Loud he calls, "Mr. Culprit, just step, sir, up here;
And you, monks, keep your eyes on the door.
For our sentence is this,--that the maiden you wed;
Yes, and live with her too till you're dead, sir--quite dead.
Oh, you ne'er shall escape from her more!
And Miss Bride, you'll oblige by just letting me know
If he does not behave himself properly, so
I may think of some punishment sore.
Now, before I unite
In the conjugal rite
This unhappy young pair,
Is there any one here
Has the slightest idea
Of a like rash affair?
If there is, I advise,
Ere the chance from him flies,
That he hither repair.
For, as Romulus said, you should never delay
Till to-morrow what can be as well done to-day.
For delays dang'rous are, as the widow can prove,
And time never returns, but is still on the move."
Then he silent remained, as if buried in thought,
While his eyelids dropt down as if slumber they sought;
Till the beautiful Clare, by young Flanagan Ted
(Her long-betrothed lover), was joyfully led.
When "Ah!" he exclaimed; and again closed his eyes,
Just to ponder, no doubt, on some subject more wise;--
On the frailty, perhaps, of the masculine sex,
Who allow pretty faces their thoughts to perplex,
And their hearts twirl about like a conjurer's plate,
While they kindly persuade them they can't avoid Fate.
"O dear May! dearest May!"
Whispered Samuel Delhay;
"I scarce know what I say,
But just listen, I pray.
I've loved you so dearly,
A twelvemonth or nearly,
Most truly, sincerely,--
Not for your looks merely,
But the bewitching grace
In each action I trace;
With which no charm keeps pace
But your beautiful face.
Oh, if you would hear me!
To be ever near me!
What joy would then cheer me!
Though trembling I fear me,
Lest you now should say Nay;
Your dear face turn away,
Or should wish for delay,
Which were death to obey."
Then May blushed crimson deep,
While her eyes downward keep,
As she seems most intensely to think.
Till her gaze slily peeps;
Tow'rds her mother it creeps,
Who she saw nearly audibly wink.
Then, no more time to waste,
In his hands hers she placed,
Who appeared with such rapture possess'd
That he screamed with delight,
Put poor May in a fright,
And exceedingly startled each guest.
"Is there no one else then to be married, I pray?
Mr. Hymen is not found at work every day,"
Said the Abbot; "can no other man boast a heart?
Have you all really 'scaped from young What's-his-name's dart?"
Just as if he was only essaying to fill
Up the number required to form a quadrille;
And had cried, Take your partners, and no more time waste,
You young people might surely make rather more haste.
"Oh, pray catch me! Oh, dear!
I'm so dreadfully queer--
I shall faint--I shall die--
I must have a good cry"--
Said Miss Riley, who could not her feelings command,
As she seized and kept hold of young Donoghue's hand.
"Shall you tell them? Oh, no;
Though I'm very so-so.
And my heart beats so fast,
It will sure burst at last.
No! 'tis useless cold water to throw on my grief,
Far too deep are my sorrows for such a relief.
Oh, could you but feel
What my tongue must reveal--
How much I love you,
My dear Donoghue!
Your heart surely would melt, though it very hard aint,
And you'd try all you could to relieve my complaint."
"Well," thinks he, "I don't care,
Though in truth she's not fair;
Still there's hundreds far worse, that I'm sure."
So he said, "You're so kind,
Miss, I'd fain ease your mind;
But why did you not speak up before?
For you really have taken me quite by surprise,
Though great presence of mind at emergence will rise.
Still, be quick; for should we by some chance be too late,
I must leave you to struggle alone with your fate."
But the course of true love it can never run smooth,
As this tale will, as others, undoubtedly prove.
There is always some guardian, or cruel old Pa,
Who won't give his consent; or some tiresome Ma,
Who don't think the young man is quite well enough off
For her beautiful daughter to wed; and so forth.
Now old Donoghue tries all he can to find out
What so busies his son, till he leaps out of doubt,
And jumps at the conclusion, which proves to be true,
That he means to get married the old maid unto.
"I won't give my consent!" he exclaims in a rage;
"And you shall not yourselves to each other engage.
I'll disinherit you sure if you dare to resist
My commands, and shall still in this madness persist."
