_HUMOUR SERIES_

                        EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS


                         THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND




                            ALREADY ISSUED


                          _FRENCH HUMOUR_
                          _GERMAN HUMOUR_
                          _ITALIAN HUMOUR_
                          _AMERICAN HUMOUR_
                          _DUTCH HUMOUR_
                          _IRISH HUMOUR_
                          _SPANISH HUMOUR_
                          _RUSSIAN HUMOUR_

  [Illustration: “AND EACH GIRL HE PASSED BID ‘GOD BLESS HIM’ AND
  SIGHED.”--P. 276.]




                                  THE
                           HUMOUR OF IRELAND

                     SELECTED, WITH INTRODUCTION,
                             BIOGRAPHICAL
                          INDEX AND NOTES, BY
                         D. J. O’DONOGHUE: THE
                           ILLUSTRATIONS BY
                             OLIVER PAQUE

  [Illustration]


                THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
                   PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.
                       CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
                    153–157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
                                 1908.




                               CONTENTS.


                                                                PAGE

    INTRODUCTION                                                  xi

    EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY--_From the Irish_             1

    THE ROMAN EARL--_From the Irish_                               7

    THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN--_Folk-Tale_                       9

    OFTEN-WHO-CAME AND SELDOM-WHO-CAME--_From the Irish_          22

    THE OLD CROW AND THE YOUNG CROW--_From the Irish_             23

    ROGER AND THE GREY MARE--_Folk-Poem_                          23

    WILL O’ THE WISP--_Folk-Tale_                                 25

    EPIGRAMS AND RIDDLES--_From the Irish_                        32

    DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS--_Folk-Tale_                        34

    THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS--_From the Irish_                     39

    IN PRAISE OF DIGRESSIONS--_Jonathan Swift_                    41

    A RHAPSODY ON POETRY--_Jonathan Swift_                        45

    LETTER FROM A LIAR--_Sir Richard Steele_                      50

    EPIGRAMS--_John Winstanley_                                   55

    A FINE LADY--_George Farquhar_                                56

    THE BORROWER--_George Farquhar_                               60

    WIDOW WADMAN’S EYE--_Laurence Sterne_                         67

    BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES--_Arthur Dawson_                        70

    JACK LOFTY--_Oliver Goldsmith_                                73

    BEAU TIBBS--_Oliver Goldsmith_                                84

    THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY--_John O’Keeffe_                     93

    THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER--_John O’Keeffe_                94

    TOM GROG--_John O’Keeffe_                                     97

    BULLS--_Sir Boyle Roche_                                     101

    THE MONKS OF THE SCREW--_J. P. Curran_                       102

    ANA--_J. P. Curran_                                          103

    THE CRUISKEEN LAWN--_Anonymous_                              105

    THE SCANDAL-MONGERS--_R. B. Sheridan_                        108

    CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE’S SUBMISSION--_R. B. Sheridan_              115

    ANA--_R. B. Sheridan_                                        124

    MY AMBITION--_Edward Lysaght_                                126

    A WAREHOUSE FOR WIT--_George Canning_                        127

    CONJUGAL AFFECTION--_Thomas Cannings_                        130

    WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE!--_Joseph O’Leary_                      130

    TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE WITH HER
    PETTICOAT--_Anonymous_                                       132

    EPIGRAMS, ETC.--_Henry Luttrell_                             133

    LETTER FROM MISS BETTY FUDGE--_Thomas Moore_                 134

    MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA--_E. S. Barrett_                   137

    MODERN MEDIÆVALISM--_E. S. Barrett_                          141

    THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED--_William Maher(?)_     145

    DARBY DOYLE’S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC--_Thomas Ettingsall_          148

    ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!--_Dr. William Maginn_       160

    THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY--_Dr. William Maginn_             164

    THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS--_Dr. William Maginn_                    166

    THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS--_Dr. William Maginn_           173

    DANIEL O’ROURKE--_Dr. William Maginn_                        175

    THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR--_Charles O’Flaherty_         184

    THE NIGHT-CAP--_T. H. Porter_                                187

    KITTY OF COLERAINE--_Anonymous_                              188

    GIVING CREDIT--_William Carleton_                            190

    BRIAN O’LINN--_Anonymous_                                    198

    THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE--_J. A. Wade_                       200

    WIDOW MACHREE--_Samuel Lover_                                202

    BARNEY O’HEA--_Samuel Lover_                                 204

    MOLLY CAREW--_Samuel Lover_                                  206

    HANDY ANDY AND THE POSTMASTER--_Samuel Lover_                209

    THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE--_Samuel Lover_             213

    BELLEWSTOWN HILL--_Anonymous_                                228

    THE PEELER AND THE GOAT--_Jeremiah O’Ryan_                   231

    THE LOQUACIOUS BARBER--_Gerald Griffin_                      234

    NELL FLAHERTY’S DRAKE--_Anonymous_                           239

    ELEGY ON HIMSELF--_F. S. Mahony_ (“_Father Prout_”)          242

    BOB MAHON’S STORY--_Charles Lever_                           243

    THE WIDOW MALONE--_Charles Lever_                            253

    THE GIRLS OF THE WEST--_Charles Lever_                       255

    THE MAN FOR GALWAY--_Charles Lever_                          256

    HOW CON CREGAN’S FATHER LEFT HIMSELF A BIT OF
    LAND--_Charles Lever_                                        257

    KATEY’S LETTER--_Lady Dufferin_                              264

    DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER YOUR FEET,
    LOVE--_Dr. J. F. Waller_                                     266

    FATHER TOM’S WAGER WITH THE POPE--_Sir Samuel Ferguson_      267

    THE OULD IRISH JIG--_James McKowen_                          271

    MOLLY MULDOON--_Anonymous_                                   273

    THE QUARE GANDER--_J. S. Lefanu_                             279

    TABLE-TALK--_Dr. E. V. H. Kenealy_                           288

    ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET--_R. D. Williams_                     290

    SAINT KEVIN AND KING O’TOOLE--_Thomas Shalvey_               291

    THE SHAUGHRAUN--_Dion Boucicault_                            294

    RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP--_T. D. Sullivan_                   298

    LANIGAN’S BALL--_Anonymous_                                  306

    THE WIDOW’S LAMENT--_Anonymous_                              308

    WHISKY AND WATHER--_Anonymous_                               310

    THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD--_C. J. Kickham_                314

    IRISH ASTRONOMY--_C. G. Halpine_                             320

    PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST’S BOY--_J. F. O’Donnell_              322

    O’SHANAHAN DHU--_J. J. Bourke_                               329

    SHANE GLAS--_J. J. Bourke_                                   332

    AN IRISH STORY-TELLER--_Patrick O’Leary_                     333

    THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN--_C. P. O’Conor_                         337

    FAN FITZGERL--_A. P. Graves_                                 341

    FATHER O’FLYNN--_A. P. Graves_                               343

    PHILANDERING--_William Boyle_                                344

    HONIED PERSUASION--_J. De Quincey_                           345

    THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT--_W. P. French_                     347

    THE AMERICAN WAKE--_F. A. Fahy_                              355

    HOW TO BECOME A POET--_F. A. Fahy_                           358

    THE DONOVANS--_F. A. Fahy_                                   368

    PETTICOATS DOWN TO MY KNEES--_F. A. Fahy_                    371

    MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS--_G. B. Shaw_            373

    FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE--_Edmund Downey_                    382

    THE DANCE AT MARLEY--_P. J. McCall_                          393

    FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS--_P. J. McCall_            397

    TATTHER JACK WELSH--_P. J. McCall_                           403

    THEIR LAST RACE--_Frank Mathew_                              405

    IN BLARNEY--_P. J. Coleman_                                  409

    BINDIN’ THE OATS--_P. J. Coleman_                            411

    SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC.                                414

    BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX                                           423

    NOTES                                                        433




                             INTRODUCTION.


That the Irish people have a wide reputation for wit and humour is a
fact which will not be disputed. Irish humour is no recent growth, as
may be seen by the folk-lore, the proverbs, and the other traditional
matter of the country. It is one of Ireland’s ancient characteristics,
as some of its untranslated early literature would conclusively prove.
The curious twelfth-century story of “The Vision of McConglinne” is a
sample of this early Celtic humour. As the melancholy side of older
Celtic literature has been more often emphasised and referred to, it
is usually thought that the most striking features of that literature
is its sadness. The proverbs, some of which are very ancient, are
characteristic enough to show that the early Irish were of a naturally
joyous turn, as a primitive people should be, for sadness generally
comes with civilisation and knowledge; and the fragments of folk-lore
that have so far been rescued impress us with the idea that its
originators were homely, cheerful, and mirthful. The proverbs are so
numerous and excellent that a good collection of them would be very
valuable--yet to judge by Ray’s large volume, devoted to those of
many nations, Ireland lacks wise sayings of this kind. He only quotes
seven, some of which are wretched local phrases, and not Irish at
all. The early humour of the Irish Celts is amusing in conception
and in expression, and, when it is soured into satire, frequently of
marvellous power and efficacy.

