a ring of them sitting down upon the bare ground, keeping their knees
up. A shoemaker's leather apron is then got, or a good stout brogue, and
sent round under their knees. In the mane time one stands in the middle;
and after the brogue is sent round, he is to catch it as soon as he
can. While he stands there, of course, his back must be to some one, and
accordingly those that are behind him thump him right and left with
the brogue, while he, all the time, is striving to catch it. Whoever he
catches this brogue with must stand up in his place, while he sits down
where the other had been, and then the play goes on as before.
“There's another play called the _Standing Brogue_--where one man gets a
brogue of the same kind, and another stands up facing him with his hands
locked together, forming an arch turned upside down. The man that houlds
the brogue then strikes him with it betune the hands; and even the
smartest fellow receives several pelts before he is able to close his
hands and catch it; but when he does, he becomes brogueman, and the man
who held the brogue stands for him, until he catches it. The same thing
is gone through, from one, to another, on each side, until it is over.
“The next is _Frimsy Framty_, and is played in this manner:--A chair or
stool is placed in the middle of the flure, and the man who manages the
play sits down upon it, and calls his sweetheart, or the prettiest girl
in the house. She, accordingly, comes forward, and must kiss him.
He then rises up, and she sits down. 'Come, now,' he says, 'fair
maid--Frimsy framsy, who's your fancy?' She then calls them she likes
best, and when the young man she calls comes over and kisses her, he
then takes her place, and calls another girl--and so on, smacking away
for a couple of hours. Well, throth, it's no wonder that Ireland's full
of people; for I believe they do nothing but coort from the time they're
the hoith of my leg. I dunno is it true, as I hear Captain Sloethern's
steward say, that the Englishwomen are so fond of Irishmen?”
“To be sure it is,” said Shane Fadh; “don't I remimber myself, when Mr.
Fowler went to England--and he as fine looking a young-man, at the time,
as ever got into a saddle--he was riding up the street of London, one
day, and his servant after him--and by the same token he was a thousand
pound worse than nothing; but no matter for that, you see luck was
before him--what do you think, but a rich dressed livery servant came
out, and stopping the Squire's man, axed whose servant he was?
“'Why, thin,' says Ned Magavran, who-was his body servant at the time,
'bad luck to you, you spalpeen, what a question do you ax, and you
have eyes in your head!' says he--'hard feeling to you!' says he, 'you
vagabone, don't you see I'm my master's?'
“The Englishman laughed. 'I know that, Paddy,' says he--for they call
us all Paddies in England, as if we had only one name among us, the
thieves; 'but I wish to know his name,' says the Englishman.
“'You do!' says Ned; 'and by the powers!' says he, 'but you must first
tell me which side of the head you'd wish to hear it an.'
“'Oh! as for that,' says the Englishman--not up to him, you see----'I
don't care much, Paddy, only let me hear it, and where he lives.'
“'Just keep your ground, then,' says Ned, 'till I light off this
blood-horse of mine'--he was an ould garron that was fattened up, not
worth forty shillings--'this blood-horse of mine,' says Ned, 'and I'll
tell you.'
“So down he gets, and lays the Englishman sprawling in the channel.
“' Take that, you vagabone! says he, and it'll larn you to call
people by their right names agin: I was christened as well as you, you
spalpeen!'
“All this time the lady was looking out of the windy, breaking her heart
laughing at Ned and the servant; but, behould!--she knew a thing or two,
it seems; for, instead of sending a man at all at all, what does she do
but sends her own maid--a very purty girl, who comes up to Ned, putting
the same question to him.
“'What's his name, avourneen?' says Ned, melting, to be sure, at the
sight of her 'Why, then, darling, who could refuse you anything?--but,
you jewel! by the hoky, you must bribe me or I'm dumb,' says he.
“'How could I bribe you?' says she, with a sly smile--for Ned himself
was a well-looking young fellow at the time.
“'I'll show you that,' says Ned, 'if you tell me where you live; but,
for fraid you forget it--with them two lips of your own, my darling.'
“'There, in that great house,' says the maid; 'my mistress is one of the
beautifullest and richest young ladies in London, and she wishes to know
where your master could be heard of.'
“'Is that the house?' says Ned, pointing to it.
“'Exactly', says she: 'that's it.' 'Well, acushla,' says he, 'you've a
purty and an innocent-looking face; but I'm tould there's many a trap in
London well baited. Just only run over while I'm looking at you, and let
me see that purty face of yours smiling at me out of the windy that that
young lady is peeping at us from.'