"Oh, oh! what's the matter?
What means all this clatter?"
Said the Abbot, who seemed much amused;
"It is really too bad!
Sure the man must be mad:
Such an offer, what maid could refuse?
Sir, you'd better allow me for life to provide
For your child, by converting her into a bride.
As her poor little heart will undoubtedly break,
If you cruelly make her her first love forsake."
"But it is not a daughter," the other replied;
"'Tis the man is my boy, who, if now he decide
To be snared by yon penniless girl, for himself
Must look out, for no finger he lays on my wealth."
"Well, that alters the case;
But I really must own
That, were I in your place,
I would leave them alone,
For Love's arrows sink deep, and our heart's blood they quaff,
While the little wretch dares at e'en locksmiths to laugh.
So it really is wiser to give your consent,
For you know you can't really the marriage prevent.
For what's gold, may I ask, when its charms you compare
With bright smiles, with such looks, and with features so fair?
And, besides, the young people are quite old enough
To decide for themselves; and advice would seem stuff
And great nonsense, I fear, to their prejudiced ears;
For their eyes are so blinded they won't see your fears."
Then the old man sat down
With a dark gloomy frown,
As he muttered he never would give them a "brown."
But the obstinate son
Could be ruled o'er by none;
When he made up his mind he would have a thing done.
So he still stood his ground,
And the fearful maid found
That she now had a chance of her fate getting bound;
Not just stitched, or bound half,
But quite whole bound with calf.
How she chuckles with joy, as she grins forth a laugh!
As she says the few words which proclaim her the wife
Of as stupid a man as e'er lived out a life!
Now the eight are but four, for a pair forms but one;
They have each one been halved, so they all are undone.
Though the ladies of course (now pray don't make a jest of it),
As the bettermost half, have for ever the best of it.
Having two votes to one in nigh every dispute,
And as much more to say if their words you compute.
See, the bridegrooms are kissing their beautiful brides,
Who a kiss too receive from the Abbot besides.
All but Dame Donoghue, who by chance seems forgot;
Or, perhaps, he had thought he had much rather not.
Then the Abbot and train prepare to go;
They fall into ranks in a double row;
While the chief, at their head, walks on before,
Without ere a word or a syllable more.
But old Peter just tarries behind to state
Why the Abbot had come there, and why so late.
He had noticed the monk who was rambling out,
And, inquiring, had learnt all the facts about.
When to Peter's surprise he declared his mind,
That to marry the couple he felt inclined.
"I was very much vexed that he tarried so late,
As I feared that for me you might probably wait.
For I know very well, without being told twice,
That when victuals are tepid they're not very nice.
But I now must be gone; he will miss me, I fear;
Though 'twould pleasure me much to await awhile here."
Then young Patrick O'Neal out of pity, or jest,
Took the half of a duck, which with onions was drest,
And to old Peter gave it, unseen by the rest;
Who declared he of boys was undoubted the best.
Then he passed through the door and was soon with the throng
Who by torchlight were marching the forest along.
And 'twas lucky he did; for the Abbot inquired
After him, who to walk by his side he desired.
When a lecture he gave which the folly proved quite
Of rich dainties employing to cure appetite.
"They're the seed," he remarked, "of nigh ev'ry disease
Which frail mortals invent, them to rob of their ease.
What is gout, may I ask, but these victuals condensed
And forced into the blood to create pain intense?
Then, just look at your teeth; when compared with a brute,
They're surpassed quite as much as a flower does its root.
One is even, as smooth, and as white as a nut;
While the other is jagged, and blacker than soot.
Slow decaying away, from the poisonous food,
Which, to pleasure the palate, the victims have chewed.
Still, in spite the result, as of sense quite bereft,
They persist, like the lunatics lately I've left.
I can't drive the _foul_ smell from my nose," he exclaimed;
"The effluvia such hold on my sense has obtained."
Then weeks and weeks rolled slowly by,
And nothing strange had met the eye.
The birds had ris'n every morn,
And frightened been from off the corn.
The bees had sipped the flow'ry juice,
Preparing it for private use.
The sheep had parted with their fleece;
They held it on uncertain lease.