Those who possessed the gift of saying galling things were much
dreaded, and it is not absolutely surprising that Aengus O’Daly
and other satirists met with a retribution from those whom they had
rendered wild with rage. In the early native literature the Saxon
of course came in for his share of ridicule and scorn; but there is
much less of it than might have been fairly expected, and if the
bards railed at the invader, they quite as often assailed their own
countrymen. One reason for the undoubted existence of a belief that
the old Celts had little or no humour is that the reading of Irish
history suggests it, and people may perhaps be forgiven for presuming
it to be impossible to preserve humour under the doleful circumstances
recorded by historians. And indeed if there was little to laugh at
even before the English invasion, there was assuredly less after it.
Life suddenly became tragic for the bards and the jesters. In place
of the primitive amusements, the elementary pranks of the first ages,
more serious matters were forced upon their attention, but appearances
notwithstanding, the humorist thrived, and probably improved in the
gloom overcasting the country; at any rate the innate good humour of
the Irish refused to be completely stifled or restricted. Personalities
were not the most popular subjects for ridicule, and the most detested
characters, though often attacked in real earnest, were not the
favourite themes with the wits. Cromwell’s name suggested a curse
rather than a joke, and it is only your moderns--your Downeys and
Frenches--who make a jest of him.

It being impossible to define humour or wit exactly, it is hardly wise
to add another to the many failures attached to the attempt. But Irish
humour, properly speaking, is, one may venture to say, more imaginative
than any other. And it is probably less ill-natured than that of any
other nation, though the Irish have a special aptness in the saying
of things that wound, and the most illiterate of Irish peasants can
put more scorn into a retort than the most highly educated of another
race. There is sometimes a half-pathetic strain in the best Irish
humorous writers, and just as in their saddest moments the people
are inclined to joke, so in many writings where pathos predominates,
the native humour gleams. If true Irish humour is not easily defined
with precision, it is at least easily recognisable, there is so much
buoyancy and movement in it, and usually so much expansion of heart.
An eminent French writer described humour as a fusion of smiles and
tears, but clearly that defines only one kind, and there are many
varieties, almost as many, one might say, as there are humorists. The
distinguishing between wit and humour is not so simple a matter as it
looks, but one might hazard the opinion that while the one expresses
indifference and irreverence, the other is redolent of feeling and
sincerity. Humour and satire are extremes--the more barbed and keen
a shaft, the more malicious and likely to hurt, whereas the genuine
quality of humour partakes of tenderness and gentleness. Sheridan is
an admirable example of a wit, while Lover represents humour in its
most confiding aspect. There are intermediate kinds, however, and the
malice of Curran’s repartees is not altogether akin to the rasping
personalities of “Father Prout.” Irish humour is mainly a store of
merriment pure and simple, without much personal taint, and does not
profess to be philosophical. Human follies or deformities are rarely
touched upon, and luckily Irish humorous writers do not attempt the
didactic. In political warfare, however, many bitter taunts are heard,
and it is somewhat regrettable that Irish politics should have absorbed
so great a part of Irish wit, and turned what might have been pleasant
reading into a succession of biting sarcasms. The Irish political
satirists of the last and present centuries have often put themselves
out of court by the ephemeral nature of their gibes no less than by the
extra-ferocious tone they adopted. There is no denying the _verve_
and point in the writings of Watty Cox, Dr. Brenan, William Norcott,
and so on, but who can read them to-day with pleasure? Eaton Stannard
Barrett’s “All the Talents,” after giving a nickname to a ministry,
destroyed it; it served its purpose, and would be out of place if
resurrected and placed in a popular collection, where the student of
political history--to whom alone it is interesting and amusing--will
hardly meet with it. Consequently political satire finds no place
in this work, and even T. D. Sullivan, who particularly excels in
personal and political squibs in verse, is shown only as the author
of a prose sketch of more general application. Besides what has been
wasted in this way, from a literary point of view, a good deal of the
native element of wit has been dissipated as soon as uttered. After
fulfilling its mission in enlivening a journey or in circling the
festive board, it is forgotten and never appears in print. How many of
Lysaght’s and Curran’s best quips are passed beyond recall? It cannot
be that men like these obtained their great fame as wits on the few
sample witticisms that have been preserved for us. Their literary
remains are so scanty and inconsiderable, and their reputation so
universal, that one can only suppose them to have been continuously
coining jokes and squandering them in every direction.

Irish humour has been and is so prevalent, however, that in spite
of many losses, there is abundant material for many volumes. It is
imported into almost every incident and detail of Irish life--it
overflows in the discussions of the local boards, is bandied about by
carmen (who have gained much undeserved repute among tourists), comes
down from the theatre galleries, is rife in the law courts, and chronic
in the clubs, at the bar-dinners, and wherever there is dulness to be
exorcised. Jokes being really as plentiful as blackberries, no one
cares to hoard so common a product. A proof of the contempt into which
the possession of wit or humour has fallen may be observed in the fact
that no professedly comic paper has been able to survive for long the
indifference of the Irish public. There have been some good ones in
Dublin--notably, _Zoz_, _Zozimus_, _Pat_, and _The Jarvey_--but they
have pined away in a comparatively short space of time, the only note
of pathos about their brief existence being the invariable obituary
announcement in the library catalogues--“No more published.” But their
lives, if short, were merry ones. It was not their fault if the people
did not require such aids to vivacity, being in general able to strike
wit off the corners of any topic, no matter how unpromising it might
appear. Naturally enough, the chief themes of the Irish humorist have
been courting and drinking, with the occasional relief of a fight.
The amativeness of the poets is little short of marvellous. Men like
Lover (who has never been surpassed perhaps as a humorous love-poet)
usually confined their humour in that groove; others, like Maginn,
kept religiously to the tradition that liquor is the chief attraction
in life, and the only possible theme for a wit after exhausting his
pleasantries about persons. Maginn, however, was very much in earnest
and did not respect the tradition simply because it was one, but solely
on account of his belief in its wisdom. There can be no question,
it seems to me, of Ireland’s supremacy in the literature devoted to
Bacchus. It is another affair, of course, whether any credit attaches
to the distinction. All the bards were not so fierce as Maginn in their
likes and dislikes when the liquor was on the table. It may indeed be
said of them in justice that their enthusiasm for the god of wine was
often enough mere boastfulness. It is difficult to believe Tom Moore in
his raptures about the joys of the bowl. He was no roysterer, and there
is wanting in his Bacchanalian effusions, as in others of his light and
graceful school, that reckless _abandon_ of the more bibulous school.
A glance at the lives of the Irish poets shows that a goodly number
of them lived up to their professions. The glorification of the joys
of the bottle by so many of our poets, their implication that from no
other source is genius to be drawn, suggests that the Irish inclination
to wit was induced by drinking long and deep. Sallies flowed therefrom,
and the taciturn man without an idea developed under the genial
influence into a delightful conversationalist. Yet as the professional
humorist is often pictured as a very gloomy personage, gnawed by
care and tortured by remorse, his pleasantries probably strike more
in consequence of their vivid contrast to his dismal appearance. But
to return to the bards’ love of liquor. One and all declare of the
brown jug that “there’s inspiration in its foaming brim,” and what
more natural than that they should devote the result to eulogy of the
source. It may be somewhat consoling to reflect that often they were
less reckless than they would have us believe. Something else besides
poetic inspiration comes from the bowl, which, after all, only brings
out the natural qualities.

As a rule, Irish poets have not extracted a pessimistic philosophy
from liquor; they are “elevated,” not depressed, and do not deem it
essential to the production of a poem that its author should be a cynic
or an evil prophet. One of the best attributes of Irish poetry is its
constant expression of the natural emotions. Previous to the close of
the seventeenth century, it is said, drunkenness was not suggested by
the poets as common in Ireland--the popularity of Bacchanalian songs
since that date seems to prove that the vice soon became a virtue.
Maginn is the noisiest of modern revellers, and easily roars the others
down.

