
night;
He had been drinking tints of malt, and felt as he were almost tight.
A race was on to run next day; he totted up his chance to win,
When turning thro' the stable-door, he saw a gentleman within!
He thought the thing extremely strange, and asked the man, why he
was there,
And stoutly gave the hint, that he was there, to sneak, and dose
the mare.
The gentleman, he laughed a laugh. "I've backed the beast myself,
by gum!
And you must win, or I will be the loser of a tidy sum."
"Well, look," said Doolin, "pon me sowl, I have me doubts that
she's in form."
The stranger glared at Doolin, and with voice, as of a rising storm,
Accused the jock of practices, that were not meet for honest men,
And asked him how he won so oft, and could not pass the post again?
"Well, yis, yer honor, 'pon me faith, it puzzles me the same as you,
That I can't jerk the horse ahead, and win as once I used to do.
I never drink before the race. I always pray before I mount:
And yet I find it's all the same; my prayers have come to no
account!"
"I used to curse and swear, but, ah, bedad, my swearing days
are done!"
"Then how on earth could you expect to be the man who could get on?"
"I may not dare to curse and swear. I have a rich, religious aunt,
I'm in her will, and I would lose the fortune if I did, and shan't.
She often heard me curse and swear; but warning me one day, says she:
'If you go on to curse and swear, I'll have no more to do with thee!
I've made my will, and left you all my worldly goods, and money, too;
I've got it written, signed and sealed, so you be careful what
you do!'
I promised her, upon my oath, that I would neither curse nor swear,
And I have kept my word, and I will keep my word to her, so there!
She lent to me a cockatoo, and cautioned me, I must not lack,
To treat him well; he's in the room I occupy, till she comes back."
"Ah, that, indeed. Well, here's a tip: when in the morning
you get up,
Keep cursing all the time you dress, and swear at night,
before you sup,
By this no human ear will catch the oathings that will make
you light,
And take a load from off your mind, and you will win the
race--good night."
That very night when he went home, he slyly locked the bedroom door,
And up and down around the room he scattered curses, and he swore,
He cursed before, he cursed behind, he cursed until his face was red,
By dint of cursing, and at last he stripped, and tumbled into bed.
Next morning many oaths he made, and sandwiched them with many
a curse,
That sounded weird, and wry, and strange; his oathings they could
not possibly be worse.
He cursed because he had to rise, he cursed to leave the bed so nice,
And warm, and soft, he cursed because the water was as cold as ice.
He cursed around the basin-stand, he cursed the water jug, alas!
The towel and the soap he cursed, with oath that almost broke the
glass.
He cursed a button that was loose, he cursed the thread and needle,
new,
He cursed the irritating starch, he cursed his washerwoman, too.
He curbed his braces--they were tied with bits of string, that
broke in twain,
He fixed them with a pin; it stuck into his spine--he cursed again;
He cursed the postman for his knock--'twas by his tailor he was sent;
He cursed the landlady who brought the bill; and asked him for
the rent.
Before, behind, above, below, at right or left, he was not loath
To drop a detonating curse, or fling an alternating oath.
He cursed the razor and the strop, he cursed the wart upon his nose,
He cursed his hair that wouldn't grow, he cursed the corns upon
his toes.
He cursed a stud and button-hole that was too big; and in the street,
He saw a burly constable, and cursed the man upon his beat,
He cursed the helmet on his head, the number on his collar, too;
He cursed the stripe upon his arm, his mittens, and his suit of blue.
He cursed his baton right and left, he cursed it also upside down,
He cursed him to the county gaol and back again, and into town.
He cursed the lining of his sleeve, a bottle in his pocket--who
Had put it there he could not tell--he cursed his aunt, her cockatoo.
He cursed the laces of his boots, the cockatoo he cursed again,
Again he swore, unlocked the door, and gaily started for the train.
Hurrah! he won the race that day, and everything for him went right,
And surreptitiously he cursed and swore, and cursed again that night.
A painful shocking thing, that men should stoop to acts like this,
for fame or pelf.