The fruit had all been plucked, or fell,
And made more ill than tongue can tell.
The golden grain by reapers' care,
Had strewn the rich fields everywhere;
And filled the barns with Nature's store,
For winter's use when summer's o'er.
For Autumn's sunny days are past,
And gloomy clouds are gathering fast.
While northern gales assail the trees,
Their treasures scattering to the breeze.
Poor Peter, through unlucky fate,
Has not been fishing out of late.
He cannot fly that fearful dream,
Which in the dusky night will seem
To float before his slumb'ring gaze
To fright his heart, and thoughts amaze.
The Abbot fills him, too, with fear;
He fancies he is always near,
He cannot from his presence get,
But feels like some one dunn'd for debt.
And trembles when he meets those eyes
That love to catch him by surprise.
But dogs can't always watchful keep;
Most wide-awake men sometimes sleep;
And Peter gains a short respite
From thoughts which needlessly affright.
For really he was watched by none,
Save what his conscience may have done.
O day of bliss! O joyful day!
The Abbot hastens far away,
And comes not back till morrow's night!
Old Peter seems delighted quite.
"I will dine and will sup too off Jack," said he;
"Nicely lined with veal stuffing. What joy! what glee!
Let me see, where's my tackle? In yonder hole;
I must catch a few gudgeon and have a troll.
O I know a snug spot where the river runs deep,
And there I will be ere they wake from their sleep.
I will see that their breakfast is nicely made,
And that, also, the reckoning's duly paid.
* * * * *
_CHAPTER THE EIGHTH._
The morn was dull when Peter rose;
And stormy, like the north wind blows;
While the dark sky too plainly shows
Ere long there will be rain.
"But still," thinks he; "I'll go in spite;
'Twill sharpen up their appetite,
And make them all the better bite;
Such chance to lose gives pain.
I tarry may a month or more,
Till Christmas comes perchance, before
I shall another day secure;
If so, I'll go again.
Then, with what food he could procure,
He hurried through the Abbey door;
But oft looked back to make quite sure;
His fears were really vain.
Pray, angling reader, was it ne'er your fate,
When fish were biting to be short of bait?
Have you ne'er roked about in terra-firma
To find a grub, a chrysalis, a worm--or
For e'en a grasshopper searched o'er a field
Which would not e'en a caterpillar yield,
While droves of perch, impatient to be hooked,
Have vainly round for some temptation looked?
Now, in such a position was poor Peter placed;
He had flown to the river in very great haste.
Still, although he had sought out a gravelly nook,
But a pair of young gudgeons approached near his hook.
In the space of an hour--so a trimmer he set;
While he tried, though in vain, a few others to get.
"There's a bite! there's a bite! see the reel how it turns!"
He exclaimed, and his face with excitement fierce burns,
"Ah, it now has stopt short! 'tis to pouch it," he thought;
"Look! 'tis running again, and the fellow is caught!"
But, alas! when he struck, to his grief and dismay
He discovered, the jack had his bait torn away.
"O how foolish," he said; "it was of me to throw
That fine gudgeon away! I might guess 'twould be so.
I detest using live bait, you're certain to lose them,
For it seems the fish think they're put to amuse them,
And away he will drag them, or into bits chews them--
Just avoiding the hook, which might stick in their teeth.
Oh, their cunning it really surpasses belief!
One would think they were brought up from birth as a thief.
But I'll try trolling now, as they seem on the feed,
They must swallow the hook if the bait they then heed.
But vain his hope, though time away
Skips fast; the fish admire delay,
And scarce to him attention pay.
Perchance, his want of skill they saw,
And from destruction quick withdraw
To where they may their lives insure.
'Tis but midday, yet darkness shrouds the sky,
For clouds of blackness furiously roll by.
The watery sun has fled, but not to rest--
Behind a cloud which overflows the West--
The distant thunder strikes the list'ning ear,
And streams of lightning pour down far and near.
Yet still dame Nature grasps the slippery rains,
Who, struggling, long to scour the dusty plains.
But all these signs of tempest are forgot
As soon as seen, or p'rhaps are heeded not,
By our friend Peter, for behold his line
Gently unrolls and cleaves a watery mine.