Not a small portion of the humour of Ireland is the unconscious variety
in the half-educated local poets. Sometimes real wit struggles for
adequate expression in English with ludicrous and unlooked-for results.
A goodly number of the street ballads are very comic in description,
phraseology, or vituperation, and “Nell Flaherty’s Drake” may be
taken as a fair specimen of the latter class. Occasionally there is
coarseness, usually absent from genuine Irish songs; sometimes a
ghastly sort of _grotesquerie_, as in “The Night before Larry was
Stretched.” Only a few examples of such are necessary to form an idea
of the whole. Maginn’s great service in exposing the true character of
the wretched rubbish often palmed off on the English public as Irish
songs deserves to be noticed here. He proved most conclusively that
the stuff thus styled Irish, with its unutterable refrains of the
“Whack Bubbaboo” kind, was of undoubted English origin, topography,
phraseology, rhymes, and everything else being utterly un-Irish. The
internal evidence alone convicts their authors. No Irishman rhymes
_O’Reilly_ to _bailie_, for instance, and certainly he would never
introduce a priest named “Father Quipes” into a song, even if driven
to desperation for rhymes to “swipes.” Any compiler who gives a place
in a collection of Irish songs to such trash as “Looney Mac*-twolter,”
“Dennis Bulgruddery,” or any other of the rather numerous effusions of
their kind, with their Gulliverian nomenclature and their burlesque
of Irish manners, is an accomplice in the crime of their authors. In
this connection it may be pointed out that not only in songs, but in
many stories and other writings purporting to be Irish, the phraseology
is anything but Irish. Irishmen do not, and never did, speak of their
spiritual guardian as the _praste_. The Irishman never mispronounces
the sound of _ie_, and if he says _tay_ for tea and _mate_ for meat he
is simply conforming to the old and correct English pronunciation, as
may be seen by consulting the older English poets, who always rhymed
_sea_ with _day_, etc. To this hour, the original sound is preserved
by English people in _great_ and _break_.

To leave the anonymous, the hybrid, and the spurious, it will be well
to consider the continuity of the humour of Ireland. The long line of
humorous writers who have appeared in our literary history has never
been broken, despite many intervals of tribulation. In Anglo-Irish
literature they commence practically with Farquhar, whose method of
treating the follies of fine ladies and “men of honour” is anticipatory
of that of the _Spectator_. Swift’s irony, unsurpassable as it is, is
cruel to excess, and has little that is Irish about it. A contemporary
and countryman, Dean Smedley, said he was “always in jest, but most
so in prayer,” but that is an exaggeration, for Swift was mostly in
grim earnest. The charge implies that many of his contemporaries, like
several moderns, had a difficulty in satisfying themselves as to when
he joked and when he did not. Smedley is also responsible for another
poem directed against Swift, which was posted upon the door of St.
Patrick’s, Dublin, when the great writer was appointed its Dean, and of
which the following is the best stanza:--

    “This place he got by wit and rhyme,
      And many ways most odd,
    And might a bishop be in time,
      Did he believe in God.”

The impassive and matter-of-fact way in which Swift, using the
deadliest of weapons, ridicule, reformed the abuses of his time,
deceived a good many. He never moved a muscle, and his wit shone by
contrast with his moody exterior as a lightning-flash illuminates a
gloomy sky. It has that element of unexpectedness which goes far to
define the nature of wit.

Real drollery in Anglo-Irish literature seems to have begun with
Steele. In the case of Steele there is rarely anything to offend
modern taste. His tenderness is akin to Goldsmith’s, and the natural
man is clearly visible in his writings. A direct contrast is seen
in Sterne, who was more malicious and sly, full of unreality and
misplaced sentiment, and depending chiefly upon his constant supply of
_doubles entendres_ and the morbid tastes of his readers. Writers
like Derrick and Bickerstaffe were hardly witty in the modern sense,
but rather in the original literal meaning of the term. There are
many wits, highly popular in their own day, who are no longer readable
with any marked degree of pleasure. Wit depends so largely upon the
manner of its delivery for the effect produced that the dramatists
are not so numerously represented in this collection as might be
expected from the special fecundity and excellence of the Irish in
that branch of literature. To extract the wit or humour from some of
the eighteenth-century plays is no easy task. In men like Sheridan, it
is superabundant, over-luxuriant, and easily detachable; but others,
like Kane O’Hara, Hugh Kelly, William O’Brien, James Kenney, and so on,
whose plays were famous at one time and are not yet forgotten, find no
place in this work on account of the difficulty of bringing the wit of
their plays to a focus.

There never was a writer, perhaps, concerning whose merits there has
been less dispute than Goldsmith. Sheridan, with all his brilliance,
has not been so fortunate. Lysaght and Millikin were and are both
greatly overrated as poets and wits, if we are to judge by the
fragments they have left. Lysaght, however, must have been considered
a genuine wit, for we find a number of once popular songs wrongly
attributed to him. He most unquestionably did not write “The Sprig
of Shillelagh,” “Donnybrook Fair,” “The Rakes of Mallow,” or “Kitty
of Coleraine,” though they have all been put down as his. The first
two were written by H. B. Code and Charles O’Flaherty respectively.
Millikin’s fame is due to one of those literary accidents which now
and then occur. Henry Luttrell in his verse had something of the
sprightliness and point of Moore.

Very few specimens of parody have been included in this collection.
Two extracts are here given from Eaton Stannard Barrett’s burlesque
romance, which ridiculed a school of writers whose mannerisms were
once very prevalent. Maginn was a much better parodist. He was a great
humorist in every way, and may be claimed as the earliest writer who
showed genuine rollicking Irish humour. “Daniel O’Rourke” is here
given to him for the first time, probably, in a collection; though it
appeared in Crofton Croker’s “Fairy Legends” it was known to their
contemporaries as Maginn’s. He could be both coarse and refined; his
boisterous praise of the bottle was not a sham, but his occasional
apparent delight in savage personal criticism was really quite foreign
to his character, as he was a most amiable man, much loved by those
who knew him. It was different with “Father Prout,” who was one of the
venomous order of wits, and certainly not a personal favourite with
his colleagues. His frequent and senseless attacks on O’Connell and
other men, dragged into all his essays, are blots on his work. His wit
is too often merely abusive, like that of Dr. Kenealy, who, almost
as learned as “Prout,” was quite as unnecessarily bitter. It is from
Lover that we get the cream, not the curds of Irish humour. He is the
Irish arch-humorist, and it is difficult to exaggerate the excellence
of his lovesongs. Others may be more classical, more polished, more
subtle, but there is no writer more irresistible. Among his earlier
contemporaries Ettingsall was his nearest counterpart in one notable
story. It must not be forgotten, either, that “Darby Doyle’s Voyage
to Quebec” appeared in print before Lover’s “Barney O’Reirdon.”
Carleton and Lever were admirable humorists, but only incidentally so,
whereas Lover was nothing if not a humorist before all. There are many
excellent comic passages in the novels of both, as also in one or two
of Lefanu’s works, and if it should be thought that proportionately
they are under-represented, it need only be pointed out that though a
large volume might easily be made up of examples of their humour alone,
other writers also have a good claim to a considerable amount of space.
It has been thought preferable to restrict the selections from such
famous novelists in order to give a place to no less admirable but much
less familiar work.

O’Leary and the other Bacchanalians who came after Maginn were worthy
followers of the school which devoted all its lyrical enthusiasm to
the praise of drink, while Marmion Savage showed rather the acid wit
of Moore. Ferguson and Wade are better known by their verse than as
humorous storytellers. We find true Irish humour again in Kickham
and Halpine. The Irish humorists of the present day hardly need any
introduction to the reader.