“This she had to do.
“'My master,' thought Ned, while she was away, 'will aisily find out
what kind of a house it is, any how, if that be it.'
“In a short time he saw her in the windy, and Ned then gave her a sign
to come down to him.
“'My master,' says he, 'never was afeard to show his face, or tell his
name to any one--he's a Squire Fowler,' says he--'a Sarjen-major in a
great militia regiment: he shot five men in his time; and there's not a
gentleman in the country he lives in that dare say Boo to his blanket.
And now, what's your name,' says Ned, 'you flattering little blackguard
you?'
“'My name's Betty Cunningham,' says she.
“'And next, what's your mistress's, my darling?' says Ned.
“'There it is,' says she, handing him a card.
“'Very well,' says Ned, the thief, looking at it with a great air,
making as if he could read; 'this will just do, a _colleen bawn_.'
“'Do you read in your country with the wrong side of the print up?' says
she.
“'Up or down,' says Ned, 'it's all one to us in Ireland; but, any how,
I'm left-handed, you deluder!'
“The upshot of it was, that her mistress turned out to be a great
hairess, and a great beauty; and she and Fowler got married in less than
a month. So, you see, it's true enough that the Englishwomen are fond of
Irishmen,” says Shane; “but, Tom, with, submission for stopping you, go
on with your Wake.”
“The next play, then, is Marrying----”
“Hooh!” says Andy Morrow, “why, all their plays are about kissing and
marrying, and the like of that.”
“Surely and they are, sir,” says Tom.
“It's all the nathur of the baste,” says Alick.
“The next is marrying. A bouchal puts an ould dark coat on him, and if
he can, borry a wig from any of the ould men in the wake-house, why,
well and good, he's the liker his work--this is the priest; he takes,
and drives all the young men out of the house, and shuts the door upon
them, so, that they can't get in till he lets them. He then ranges the
girls all beside one another, and, going to the first, makes her name
him she wishes to be her husband; this she does, of coorse, and the
priest lugs him in, shutting the door upon the rest. He then pronounces
this marriage sarvice, when the husband smacks her first, and then
the priest:--'Amo amas, avourneen--in nomine gomine, betwuxt and
between--for hoc erat in votis, squeeze 'em please 'em--omnia vincit
amor, wid two horns to caput nap it--poluphlasboio, the lasses--'Quid,'
says Cleopatra; 'Shid,' says Antony--ragibus et clatibus solemus stapere
windous--nine months--big-bottle, and a honeymoon--Alneas poque Dido'
poque Roymachree--hum not fiem viat--lag rag, merry kerry, Parawig and
breeches--hoc manifestibus omnium--Kiss your wife under the nose, then
seek repose.' 'Tis' done,' says the priest. 'Vinculum trinculum; and
now you're married. Amen!' Well, these two are married, and he places
his wife upon his knee, for fraid of taking up too much room, _you
persave_; there they coort away again, and why shouldn't they?
“The priest then goes to the next, and makes her name her husband; this
is complied with, and he is brought in after the same manner, but no one
else till they're called: he is then married, and kisses his wife, and
the priest kisses her after him; and so they're all married.
“But if you'd see them that don't chance to be called at all, the figure
they cut--slipping into some dark corner, to avoid the mobbing they get
from the priest and the others. When they're all united, they must each
sing a song--man and wife, according as they sit; or if they can't sing,
or get some one to do it for them, they're divorced. But the priest,
himself, usually lilts for any one that's not able to give a verse. You
see, Mr. Morrow, there's always in the neighborhood some droll fellow
that takes all these things upon him, and if he happened to be absent,
the wake would be quite dull.”
“Well,” said Andy Morrow, “have you any more of their sports; Tom?”
“Ay, have I; one of the best and pleasantest you heard yet.”
“I hope there's no more coorting in it,” says Nancy; “God knows we're
tired of their kissing and marrying.”
“Were you always so?” says Ned, across the fire to her.
“Behave yourself, Ned,” says she; “don't you make me spake; sure you
were set down as the greatest Brine-oge that ever was known, in the
parish, for such things.”
“No, but don't you make _me_ spake,” replies Ned.
“Here, Biddy,” said Nancy, “bring that uncle of yours another pint;
that's what he wants most at the present time, I'm thinking.”