With patient, anxious, fate-imploring look,
He trembling hopes that now his laden hook
May sink low down into the dark abyss,
Midst fishes' entrails, where it cannot miss
Its deadly hold; and where, till life shall fly,
The barbed hook immoveable may lie.
But, oh! his chicks he counts before they're hatched,
For by his foe, in skill, he's more than matched,
(The scaly monster,) who at length of line,
The close acquaintance sharply does decline.
He tugged, it pulled, but all, alas! was vain,
For one on t'other not an inch could gain.
First Peter, winding, thought his foe waxed faint,
But quickly Jack untwisting--cried, "I aint."
Thus passed an hour, but still he keeps the water,
Though Peter stormed, and vowed he'd give no quarter
When land he reached; but Jack thought all this fun,
And cried "No quarter! I'll 'scape whole or none."
Then the friar, impatient, began to use force,
When his line snapt in two, as a matter of course.
[Illustration: The Friar, impatient, began to use force.]
Oh! how then enraged, from his head he tore
The little of hair that his cropped pate bore,
As he flung himself down out of breath to the ground,
And furious raved at each object around.
While such very bad words at the fish he said,
That I'm sure they should never in print be read.
For, pray why should a muse, for amusement who sings,
Fill her kind readers' mouth with another's foul things.
'Tis a fault I lament, so I'll not have a share in
The habit some have of quotation in swearing.
In heavy drops the water now descends;
And earth with sky the darkening torrent blends.
Which soaking through the friar, tries to cool
His anger, and persuade him he's a fool.
"But still," said he; "I will not leave in spite,
Till one I've caught, although the coming night
Shall fling down shadows to obscure my sight;
Here will I stop until they choose to bite."
Then Time rushed past, but unsuccessful still
His firm resolve he tarries to fulfil.
While louder yet the tempest wildly roars,
And drives the torrent o'er surrounding shores.
Whence down, resistless, onward bounding hurls
The bubbling current, and like whirlpool curls.
The frightened fish, too nervous, far, to feed,
Dive down and hide beneath a battered reed.
Yet to measure the stream with his line he persists,
Though his arms they feel sprained, and ache down to the wrists;
And the darkness of night appeared really approaching,
As quick shade after shade on his light came encroaching.
But, wearied now, the rain gives o'er the fight,
Though thundering clouds have not expended quite
Their rumbling yet; and oft the forked light
Illumes the stream, which to the friar shows
How high the waters o'er its margin flows.
It is supper-time now, and a fish growing bold,
On the bait as it neared him caught suddenly hold.
How the fisherman grins as the cord outward rolled,
Though he shivers, and all his teeth chatter with cold.
"How it runs! how it runs! like an arrow it flies!
I am certain," he said; "'tis a fish of great size.
For my patience, though late, I shall still gain a prize.
Sure, I think, it down straight
Must have swallowed the bait;
For, of line but a few yards are left.
I must strike, or I fear
They will too, disappear,
And he then may walk off with his theft."
'Twas a capital stroke,
But his top-joint he broke,
So he seizes the line with his hand.
And then works it about,
Till he's tired quite out,
For the fish seems averse to the land.
"Patience, patience!" he said,
Talking inside his head;
"Have you not tried for hours, and have yet taken naught?
Then be patient and wait,
Though it p'rhaps may be late,
Still the fish at the end of your line is half caught."
An hour passed, and every gleam of light
Flies, with the sun afraid of gloomy night.
Yet still our friend is in the selfsame plight,
The fish is lively, though he's wearied quite.
And shakes, not now with cold alone, but fright,
For every tree he fancies is a sprite.
His sport, I fear, is not unmix'd delight.
He once or twice had drawn the line up tight,
And thought by strength to drag the fish out right,
But feared that, p'rhaps, it like the other might
Escape; so slackening, granted a respite
To Jack, who, rushing forth with new delight,
Seemed much astonished at this act polite.
Another hour! and lively as before
The pike appears; while Peter, wearied sore,
With itching fingers longs his fate to try,
Yet dares not stand the hazard of the die.