The treatment of sacred subjects by Irish wits is similar to that
in most Catholic countries. St. Patrick is hardly regarded as a
conventional saint by Irish humorists, and it is curious that St. Peter
is accepted by the wits of all nationalities as a legitimate object
of pleasantry. If, however, Irish writers occasionally seem to lack
reverence for things which in their eyes are holy, “it is only their
fun,” as Lamb would say. Only those who are in the closest intimacy
with sacred objects venture to treat them familiarly, and the Irish
peasant often speaks in an offhand manner of that which is dearest to
him. Few nations could have produced such a harvest of humour under
such depressing and unfavourable influences as Ireland has experienced.
And it may be asserted with truth that many countries with far more
reason for uninterrupted good-humour, with much less cause for sadness,
would be hard put to it to show an equally valuable contribution to the
world’s lighter literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

Though it has been sought to make this volume as comprehensive as
possible, some familiar names will be missed; it is believed, however,
that it contains a thoroughly representative collection of humorous
extracts. There are some undoubted humorists whose wit will not bear
transferring or transplanting, and it is as hard to convey their humour
in an extract as it is to bottle a sunbeam. In others, the humour
is beaten out too thin, and spread over too wide an area, to make
selection satisfactory. The absence from this collection of any example
of Mr. Oscar Wilde’s characteristic wit is not the fault of the present
writer or the publishers. I have to thank nearly all the living authors
represented in this collection for permission to use their writings,
the one or two exceptions being those whose writings are uncollected,
and whom I could not reach; and I have also to express my indebtedness
to Mr. Alfred Nutt for allowing me to quote from “The Vision of
McConglinne” and Dr. Hyde’s “Beside the Fire”; to Messrs. Ward & Downey
for the extract from Edmund Downey; to Messrs. James Duffy & Son for
the extract from Kickham; to Messrs. Routledge for poems by Lover;
etc. I am also, deeply obliged to Dr. Douglas Hyde, the eminent Irish
scholar and folk-lorist, for copies of some of the earlier extracts,
and to Messrs. F. A. Fahy and P. J. McCall for some later pieces. For
the proverbs I am chiefly indebted to Dr. Hyde, Mr. Fahy, Mr. T. J.
Flannery, and Mr. Patrick O’Leary.
                                                      D. J. O’DONOGHUE.




                        THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND.




                  _EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY._

   [Cathal MacFinguine, King of Munster, is possessed by a demon of
   gluttony that “used to devour his rations with him to the ruin
   of the men of Munster during three half-years; and it is likely
   he would have ruined Ireland during another half-year.” Anier
   MacConglinne, “a famous scholar” and satirist, undertakes to
   banish the demon, whom he entices out of Cathal by marvellous
   stories of food and feasting, etc., meanwhile keeping him
   fasting.]


And he called for juicy old bacon, and tender corned-beef, and
full-fleshed wether, and honey in the comb, and English salt on a
beautiful polished dish of white silver, along with four perfectly
straight white hazel spits to support the joints. The viands which he
enumerated were procured for him, and he fixed unspeakable huge pieces
on the spits. Then putting a linen apron about him below, and placing a
flat linen cap on the crown of his head, he lighted a fair four-ridged,
four-apertured, four-cleft fire of ash-wood, without smoke, without
fume, without sparks. He stuck a spit into each of the portions, and as
quick was he about the spits and fire as a hind about her first fawn,
or as a roe, or a swallow, or a bare spring wind in the flank of March.
He rubbed the honey and the salt into one piece after another. And big
as the pieces were that were before the fire, there dropped not to
the ground out of theses four pieces as much as would quench a spark
of a candle; but what there was of relish in them went into their very
centre.

It had been explained to Pichán that the reason why the scholar had
come was to save Cathal. Now, when the pieces were ready, MacConglinne
cried out, “Ropes and cords here!” “What is wanted with them?” asked
Pichán. Now that was a “question beyond discretion” for him, since
it had been explained to him before; and hence is the old saying,
“a question beyond discretion.” Ropes and cords were given to
MacConglinne, and to those that were strongest of the warriors. They
laid hands upon Cathal, who was tied in this manner to the side of
the palace. Then MacConglinne came, and was a long time securing the
ropes with hooks and staples. And when this was ended, he came into
the house, with his four spits raised high on his back, and his white
wide-spread cloak hanging behind, its two peaks round his neck, to the
place where Cathal was. And he stuck the spits into the bed before
Cathal’s eyes, and sat himself down in his seat, with his two legs
crossed. Then taking his knife out of his girdle, he cut a bit off the
piece that was nearest to him, and dipped it in the honey that was
on the aforesaid dish of white silver. “Here’s the first for a male
beast,” said MacConglinne, putting the bit into his own mouth. (And
from that day to this the old saying has remained.) He cut a morsel
from the next piece, and dipping it in the honey, put it past Cathal’s
mouth into his own. “Carve the food for us, son of learning!” exclaimed
Cathal. “I will do so,” answered MacConglinne and cutting another bit
of the nearest piece, and dipping it as before, he put it past Cathal’s
mouth into his own. “How long wilt thou carry this on, student?” asked
Cathal. “No more henceforth,” answered MacConglinne, “for, indeed,
thou hast consumed such a quantity and variety of agreeable morsels,
that I shall eat the little that is there myself, and this will be
‘food from mouth’ for thee.” (And that has been a proverb since.) Then
Cathal roared and bellowed, and commanded the killing of the scholar.
But that was not done for him. “Well, Cathal,” said MacConglinne, “a
vision has appeared to me, and I have heard that thou art good at
interpreting a dream.” “By my God’s doom!” exclaimed Cathal, “though
I should interpret the dreams of the men of the world, I would not
interpret thine.” “I vow,” said MacConglinne, “even though thou dost
not interpret it, it shall be related in thy presence.” He then began
his vision, and the way he related it was, whilst putting two morsels
or three at a time past Cathal’s mouth into his own--

    “A vision I beheld last night:
    I sallied forth with two or three,
    When I saw a fair and well-filled house,
    In which there was great store of food.

    A lake of new milk I beheld
    In the midst of a fair plain.
    I saw a well-appointed house
    Thatched with butter.

    As I went all around it
    To view its arrangement:
    Puddings fresh-boiled,
    They were its thatch-rods.

    Its two soft door-posts of custard,
    Its daïs of curd and butter,
    Beds of glorious lard,
    Many shields of thin-pressed cheese.

    Under the straps of these shields
    Were men of soft sweet-smooth cheese,
    Men who knew not to wound a Gael,
    Spears of old butter had each of them.

    A huge caldron full of _luabin_--
    (Methought I’d try to tackle it)
    Boiled leafy kale, browny-white,
    A brimming vessel full of milk.

    A bacon-house of two-score ribs,
    A wattling of tripe--support of clans--
    Of every food pleasant to man,
    Meseemed the whole was gathered there.”

       *       *       *       *       *

(_MacConglinne then narrates a fable concerning the land of
O’Early-Eating, etc._)

Then in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle
of beef-fat, with its coating of tallow, with its thwarts of curds,
with its prow of lard, with its stern of butter, with its thole-pins of
marrow, with its oars of flitches of old boar in it. Indeed she was a
sound craft in which we embarked. Then we rowed across the wide expanse
of New-Milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river-mouths of mead,
over swelling boisterous waves of butter-milk, by perpetual pools of
gravy, past woods dewy with meat-juice, past springs of savoury lard,
by islands of cheeses, by hard rocks of rich tallow, by headlands of
old curds, along strands of dry-cheese, until we reached the firm level
beach between Butter-Mount and Milk-Lake and Curd-Point, at the mouth
of the pass to the country of O’Early-Eating, in front of the hermitage
of the Wizard Doctor. Every oar we plied in New-Milk Lake would send
its sea-sand of cheese-curds to the surface.... Marvellous, indeed, was
the hermitage in which I then found myself. Around it were seven score
hundred smooth stakes of old bacon, and instead of the thorns above the
top of every long stake was fried juicy lard of choice well-fed boar,
in expectation of a battle against the tribes of Butter-fat and Cheese
that were on New-Milk Lake, warring against the Wizard Doctor. There
was a gate of tallow to it, whereon was a bolt of sausage.

Let an active, white-handed, sensible, joyous woman wait upon thee,
who must be of good repute.... Let this maiden give thee thy thrice
nine morsels, O MacConglinne, each morsel of which shall be as big as
a heathfowl’s egg. Those morsels then must be put in thy mouth with
a swinging jerk, and thine eyes must whirl about in thy skull whilst
thou art eating them. The eight kinds of grain thou must not spare, O
MacConglinne, wheresoever they are offered thee--viz., rye, wild-oats,
beare, buckwheat, wheat, barley, _fidbach_, oats. Take eight cakes
of each fair grain of these, and eight condiments with every cake, and
eight sauces with each condiment; and let each morsel thou puttest in
thy mouth be as big as a heron’s egg. Away now to the smooth panikins
of cheese-curds, O MacConglinne:

    to fresh pigs,
    to loins of fat,
    to boiled mutton,
    to the choice easily-discussed thing for which the hosts
      contend--the gullet of salted beef;
    to the dainty of the nobles, to mead;
    to the cure of chest-disease--old bacon;
    to the appetite of pottage--stale curds;
    to the fancy of an unmarried woman--new milk;
    to a queen’s mash--carrots;
    to the danger awaiting a guest--ale;
    to a broken head--butter roll;
    to hand-upon-all--dry bread;
    to the pregnant thing of a hearth--cheese;
    to the bubble-burster--new ale;
    to the priest’s fancy--juicy kale;
    to the treasure that is smoothest and sweetest of all food--white
      porridge;
    to the anchor--broth;
    to the double-looped twins--sheep’s tripe;
    to the dues of a wall--sides (of bacon);
    to the bird of a cross--salt;
    to the entry of a gathering--sweet apples;
    to the pearls of a household--hen’s eggs;
    to the glance of nakedness--kernels.