Biddy, accordingly, complied with this.
“Don't make _me_ spake,” continued Ned.
“Come, Ned,” she replied, “you've got a fresh pint now; so drink it, and
give me no more _gosther_. (* Gossip--Idle talk.)
“_Shuid-urth!_“* says Ned, putting the pint to his head, and winking
slyly at the rest.
* This to you, or upon you; a form of drinking healths.
“Ay, wink; in troth I'll be up to you for that, Ned,” says Nancy; by
no means satisfied that Ned should enter into particulars. “Well, Tom,”
says she, diverting the conversation, “go on, and give us the remainder
of your Wake.”
“Well,” says Tom, “the next play is in the milintary line. You see, Mr.
Morrow, the man that leads the sports places them all on their sates,
gets from some of the girls a white handkerchief, which he ties round
his hat, as you would tie a piece of mourning; he then walks round them
two or three times singing,
Will you list and come with me, fair maid?
Will'you list and come with me, fair maid?
Will you list and come with me, fair maid,
And folly the lad with the white cockade?
“When he sings this he takes off his hat, and puts it on the head of the
girl he likes best, who rises up and puts her arm around him, and then
they both go about in the same way, singing the same words. She then
puts the hat on some young man, who gets up and goes round with them,
singing as before. He next puts it on the girl he loves best, who, after
singing and going round in the same manner, puts it on another, and he
on his sweetheart, and so on. This is called the White Cockade. When
it's all over, that is, when every young man has pitched upon the girl
that he wishes to be his sweetheart, they sit down, and sing songs, and
coort, as they did at the marrying.
“After this comes the _Weds or Forfeits_, or what they call
putting round the button. Every one gives in a forfeit--the boys a
neck-handkerchief or a pen-knife, and the girls a pocket-handkerchief
or something that way. The forfeit is held over them, and each of them
stoops in tarn. They are, then, compelled to command the person that
owns that forfeit to sing a song--to kiss such and such a girl--or to
carry some ould man, with his legs about their neck, three times round
the house, and this last is always great fun. Or, maybe, a young,
upsetting fellow, will be sent to kiss some toothless, slavering, ould
woman, just to punish him; or if a young woman is any way saucy, she'll
have to kiss some ould, withered fellow, his tongue hanging with age
half way down his chin, and the tobacco water trickling from each comer
of his mouth.
“By jingo, many a time, when the friends of the corpse would be breaking
their very hearts with grief and affliction, I have seen them obligated
to laugh out, in spite of themselves, at the drollery of the priest,
with, his ould black coat and wig upon him; and when the laughing fit
would be over, to see them rocking themselves again with the sorrow--so
sad. The best man for managing such sports in this neighborhood, for
many a year, was Roger M'Cann, that lives up as you go to the mountains.
You wouldn't begrudge to go ten miles the cowldest winter night that
ever blew, to see and hear Roger.
“There's another play that they call the _Priest of the Parish_, which,
is remarkably pleasant. One of the boys gets a wig upon himself as
before--goes out on the flure, places the boys in a row, calls one _his
man Jack_ and says to each 'What will you be?' One answers 'I'll be
black cap;' another--red cap;' and so on. He then says, 'The priest of
the parish has lost his considhering cap some says this, and some says
that, but I say my man Jack!' Man Jack, then, to put it off himself,
says, Is it me, sir?' 'Yes, sir!' 'You lie, sir!' 'Who then, sir?'
'Black cap!' If Black cap, then, doesn't say 'Is it me, sir?' before the
priest has time to call him, he must put his hand on his ham, and get a
pelt of the brogue. A body must be supple with the tongue in it.
“After this comes one they call _Horns, or the Painter_. A droll fellow
gets a lump of soot or lamp black, and after fixing a ring of the boys
and girls about him, he lays his two fore-fingers on his knees, and
says. 'Horns, horns, cow horns!' and then raises his finders by a jerk
up above his head; the boys and girls in the ring then do the same
thing, for the meaning of the play is this:--the man with the black'ning
always raises his fingers every time he names an animal; but if he names
any that has no horns, and that the others jerk up their fingers, then
they must get a stroke over the face with the soot. 'Horns, horns, goat
horns!'--then he ups with his fingers like lightning; they must all do
the same, bekase a goat has horns. Horns, horns, horse horns!'--he ups
with them again, but the boys and girls ought not, bekase a horse has
not horns; however any one that raises them then, gets a slake. So that
it all comes to this:--Any one, you see that lifts his fingers when an
animal is named that has no horns--or any one that does not raise them
when a baste is mintioned that has horns, will get a mark. It's a purty
game, and requires a keen eye and a quick hand; and, maybe, there's
not fun in straiking the soot over the purty, warm, rosy cheeks of the
colleens, while their eyes are dancing with delight in their heads,
and their sweet breath comes over so pleasant about one's face, the
darlings!--Och! och!