But with a dash the fish the die has cast,
For through his hand the slippery line ran fast;
And, tangling 'mongst his fingers, drew him close
The rapid stream; which o'er its banks had rose,
A slip, a plunge, headforemost in the tide
He dived; then rising--vainly struggling--tried
To reach the bank; but not a ray of light
Appeared to guide; so deeper in his fright
He sank; while waves fast closing o'er his head,
In murmurings whispered, that all hope had fled.
Then down the stream, still powerful and strong,
The fish his breathless body drags along.
* * * * *
_MORAL._
Now in case that my tale may to some appear dry,
I will draw some more-ales,--fine old ones, by the bye;
Though, I fear, there are many who will not admire them,
As they suit not those palates who mostly require them.
First, young gentlemen all, never mind what degree,
Whether lowly or high, or whoever you be,
If you're but fond of fishing, I beg that you'll tricks shun;
If you're not, you're beneath me and my jurisdiction.
Still I'll draw you a glass which will pay for inspection,
As whene'er it is looked at it yields some reflexion.
Though the draught may be bitter, the faculty back it,
So just make up your mind,--a bold face, and stomach it;
For there's more in the dose than aware of you are,
As the old ancient said when he poisoned his Ma.
My advice, if wishing
You are to go fishing,
Is beforehand permission to get
From your father, or master,
Or, if such things you past are,
You had better, I think, seek it yet
From the man in possession,
Who might use some expression
Unpolite, if by chance he you met
Treading down his long grass,
In your hurry to pass
To the river, your tackle to wet.
Oh, it vexes one sore to be ordered to go!
Quick to make one's self scarce! I have oft found it so;
And have felt much inclined, as I quarrelled with Fate,
To chuck in the old fellow instead of ground bait.
But, if haply you 'scape from his telescope sight
You will ever be losing some relishing bite
While your gazing around, as he probably might
(Popping upon you unseen), make you jump in a fright.
Now to those men who dare
Fish on Sundays--"Beware,"
I would say; "and take very great care
Lest a fish of great size,
Take you off by surprise,
And before you're aware should effect your demise."
But, a few words to anglers in general, still
I would say, ere my inkstand I close, then my quill
Must return to his duty, and figure away,
And keep humbly a-summing accounts which won't pay:
If a fish should get loose,
Which, p'rhaps, grumblers may choose,
From your line, what's the use,
May I ask, of abuse,
Though it may be the largest has broken away?
Will an oath for a moment persuade it to stay?
You remind me of perch, who, regardless of Fate,
Often bite at a hook though quite guiltless of bait;
So that anglers who angry become when they roam,
Lest their tempers they lose had best leave them at home.
As to low vulgar jests, which some think wit impart,
They appear like the muck which o'erflows a mud cart.
It is strange, though a fact, that a fisherman ever,
Although skilful he be, and remarkably clever,
Will be forced to confess, when by questions he's crossed,
That the largest of fish in its landing was lost.
Yes, 'tis always the best 'mong a number will stray,
Or get lost, let the articles be what they may.
I, in even a buss, have oft proved that 'tis so,
For the prettiest girl would be sure first to go.
But a few moments more
I for patience implore,--
In behalf of your victims I speak;
And would beg when you draw
Them up on to the shore,
You at once for their lifetime would seek.
Still, kind Reader, think not, though it so, p'rhaps, may look,
I'm like Johnson, who wrote out that fine-meaning book,
Who would angling define as a stick and a string,
Which a worm and a fool into close contact bring.
No! The sport I admire, and when the fish will but bite,
'Tis a feeling which almost amounts to delight.
Though a trifling addition will heighten, indeed,
The pleasure, I mean, if some nice girl would read
Out aloud by your side, and would shadow your eyes
From the sun, and away drive the flies
With her neat parasol. I have asked, but must state
I could never persuade one to stick on the bait.
Though some ladies I know who can pull out a fish
With as much skill and science as Walton could wish.
Kind Reader, now, my parting bow
With many thanks I make,
For patience shown; though, overgrown,
Much space the morals take.
Still, I beg to remark, they're not meant for you,
Who have quietly waded their deep meaning through,
But for those who exclaim, "O what humbug! what stuff!"
Who, though not at all wise, find one word quite enough.
_THE END._
London: Printed by G. BARCLAY, Castle St. Leicester Sq.