When he had reckoned me up those many viands, he ordered me my drop of
drink. “A tiny little measure for thee, MacConglinne, not too large,
only as much as twenty men will drink, on the top of those viands: of
very thick milk, of milk not too thick, of milk of long thickness,
of milk of medium thickness, of yellow bubbling milk, the swallowing
of which needs chewing, of the milk the snoring bleat of a ram as it
rushes down the gorge, so that the first draught says to the last
draught, ‘I vow, thou mangy cur, before the Creator, if thou comest
down I’ll go up, for there is no room for the doghood of the pair of us
in this treasure-house.’ ...”

At the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of those many
pleasant viands in the king’s presence, the lawless beast that abode in
the inner bowels of Cathal MacFinguine came forth, until it was licking
its lips outside his head. The scholar had a large fire beside him in
the house. Each of the pieces was put in order to the fire, and then
one after the other to the lips of the king. One time, when one of
the pieces was put to the king’s mouth, the son of malediction darted
forth, fixed his two claws in the piece that was in the student’s hand,
and, taking it with him across the hearth to the other side, bore it
below the caldron that was on the other side of the fire. And the
caldron was overturned on him.

                         _From an Irish manuscript of the 12th century,
                                  translated by Kuno Meyer._




                           _THE ROMAN EARL._


    No man’s trust let woman claim,
      Not the same as men are they;
    Let the wife withdraw her face
      When ye place the man in clay.

    Once there was in Rome an earl,
      Cups of pearl held his ale.
    Of this wealthy earl’s mate
      Men relate a famous tale.

    For it chanced that of a day,
      As they lay at ease reclined,
    He in jest pretends to die,
      Thus to try her secret mind.

    “Och, ochone! if you should die,
      Never I should be myself,
    To the poor of God I’d give
      All my living, lands and pelf.

    “Then in satin stiff with gold
      I should fold thy fair limbs still,
    Laying thee in gorgeous tomb”--
      Said the woman bent on ill.

    Soon the earl as if in death
      Yielded up his breath to try her;
    Not one promise kept his spouse
      Of the vows made glibly by her.

    Jerked into a coffin hard
      With a yard of canvas coarse,--
    To his hips it did not come--
      To the tomb they drove the corse.

    Bravely dressed was she that day,
      On her way to mass and grave--
    To God’s church and needy men
      Not one penny piece she gave.

    Up he starts, the coffined man,
      Calls upon his wife aloud,
    “Why am I thus thrust away
      Almost naked, with no shroud?”

    Then as women will when caught
      In a fault, with ready wit,
    Answered she upon the wing--
      Not one thing would she admit.

    “Winding sheets are out of date,
      All men state it--clad like this,
    When the judgment trump shall sound
      You can bound to God and bliss.

    “When in shrouds they trip and stumble,
      You’ll be nimble then as erst,
    Hence I shaped thee this short vest;
      You’ll run best and come in first.”

    Trust not to a woman’s faith,
      ’Tis a breath, a broken stem,
    Few whom they do not deceive;
      Let him grieve who trusts to them.

    Though full her house of linen web,
      And sheets of thread spun full and fair--
    A warning let it be to us--
      She left her husband naked there.

    Spake the prudent earl: “In sooth,
      Woman’s truth you here behold,
    Now let each his coffin buy
      Ere his wife shall get his gold.

    “When Death wrestles for his life,
      Let his wife not hear him moan,
    Great though be his pain and fear,
      Let her hear nor sigh nor groan.”

                                _Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde from an
                                           old Irish manuscript._




                    _THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN._


There was a poor widow living down there near the Iron Forge when the
country was all covered with forests, and you might walk on the tops
of trees from Carnew to the Lady’s Island, and she had one boy. She
was very poor, as I said before, and was not able to buy clothes for
her son. So when she was going out she fixed him snug and combustible
in the ash-pit, and piled the warm ashes about him. The boy knew no
better, and was as happy as the day was long; and he was happier still
when a neighbour gave his mother a kid to keep him company when
herself was abroad. The kid and the lad played like two may-boys; and
when she was old enough to give milk, wasn’t it a godsend to the little
family? You won’t prevent the boy from growing up into a young man, but
not a screed of clothes had he then no more than when he was a gorsoon.

One day as he was sitting comfortably in his pew he heard poor Jin
bleating outside so dismally. It was only one step for him to the door,
another to the middle of the road, and another to the gap going into
the wood; and there he saw a pack of deer hounds tearing the life out
of his poor goat. He snatched a _rampike_ out of the gap, was up
with the dogs while a cat would be licking her ear, and in two shakes
he made _smithereens_ of the whole bilin’ of them. The hunters
spurred their horses to ride him down, but he ran at them with the
terrible club, roaring with rage and grief; and horses and men were out
of sight before he could wink. He then went back, crying, to the poor
goat. Her tongue was hanging out and her legs quivering, and after she
strove to lift her head and lick his hand, she lay down cold and dead.
He lifted the body and carried it into the cabin, and _pullilued_
over it till he fell asleep out of weariness; and then a butcher, that
came in with other neighbours to pity him, took away the body and
dressed the skin so smooth, so soft, and fastened two thongs to two of
the corners. When the boy’s grief was a little mollified, the neighbour
stepped in and fastened the nice skin round his body. It fell to his
knees, and the head skin was in front like a Highlander’s pocket. He
was so proud of his new dress that he walked out with his head touching
the sky, and up and down the town with him two or three times. “Oh,
dear!” says the people, standing at their doors and admiring the great
big boy, “look at the _Gilla na Chreckan Gour_” (_Giolla na
Chroiceann Gobhair_--the fellow in the goat-skin), and that name
remained on him till he went into his coffin. But pride and fine dress
won’t make the pot boil. So his mother says to him next morning, “Tom,”
says she, for that was his real name, “you’re idle long enough; so now
that you are well clad, and needn’t be ashamed to appear before the
neighbours, take that rope and bring in a special good _bresna_
(fagot) of rotten boughs from the forest.” “Never say it twice,” says
Gilla, and off he set into the heart of the wood. He broke off and
gathered up a great big fagot, and was tying it, when he heard a roar
that was enough to split an oak, and up walks a giant a foot taller
than himself; and he was a foot taller than the tallest man you’d see
in a fair.

“What brings you here, you vagabone,” says the giant, says he,
“threspassin’ in my demesne and stealin’ my fire-wood?” “I’m doin’ no
harm,” says Gilla, “but clearin’ your wood, if it is your wood, of
rotten boughs.” “I’ll let you see the harm you’re doin’,” says the
giant, and with that he made a blow at Gilla that would have felled
an ox. “Is that the way you show civility to your neighbours?” says
the other, leaping out of the way of the club; “here’s at you,” and
he leaped in and caught the giant by the body, and gave him such a
heave that his head came within an inch of the ground. But he was as
strong as Goliath, and worked up, and gave Gilla another heave equal
to the one he got himself. So they held at it, tripping, squeezing,
and twisting, and the hard ground became a bog under their feet, and
the bog became like the hard road. At last Gilla gave the giant a
great twist, got his right leg behind _his_ right leg, and flung
him headlong again the root of an oak tree. He caught up the club
from where the giant let it fall at the beginning of the scrimmage,
and said to him, “I am goin’ to knock out your brains; what have you
to say again it?” “Oh, nothin’ at all! But if you spare my life, I’ll
give you a flute that, whenever you play on it, will set your greatest
enemies a-dancing, and they won’t have power to lay their hands on
you, if they were as mad as march hares to kill you.” “Let us have it,”
says Gilla, “and take yourself out of that.” So the giant handed him
the flute out of his oxter-pocket, and home went Gilla as proud as a
paycock, with his fagot on his back and his flute stuck in it.

  [Illustration: “THE GIANT HANDED HIM THE FLUTE.”]