“There's another game they call the _Silly ould Man_, that's played this
way:--A ring of the boys and girls is made on the flure--boy and girl
about--holding one another by the hands; well and good--a young fellow
gets into the middle of the ring, as 'the silly ould Man.' There he
stands looking at all the girls to choose a wife, and, in the mane time,
the youngsters of the ring sing out--
Here's a silly ould Man that lies all alone,
That lies all alone,
That lies all alone;
Here's a silly ould man that lies all alone,
He wants a wife and he can get none.
“When the' boys and girls sing this, the silly ould man must choose a
wife from some of the colleens belonging to the ring. Having made choice
of her, she goes into the ring along with him, and they all sing out--
Now, young couple, you're married together,
You're married together,
You're married together,
You must obey your father and mother,
And love one another like sister and brother--
I pray, young couple, you'll kiss together!
“And you may be sure this part of the marriage is not missed, any way.”
“I doubt,” said Andy Morrow, “that good can't come of so much kissing,
marrying, and coorting.”
The narrator twisted his mouth knowingly, and gave a significant groan.
“_Be dhe husth_,* hould your tongue, Misther Morrow,” said he; “Biddy
avour-neen,” he continued, addressing Biddy and Bessy, “and Bessy,
alannah, just take a friend's advice, and never mind going to wakes; to
be sure there's plenty of fun and divarsion at sich places, but--healths
apiece!” putting the pint to his lips--“and that's all I say about it.”
“Right enough, Tom,” observed Shane Fadh--“sure most of the matches are
planned at them, and, I may say, most of the runaways, too--poor,
young, foolish crathurs, going off, and getting themselves married; then
bringing small, helpless families upon their hands, without money or
manes to begin the world with, and afterwards likely to eat one another
out of the face for their folly; however, there's no putting ould
heads upon young shoulders, and I doubt, except the wakes are stopped
altogether, that it'll be the ould case still.”
“I never remember being at a counthry wake,” said Andy Morrow. “How is
everything laid out in the house?”
“Sure it's to you I'm telling the whole story, Mr. Morrow: these thieves
about me here know all about it as well as I do--the house, eh? Why, you
see, the two corpses were stretched beside one another, washed and laid
out. There were long deal boords with their ends upon two stools, laid
over the bodies; the boords were covered with a white sheet got at the
big house, so the corpses were'nt to be seen. On these, again, were
placed large mould candles, plates of cut tobacco, pipes, and snuff, and
so on. Sometimes corpses are waked in a bed, with their faces visible;
when that is the case, white sheets, crosses, and sometimes flowers, are
pinned up about the bed, except in the front; but when they're undher
boord, a set of ould women sit smoking, and rocking themselves from side
to side, quite sorrowful--these are keeners--friends or relations; and
when every one connected with the dead comes in, they raise the keene,
like a song of sorrow, wailing and clapping their hands.
“The furniture is mostly removed, and sates made round the walls, where
the neighbors sit smoking, chatting, and gosthering. The best of aiting
and dhrinking that they can afford is provided; and, indeed, there is
generally open house, for it's unknown how people injure themselves by
their kindness and waste at christenings, weddings, and wakes.
“In regard to poor Larry's wake--we had all this, and more at it; for,
as I obsarved a while agone, the man had made himself no friends when
he was living, and the neighbors gave a loose to all kinds of divilment
when he was dead. Although there's no man would be guilty of any
disrespect where the dead are, yet, when a person has led a good life,
and conducted themselves dacently and honestly, the young people of the
neighborhood show their respect by going through their little plays and
divarsions quieter and with less noise, lest they may give any offence;
but, as I said, whenever the person didn't live as they ought to do,
there's no stop to their noise and rollikin.
“When it drew near morning, every one of us took his sweetheart, and,
after convoying her home, we went to our own houses to get a little
sleep--so that was the end of poor Larry, M'Farland, and his wife, Sally
Lowry.