Thro' all my friends there's not a man would act so shocking but
himself.
His calender grew bright again with fortune's sunlight o'er it cast,
But there must be an end to such, and retribution comes at last.
His aunt returned to town again; he gave her back her cockatoo,
'Twere better he had slain him first; it's what, I think, and so
will you.
One day a mortuary note did come--alas! his aunt was dead!
He buried her with decent haste, and then her latest will was read.
But by that testament, he found that he had not been left her purse,
It intimated this, that he had taught her cockatoo to curse!
It intimated this, that she thro' that, had met her death, alas;
And in a codicil expressed a wish they'd send the bird to grass.
No mortal eye but his, beheld the deed he then essayed to do--
'Twas murder! for he wrung the neck of his dead aunt, her cockatoo,
No mortal eye beheld the deed; but things again with him went queer,
Till one day looking down the street, he saw a stranger prowling
near.
The man who told him thus to swear, 'twas on a dark November eve,
He knew that stranger held a secret stone for him inside his sleeve;
He knew that he had run a score of heavy debt, was due for sin,
And darting back, he closed the door. Said he to Bridget "I'm not in.
Just say that I am out," said he, and quickly up the stairs he flew,
The stranger knocked. "Ah, let me see," and up the stairs he
mounted, too.
The servant sneaked the key-hole then, and saw a struggle on the bed,
Then ran below--"Mavrone, asthore, come up, agrah, the lodger's
dead!"
* * * * *
The moral is of gentlemen you do not know, you should beware:
You should not use your bedroom, for a hiding-place, to curse, and
swear.
To curse a harmless constable upon his beat, is even worse;
'Twas he who caught the jurymen, who gave the verdict on his corse.
That shocking room is haunted now; it may not raise a shock in you,
But every dark November eve, there comes a shrouded cockatoo,
And gliding in his pallid shirt, a wretched spectre doth rehearse,
The record of his oathings dire! the cockatoo then shrieks a curse!
The man of easy habits then will see the deadly deed anew,
Of how the neck was wrung by him, who slew his aunt, her cockatoo.
The man of easy habits then, will see the evil sprite of gloom,
Come prowling for his guilty soul, and bear it down the trap of doom.
The landlady can never make the lodgers in that room content,
They never stay, beyond the day that she has asked them for the rent,
But men are not so wicked now; they will not swear an oath for pelf.
They're much about the same as you--almost exactly like myself.
A GUN SOLO.
[Illustration]
BY a lonely dried up fountain,
In a purple Irish mountain,
My talk was interesting,
With a female of that spot,
When she sprang from off my knees;
For rasping thro' the trees,
A bullet stopped our jesting,
I started at the shot!
"It's my husband's gun!" she murmured,
I sauntered from the spot!!
[Illustration: THE SEMI-GRAND PIANO]
I WAS walking thro' the darkness of
The pleasant town of Birr,
'Twas late, and very lonely,
You could not hear a stir
When turning round a corner, I heard the music sweet,
Of a semi-grand piano, and a singing down the street.
You will say it's not uncommon to hear the pleasant sound,
Of a semi-grand piano upon a midnight round,
But O the silver music, of the voice that mingled there,
With the semi-grand piano, was wonderful, and rare!
I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain,
I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again,
And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd
"I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade."
And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill,
All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill,
I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old,
Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold!
It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same,
It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name,
And if it doesn't bore you, I'll sing you just a verse,
You'll say it might be better; but I think it might be worse.
"O lady who was singing
With happy semi-grand,
A troubadour is waiting,
He's asking for your hand,
Carrissima! Mia! Agrah!
From other lands I roam,
Be ready with the trousseau,
I'll come, and take you home!
Recordar, how I love you,
This lay of mine will tell,
O willow! willow! wirrasthrue!
Mavrone! I love you well!
L'ami l'amo l'amantibus
Ri foldherando dum,
Mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah!
Get up your traps, and come!"
It wasn't all Italian, this song of mine you see,
It wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee,
'Twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made,
I think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade.
I felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new,
'Twas making an impression, a thing I always do,
As tho' the middle ages, were back again in Birr,
Hark! hark behind her lattice, at last I heard a stir!
O there's nothing like the feeling that passes through the mind
When you know a lovely lady is pulling up her blind,
And my heart was all a-flutter, in that lonely street of Birr,
When I heard the curtains rustle, with the sylphid hand of her.
I saw the window open, I saw a face to scarce!
I heard a voice that muttered "What are ye doin' there?"
And over me was emptied a full and flowing can!
Which made me hurry homewards, a wet and wiser man!
I sang my song that midnight, with voice of dulcet tone,
My dulcet voice next morning was like a bagpipe groan,
A blanket round my shoulders, my feet were in a pan,
Some doctor's stuff beside me, a sad and wiser man!
[Illustration]
CANTICRANK.
IF you have æsthetic notions of the classic beauty rare,
You would never for a moment say that Nature took the prize,
For the elegance of figure, or tint upon her hair,
Of Mother Becca Canticrank, you wouldn't like her eyes;
Her nose you couldn't admirate,
Her teeth are in a chippy state,
Her voice is like a corncrake, her manner like a knife;
A cutting way of dealing
With sentimental feeling,
You wouldn't altogether care to choose her for a wife.
But ah! she is the casket of a compensating excellence,
The odour of a sanctity peculiarly her own,
She knows she is, without a doubt,
Intensely moral out and out,
And so she sits in judgment on a self-constructed throne.
As Censor of corruptousness,
Of Nature in voluptousness,
She rails in holy horror, with a Puritanic rage,
That beauty's form is shocking,
In semi-raiment mocking,
Her own upholstered scragginess in picture or on stage.
Her loathing is the ballet;
For lo! from court and alley,
The thousand Cinderellas are fairy clad and bright,
A direr deed of sinning--
By dint of beauty winning
Their bread, than by the needle, in the murky candlelight,
O Mother Becca Canticrank,
The ways of earth are very rank;
But women live by beauty, intelligence, and toil.
And toil is overcrowded, Mam,
Intelligence is got by cram;
And what's for lovely Sally of the garret, shall she spoil?
No! pray for her, and set her,
As toiler for the sweater,
Or freeze her in the winter, on your doorstep in the street,
With penance to her bones,
By whiting up the stones,
That you may moil her handiwork with smirch of dirty feet.
Or pray for her, and crape her,
As vestal to the draper,
To do the woful penance, of Canticranks to please;
Till worn out and weary,
Unto her bedroom eyrie,
She staggers up at midnight, then bring her to her knees;
Do anything, but let her
Enjoy a way, to better
The miserable midnight of her life, into the day
Of brighter fortune's light;
Aye, crush her back to night,
And teach her how to thank you, by kneeling down to pray.
Yes, hound away the ballet,
Destroy the chance of Sally,
For she has many prizes in the marriage market won.
By hypocritic prudity,
Go boom the semi-nudity,
Of drawing room and salon, for the first and second son.
[Illustration: CAUGHT IN THE BREACH.]
OF fascinating parts,
He played with female hearts;
'Twas reprehensible, as you may guess;
But still it was his way,
Continued he to play,
Until a maiden asked him for redress,
And folly bore the fruit,
Of breach of promise suit,
He owns a couple of thousand pounds the less,
He's a sorry man to-day, he does confess,
And the wily way of woman he does bless,
And his pipe is all that he will now caress,
He doesn't care to think of it, the mess!
[Illustration: A KLEPTOMANIAC'S DOOM.]
THE Lord of Masherdudom wore on his essencèd curls
A golden zone of strawberry leaves, and rays with pips of pearls,
Tho' he was called an Englishman his blood was Prussian blue,
Which unto his complexion gave a gallimaufry hue,
The Earl of Masherdudom, he was just as he began,
He seemed in perpetuity, a fossil ladies' man,
And yet he wasn't what you'd call an absolute success,
He hankered to be more, than most; he wasn't, he was less,
For he was poisoned with the grip of miser hungered greed,
And racking rent upon the screw, he made his tenants bleed.