In three days’ time he went to get another fagot; and this day he was
attacked by a brother of the same giant; and whatever trouble he had
with the other he had it twice with this one. He levelled him at last,
and only gave him his life on being offered a bottle of soft green wax
of a wonderful nature. If a person only rubbed it on the size of a
crown-piece on his body, fire, nor iron, nor any sharp thing could do
him the least harm for a year and a day after. Home went Gilla with his
bottle, and never stirred out for three days, for he was a little tired
and bruised after his wrestling. The next fagot he went to gather he
met with the third brother, and if they hadn’t the dreadful struggle,
leave it till again! They held at it from noon till night, and then
the giant was forced to give in. What he gave for his life was a club
that he took away once from a hermit, and any one fighting with that
club in a just cause would never be conquered. If Gilla stayed at home
three days after the last struggle, he didn’t stir for a week after
this. It was on a Monday morning he got up, and he heard a blowing of
bugles and a terrible hullabulloo in the street. Himself and his mother
ran to the door, and there was a fine fat man on horseback, with a
jockey’s cap on his head, and a quilt with six times the colours of the
rainbow on it hanging over his shoulders. “Hear, all you good people,”
says he, after another pull at his bugle-horn, “the King of Dublin’s
daughter has not laughed for three years and a half, and her father
promises her in marriage, and his crown after his death, to whoever
makes her laugh three times.” “And here’s the boy,” says Gilla, “will
make her do that, or know the reason why.” If one was to count all the
threads in a coat, it would never come into the tailor’s hands; and
if I was to reckon all that Gilla’s mother and her neighbours said to
him before he set out, and all the steps he took after he set out, I’d
never have him as far as the gates of Dublin; but to Dublin he got at
last, as sure as fate. They were going to stop him at the gates, but he
gave a curl of his club round his shoulder, and said he was coming to
make the princess laugh. So they laughed and let him pass; and maybe
the doors and windows were not crowded with women and children gazing
after the good-natured-looking young giant, with his long black hair
falling on his shoulders, and his goat-skin hanging from his waist to
his knee. There was a great crowd in the palace yard when he reached
there, and ever so many of them playing all sorts of tricks to get
a laugh from the princess; but not a smile, even, could be got from
her. “What is your business?” said the king, “and where do you come
from?” “I come, my liege,” said Gilla, “from the country of the ‘Yellow
Bellies,’[1] and my business is to make the princess, God bless her!
give three hearty laughs.” “God enable you!” said the king. But an
ugly, cantankerous fellow near the king, with a white face and red hair
on him, put in his spoon, and says he to Gilla, “My fine fellow, before
any one is allowed to strive for the princess, he is expected to show
himself a man at all sorts of matches with the champions of the court.”
“Nothing will give me greater pleasure,” says Gilla. So he laid his
club and spit in his fists, and a brave sturdy Galloglach came up and
took him by the shoulder and elbow. If he did, he didn’t keep his hold
long; Gilla levelled him while you’d wink, and then came another and
another till two score were pitched on their heads.

Well, no one gripped him the second time; but at last all were so mad
that they stopped rubbing their heads and hips and shoulders, and made
at Gilla in a body. The princess was looking very much pleased at
Gilla all the time, but now she cried out to her father to stop the
attack. The white-faced fellow said something in the king’s ear and
not a budge did he make. But Gilla didn’t let himself be flurried. He
took up his _kippeen_ (cudgel or club), and gave this fellow a
tap on his left ear, and that fellow a tap on his right ear, and the
other a crack on the ridge pole of his head; and maybe it wasn’t a
purty spectacle to see every soul of two score of them tumbling over
and hether, their heads in the dust and their heels in the air, and
they roaring “Murdher” at the _ling_ of their life. But the best
of it was that the princess, when she saw the confusion, gave a laugh
like the ring of silver on a stone, so sweet and so loud that all the
court heard it; and Gilla struck his club butt-end on the ground, and
says he, “King of Dublin, I have won half of your daughter.” The face
of Red-head turned from white to yellow, but no one minded him, and
the king invited Gilla to dine with himself and the princess and all
the royal family. So that day passed, and while they were at breakfast
next morning Red-head reminded the king that he had nothing to do now
but to send the new champion to kill the wild beast that was murdering
every one that attempted to go a hen’s race beyond the walls. The king
did not say a word one way or the other; but the princess said it was
not right nor kind to send a stranger out to his certain death, for no
one ever escaped the wild beast if it could get near them. “I’ll make
the trial,” says Gilla; “I’d face twenty wild beasts to do any service
to yourself or your subjects.” So he inquired where the beast was to be
found, and White-face was only too ready to give him his directions.
The princess was sorrowful enough when she saw him setting out, but go
he must and would. After he was gone a mile beyond the gates he heard
a terrible roar in the wood and a great cracking of boughs, and out
pounced a terrible beast on him, with great long claws, and a big mouth
open to swallow him, club and all.

When he was at the very last spring Gilla gave him a stroke on the
nose; and crack! he was sprawling on his back in two seconds. Well,
that did not daunt him; he was up, and springing again at Gilla, and
this time the blow came on him between the two eyes. Down and up he was
again and again till his right ear, his left ear, his right shoulder,
and left shoulder were black and blue. Then he sat on his hindquarters
and looked very surprised at Gilla and his club. “Now, my tight
fellow,” says Gilla, “follow your nose to Dublin gates. Do no harm to
any one, and I’ll do no harm to you.” “Waw! waw! waw!” says the beast,
with his long teeth all stripped, and sparks flashing from his eyes;
but when he saw the club coming down on him he put his tail between his
legs and walked on. Now and then he’d turn about and give a growl, but
a flourish of the club would soon set him on the straight road again.
Oh! if there wasn’t racing and tearing through the streets, and roaring
and bawling; but Gilla nor the beast ever drew rein till they came to
the palace yard. Well, if the people in the streets were frightened,
the people in the court were terrified. The king and his daughter were
in a balcony, or something that way, and so were out of danger; but
lord and gentleman, and officer, and soldier, as soon as they laid eye
on the beast, began to run into passages and halls; but those that
got in first shut the doors in their fright; and they that were left
out did not know what to do, and the king cried out to Gilla to take
away the frightful thing. Gilla at once took his flute out of his
goat-skin pocket and began to play, and every one in the court--beast
and body--began to dance. There was the unfortunate beast obliged to
stand on his hind legs and play heel and toe, while he shovelled about
after those that were next him, and he growling fearfully all the
time. The people, striving to keep out of his way, were still obliged
to mind their steps, but that didn’t prevent them from roaring out to
Gilla to free them from their tormentor. The beast kept a steady eye on
Red-head, and was always sliding after him as well as the figures of
the dance would let him; and you may be sure the poor fellow’s teeth
were not strong enough to keep his tongue quiet. Well, it was all a
fearful thing to look at, but it was very comical, too; and as soon as
the princess saw that Gilla’s power over the beast was strong enough to
prevent him doing any hurt, and especially when she heard the roars of
Red-head and looked at his dancing, she burst out laughing the second
time. “Now, King of Dublin,” said Gilla, “I have won two halves of the
princess, and I hope it won’t be long till the third half will fall to
me.” “Oh! for goodness’ sake,” said the king, “never mind halves or
quarters--banish this vagabone beast to Bandon, or Halifax, or Lusk, or
the Red Say, and we’ll see what is to come next.” Gilla took his flute
out of his mouth and the dancing stopped like shot The poor beast was
thrown off his balance and fell on his side, and a good many of the
dancers had a tumble at the same moment. Then said Gilla to the beast,
“You see that street leading straight to the mountain; down that street
with you; don’t let a hare catch you; and if you fall, don’t wait to
get up. And if I hear of you coming within a mile of castle or cabin
within the four seas of Ireland I’ll make an example of you; remember
the club.” He had no need to give his orders twice. Before he was done
speaking the beast was half-way down the street like a frightened dog
with a kettle tied to his tail. He was once after seen in the Devil’s
Glen, in Wicklow, picking a bone, and that’s all was ever heard of him.