“Success, Tom!” said Bill M'Kinnly “take a pull of the malt now, afther
the story, your soul!--But what was the funeral like?”
“Why, then, a poor berrin it was,” said Tom; “a miserable sight, God
knows--just a few of the neighbors; for those that used to take his
thrate, and while he had a shilling in his pocket blarney him up, not
one of the skulking thieves showed their faces at it--a good warning
to foolish men that throw their money down throats that haven't hearts
anundher them.--But boys, desarve another thrate, I think, afther my
story!” This, we need scarcely add, he was supplied with, and after
some further desultory chat, they again separated, with the intention of
reassembling at Ned's on the following night.
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS.
Accordingly, the next evening found them all present, when it was
determined unanimously that Pat Frayne, the hedge schoolmaster, should
furnish them with the intellectual portion of the entertainment for that
night, their object being each to tell a story in his turn.
“Very well,” said Pat, “I am quite simultaneous to the wishes of the
company; but you will plaise to observe, that there is clay which is
moist, and clay which is not moist. Now, under certain circumstances,
the clay which is not moist, ought to be made moist, and one of those
circumstances that in which any larned person becomes loquacious,
and indulges in narrative. The philosophical raison, is decided on by
Socrates, and the great Phelim M'Poteen, two of the most celebrated
liquorary characters that ever graced the sunny side of a plantation,
is, that when a man commences a narration with his clay not moist,
the said narration is found, by all lamed experience, to be a very dry
one--ehem!”
“Very right, Mr. Frayne,” replied Andy Morrow; “so in ordher to avoid
a dhry narrative, Nancy, give the masther a jug of your stoutest to wet
his whistle, and keep him in wind as he goes along.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morrow--and in requital for your kindness, I will
elucidate you such a sample of unadulterated Ciceronian eloquence,
as would not be found originating from every chimney-corner in this
Province, anyhow. I am not bright, however, at oral relation. I have
accordingly composed into narrative the following tale, which is
appellated 'The Battle of the Factions:'--
“My grandfather, Connor O'Callaghan, though a tall, erect man, with
white flowing hair, like snow, that falls profusely about his broad
shoulders, is now in his eighty-third year: an amazing age, considhering
his former habits. His countenance is still marked with honesty and
traces of hard fighting, and his cheeks ruddy and cudgel-worn; his eyes,
though not as black as they often used to be, have lost very little of
that nate fire which characterizes the eyes of the O'Callaghans, and
for which I myself have been--but my modesty won't allow me to allude to
that: let it be sufficient for the present to say that there never was
remembered so handsome a man in his native parish, and that I am as
like him as one Cork-red phatie is to another. Indeed, it has been often
said, that it would be hard to meet an O'Callaghan without a black eye
in his head. He has lost his fore-teeth, however, a point in which,
Unfortunately, I, though his grandson, have strong resemblance to
him. The truth is, they were knocked out of him in rows, before he had
reached his thirty-fifth year--a circumstance which the kind reader
will be pleased to receive in extenuation for the same defect in myself.
That, however, is but a trifle, which never gave either of us much
trouble.
“It pleased Providence to bring us through many hair-breadth escapes,
with our craniums uncracked; and when we considher that he, on taking a
retrogradation of his past life, can indulge in the plasing recollection
of having broken two skulls in his fighting days, and myself one,
without either of us getting a fracture in return, I think we have both
rason to be thankful. He was a powerful _bulliah battha_ * in his day
and never met a man able to fight him, except big Mucldemurray, who
stood before him the greater part of an hour and a half, in the fair of
Knockimdowny, on the day that the first great fight took place--twenty
years afther the hard, frost--between the O'Callaghans and the
O'Hallaghans. The two men fought single hands--for both factions were
willing to let them try the engagement out, that they might see what
side could boast of having the best man. They began where you enter the
north side of Knockimdowny, and fought successively up to the other end,
then back again to the spot where they commenced, and afterwards up to
the middle of the town, right opposite to the market-place, where my
grandfather, by the same a-token, lost a grinder; but he soon took
satisfaction for that, by giving Mucldemurray a tip above the eye with
the end of an oak stick, dacently loaded with lead, which made the poor
man feel very quare entirely, for the few days that he survived it.
* Literally the stroke of a cudgel; put for cudgel-player.