Well, that was work enough for one day, and the potatoes were just done
in the big kitchen of the palace. I don’t know what great people take
instead of stirabout and milk before they go to bed. Indeed, people
do be saying that some of them never leave the table from dinner to
bedtime, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow, they took dinner and supper
and went to bed, everything in its own time, and rose in the morning
when the sun was as high as the trees. So when they were at breakfast,
Red-head, who wasn’t at all agreeable to the match, says to the king,
in Gilla’s hearing: “The Danes, ill-luck be in their road! will be
near the city in a day or two; and it is said in an old prophecy book,
that if you could get the flail that’s hanging on the couple under
the ridge pole of Hell, you could drive every enemy you have into the
sea--Dane or divil. I’m sure, sir, Gilla wouldn’t have too much trouble
in getting that flail; nothing seems too hot or too heavy for him!”
“If he goes,” said the princess, “it is against my wish and will.”
“If he goes,” said the king, “it is not by my order.” “Go I will,”
said Gilla, “if any one shows me the way.” There was an old gentleman
with a red nose on him sitting at the table, and says he, “Oh! I’ll
show you the way; it lies down Cut Purse Row. You will know it by the
sign of the ‘Cat and Bagpipes’ on one side, and the ‘Ace of Spades’
stuck in the window opposite.” “I’m off,” says Gilla; “pray all of
you for my safe return.” He easily found the “Cat and Bagpipes” and
the “Ace of Spades,” and nothing further is said of him till he was
knocking at Hell’s Gate. It was opened by an old fellow with horns on
him seven feet long, and says he to Gilla, mighty politely, “What is
it you want here, sir?” “I am a great traveller,” said Gilla, “and
wish to see every place worth seeing, inside and outside.” “Oh! if
that’s the case,” says the porter, “walk in. Here, brothers, show
this gentleman-traveller all the curiosities of the place.” With that
they all, big and little, locked and bolted every window and door, and
stuffed every hole, till a midge itself couldn’t find its way out;
and then they surrounded Gilla with their spits, and pitchforks, and
_sprongs_; and if they didn’t whack and prod him, it’s a wonder.
“Gentlemen,” says Gilla, “these are the tricks of clowns. Fairplay
is bonny play; show yourselves gentlemen, if you have a good drop in
you. Hand me a weapon, and let us fight fair. There’s an old flail on
that couple, it will do as well as another.” “Oh, yes! the flail! the
flail!” cried they all; and some little imps climbed up the rafters,
pulled down the flail and handed it to Gilla, expecting to see his
hands burned through the moment it touched them. They knew nothing of
the giant’s balsam that Gilla rubbed on his hands as he was coming
along, but they soon knew and felt the strength of his arm, when he
was knocking them down like nine-pins, and thrashing them, arms, legs,
and bodies, like so much oaten straw. “Oh! murdher! murdher!” says
the big divil of all at last. “Stop your hand, and we’ll give you
anything in our power.” “Well,” says Gilla, “I’ve seen all I want in
your habitation. I don’t like the welcome I’ve got, and will thank
you to open the gate.” Oh! wasn’t there twenty pair of legs tearing
in a moment to let Gilla out. “You don’t mean, I hope, to carry off
the flail?” says the big fellow; “it’s very useful to us in winter.”
“It was the very thing that brought me here,” says Gilla, “to get it,
and I won’t leave without it; but if you look in the black pool of the
Liffey at noon to-morrow, you’ll find it there.” Well, they were very
down in the mouth for the loss of the flail, but a second rib-roasting
wasn’t to be thought of. When they had him fairly locked out they put
out their tongues at him through the bars, and shouted, “Ah! Gilla na
Chreckan Gour! wait till you’re let in here so easy again,” but he
only answered, “You’ll let me in when I ask you.” There was both joy
and terror at court when they saw Gilla coming back with the terrible
flail in his hand. “Now,” says every one, “we care little for the Danes
and all kith and kin. But how did you coax the fellows down below to
give up the implement?” So he told them as much as he chose, and was
very glad to see the welcome that was on the princess’s face. Red-head
thought it would be a fine thing to have the flail in his power. So he
crept over to where Gilla laid it aside after charging no one to touch
it; but his hand did not come within a foot of it, when he thought
he was burned to the bone. He danced about, shook his arm, put his
fist to his mouth, and roared out for water. “Couldn’t you mind what
I said?” says Gilla, “and that wouldn’t have happened.” However, he
took Red-head’s hand within his own two that had the ointment, and he
was freed from the burning at once. Well, the poor rogue looked so
relieved, and so ashamed, and so impudent at the same time, that the
princess joined in the laughing of all about. “Three halves at last,”
said Gilla; “now, my liege,” said he, “I hope that after I give a good
throuncing to the Danes, you will fulfil your promise.” “There are no
two ways about that,” said the king; “Danes or no Danes, you may marry
my daughter to-morrow, if she makes no objection herself.” Red-head,
seeing by the princess’s face that she wasn’t a bit vexed at what her
father said, ran up to his room, thrust his head into a cupboard, and
nearly roared his arm off, but the company downstairs did not seem to
miss him.

Early in the forenoon of next day a soldier came running in all haste
from the bridge that crossed the Liffey, and said the Danes were coming
in thousands from the north, all in brass armour, brass pots on their
heads, and brass pot-lids on their arms, and that the yellow blaze
coming from their ranks was enough to blind a body. Out marched the
king’s troops with the king at their head, to hinder the Danes from
getting into the town over the bridge. First went Gilla, with his flail
in one hand and his club in the other. He crossed the bridge, and when
the enemy were about ten perch away from him, he shouted out, “This
flail belongs to the divil, and who has a better right to it than his
children?” So saying, he swung it round his head, and flung it with
all his power at the front rank. It mowed down every man it met in its
course, and when it cut through the whole column, and the space was
clear before it, it sunk down, and flame and smoke flew up from the
breach it made in the ground. The soldiers at each side of the lane of
dead men ran forward on Gilla, but as every one came within the sweep
of his club he was dashed down on the bridge or into the river. On they
rushed like a snowstorm, but they melted like the same snow falling
into a furnace. Gilla kept before the pile of the dead soldiers, but at
last his arms began to tire. Then the king and his men came over, and
the rest of the Danes were frightened and fled. Often was Gilla tired
in his past life, but that was the greatest and tiresomest exploit he
ever done. He lay on a settle-bed for three days; but if he did, hadn’t
he the princess and all her maids of honour to wait on him, and pity
him, and give him gruel, and toast, and tay of all the colours under
the sun? Red-head did his best to stop the marriage, but once when he
was speaking to the king, one of the body-guard swore he’d open his
skull with his battle-axe if he dared open his mouth again about it. So
married they were, and as strong as Gilla was, if ever his princess and
himself had a _scruting_ (dispute), I know who got the upper hand.

                             _Kennedy’s Fireside Stories of Ireland._




                           _OFTEN-WHO-CAME._


There was once a man, and he had a handsome daughter, and every one was
in love with her. There used to be two youths constantly coming to her,
courting her. One of them pleased her and the other did not. The man
she did not care for used often to come to her father’s house to get
a sight of herself, and to be in her company, while the man she liked
used not come but seldom. The father preferred she should marry the boy
who was constantly coming, and he made one day a big dinner and sent
every one an invitation. When every one was gathered he said to his
daughter, “Drink a drink now,” says he, “on the man you like best in
this company,” for he thought she would drink to the man he liked best
himself. She lifted the glass in her hand and stood up and looked round
her, and then said this _rann_:--

    “I drink the good health of Often-Who-Came,
    Who often comes not I also must name,
    Who often comes not I often must blame
    That he comes not as often as Often-Who-Came!”

She sat down when she had spoken this quatrain, and said no other word
that evening; but the youth Often-Who-Came did not come as far as her
again, for he understood he was not wanted, and she married the man of
her own choice with her father’s consent.

I heard no more of them since.

                                    _Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde._




                  _THE OLD CROW AND THE YOUNG CROW._


There was an old crow teaching a young crow one day, and he said to
him, “Now, my son,” says he, “listen to the advice I’m going to give
you. If you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself,
and be on your keeping; he’s stooping for a stone to throw at you.”

“But tell me,” says the young crow, “what should I do if he had a stone
already down in his pocket?”

“Musha, go ’long out of that,” says the old crow, “you’ve learned
enough; the devil another learning I’m able to give you.”

                                    _Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde._




                      _ROGER AND THE GREY MARE._


    Roger the miller came coorting of late
    A rich farmer’s daughter called Katty by name.

    She has to her fortune goold, dimins, and rings;
    She has to her fortune fifty fine things;

    She has to her fortune a large plot of ground;
    She has to her fortune five hundred pounds.

    When dinner was over and all things laid down,
    It was a nice sight to see five hundred pounds.

    The sight of the money and beauty likewise
    Tickled his fancy and dazzled his eyes.

    “And now, as your daughter is comely and fair,
        It’s I that won’t take her,
        It’s I that won’t take her,
              Without the grey mare.”

    Instantly the money was out of his sight,
    And so was Miss Katty, his own heart’s delight.

    Roger the miller was kicked out the doore,
    And Roger was tould not to come there no more.

    Roger pulled down his long yalla hair,
        Saying, “wishing I never,”
        And “wishing I never
            Spoke of the grey mare.”

    It was in twelve months after, as happened about,
    That Roger the miller saw his own true love.

    “Good morrow, fair maid, or do you know me?”
    “Good morrow, kind sir, I do well,” says she;

    “A man of your complexion with long yalla hair,
        That wance came a-coorting,
        That wance came a-coorting
            Me father’s grey mare.”

    “It was not to coort the grey mare I came,
    But a nice handsome girl called Katty by name.

    “I thought that her father would never dispute,
    In giving his daughter, the grey mare for boot,

    “Before he would lose such a beautiful son;
        It’s then I was sorry,
        It’s now I am sorry
            For what I have done.”

    “As for your sorrow, I do value not,
    There is men in this town enough to be got.

    “If you had the grey mare you would marry me,
    But now you have nayther the grey mare nor me.

    “The price of the grey mare was never so great,
      So fare you well, Roger,
      So fare you well, Roger,
          Go murn[2] for Kate.”

                             _Traditional (taken down from a peasant by
                                          Dr. Douglas Hyde)._




                          _WILL O’ THE WISP._


In old times there was one Will Cooper, a blacksmith who lived in the
parish of Loughile; he was a great lover of the bottle, and all that he
could make by his trade went to that use, so that his family was often
in a starving condition. One day as he was musing in his shop alone
after a fit of drunkenness, there came to him a little old man, almost
naked and trembling with cold. “My good fellow,” said he to Will, “put
on some coals and make a fire, that I may get myself warmed.” Will,
pitying the poor creature, did so, and likewise brought him something
to eat, and told him, if he thought proper, he was welcome to stay
all night. The old man thanked him kindly, and said he had farther
to go; “but,” says he, “as you have been so kind to me, it is in my
power to make you a recompense; make three wishes,” says he, “for
anything you desire most, and let it be what it will you shall obtain
it immediately.” “Well,” says Will, “since that is the case, I wish
that any person who takes my sledge into their hand may never get
free of it till I please to take it from them. Secondly, I have an
armed chair, and I wish that any person sitting down on the same may
never have power to rise until I please to take them off it. I likewise
wish for the last,” says Will, “that whatever money or gold I happen
to put into my purse, no person may have power to take it out again
but myself.” “Ah! unfortunate Will!” cries the old man, “why did not
you wish for Heaven?” With that he went away from the shop, as Will
thought, very pensive and melancholy, and never was heard of more. The
old man’s words opened Will’s eyes; he saw it was in his power to do
well had he made a good use of the opportunity, and when he considered
that the wishes were not of the least use to him, he became worse every
day, both in soul and body, and in a short time he was reduced to great
poverty and distress.

One idle day as he was walking along through the fields he met the
devil in the appearance of a gentleman, who told him if he would go
along with him at the end of seven years, he should have anything he
desired during that time. Will, thinking that it was as bad with him
as it could be, although he suspected it was the devil, for the love
of rising in the world, made bargain to go with him at the end of the
seven years, and requested that he would supply him with plenty of
money for the present. Accordingly, Will had his desire, and dreading
to be observed by his neighbours to get rich on a sudden, he removed
to a distance from where he was then living. However, there was nobody
in distress or in want of money but Will was always ready to relieve,
insomuch that in a short time he became noted, and went in that country
by the name of Bill Money, in regard of the great sums he could always
command. He then began to build houses, and before the seven years were
expired he had built a town, which, in imitation of the name he then
had, was called Ballymoney, and is to this day. However, to disguise
the business, and that nobody might suspect him having any dealings
with Satan, he still did something now and then at his trade. The seven
years being expired, he was making some article for a friend, when the
devil came into the shop in his former appearance. “Well, Will,” says
he, “are you ready to go with me now?” “I am,” says Will, “if I had the
job finished; take that sledge,” says he, “and give me a blow or two,
for it is a friend that is to get it, and then I will go with you where
you please.” The devil took the sledge, and they soon finished the job.
“Now,” says Will, “stay you here till I run to my friend with this, and
I will not stay a minute.” Will then went out and the devil stopped in
the shop till it was near night, but there was no sign of Will coming
near him, nor could he by any means get the sledge out of his hands.
He thought if he was once in his old abode, perhaps there might be
some of the smith trade in it who would disengage him of the sledge,
but all that were in hell could not get it out of his hand, so he had
to retain the shape he was then in as long as the iron remained in his
hand. The devil, seeing he could get nobody to do anything for him,
went in search of Will once more, but somehow or other he could not
get near him for a month. At length he met him coming out of a tavern,
pretty drunk. “Well, Will,” says he, “that was a pretty trick you put
on me!” “Faith, no,” says Will, “it was you that tricked me, for when
I came back to the shop you were away, and stole my sledge with you,
so that I could not get a job done ever since.” “Well, Will,” says
Satan, “I could not help taking the sledge, for I cannot get it out of
my hand; but if you take it from me I will give you seven years more
before I ask you with me.” Will readily took the sledge, and the devil
parted from him well pleased that he had got rid of it. Will having now
seven years to play upon, roved about through the town of Ballymoney,
drinking and sporting, and sometimes doing a little at his trade to
blindfold the people; yet there was many suspected he had dealings with
Satan, or he could not do half of what he had done.

At length the seven years were expired, and the devil came for him
and found him sitting at the fire smoking, in his own house, where he
kept his wonderful chair. “Come, Will,” says he, “are you ready to
go with me now?” “I am,” says Will, “if you sit down a little till I
make my will and settle everything among my family, and then I will go
with you wherever you please.” So, setting the arm-chair to Satan, he
sat down, and Will went into the chamber as if to settle his affairs;
after a little he came up again, bidding the devil come along, for he
had all things completed to his mind, and would ask to stay no longer.
When Will went out the devil made an attempt to rise, but in vain; he
could not stir from the chair, nor even make the least motion one way
or other, so he was as much confounded to think what was the matter, as
when he was first cast into utter darkness. Will, knowing what would
occur to Satan, stayed away a month, during which time he never became
visible in the chair to any of the family, nor do we hear that any one
else ever observed him at any time but Will himself. However, at the
month’s end Will, returning, pretended to be very much surprised that
the devil did not follow him. “What,” says Will, “kept you here all
this time? I believe you are making a fool of me; but if you do not
come immediately I will have the bargain broken, and never go with you
again.” “I cannot help it,” says Satan, “for all I can do I cannot stir
from my seat, but if you could liberate me I will give you seven years
more before I call on you again.” “Well,” says Will, “I will do what
I can.” He then went to Satan and took him by the arm, and with the
greatest ease lifted him out of the chair and set him at liberty once
more. No sooner was Satan gone than Will was ready for his old trade
again; he sported and played, and drank of the best, his purse never
failing, although he sunk all the property and income he had in and
about Ballymoney long before; but he did not care, for he knew he could
have recourse to the purse that never would fail, as I told you before.
However, an accident happened the same purse, that a penny would never
stay in it afterwards, and Will became one of the poorest men to be
found. This was at the end of the seven years of his last bargain, when
Satan came in quest of him again, but was so fearful of a new trick
put upon him by Will that he durst not come near the house. At length
he met him in the fields, and would not give him time to bid as much
as farewell to his wife and children, he was so much afraid of being
imposed upon. Will had at last to go, and travelling along the road
he came to an inn, where many a good glass he had taken in his time.
“Here’s a set of the best rogues,” says Will, “in Ireland; they cheated
me many a time, and I will give all I possess could I put a trick upon
them.” ... “Well,” says Satan, “I do not care if we stop.” “But,” says
Will, “I have no money, and I cannot manage my scheme without it; but
I will tell you what you can do-you can change yourself into a piece
of gold; I will put you in my purse, and then you will see what a
hand I will make for you and me both, before we are at our journey’s
end.” Satan, ever willing to promote evil, consented to change himself
into gold, and when he had done so, Will put the piece into his purse
and returned home. Satan, understanding that Will did not do as he
pretended, strove to deliver himself from confinement, but by the power
of the purse he could never change himself from gold, as long as Will
pleased to keep him in it, and no other person, as I have told you
before, had power to take anything out of it but himself. Will would go
to drink from one ale-house to another, and would pretend to be drunk
when he was not, where he would lay down his purse and bid the waiters
take what they pleased for the reckoning. Every person saw he had money
plenty, yet all they could do they could never get one penny out of the
purse, and he would get so drunk when they would give it back to him
that he would not seem to understand anything, and so would sneak away.
In this manner he cheated both town and country round, until Satan,
weary of confinement, had recourse to a stratagem of his own, and
changed himself from pieces of gold into a solid bar or ingot of the
same metal, but could not get out of the purse.

This, however, put a great damp upon Will’s trade, for when he had no
coin to show he could get nothing from anybody, and how to behave he
did not know. He took a notion that he would perhaps force him into
coin again, and accordingly brought him to an iron forge, where he had
the ingot battered, for the length of an hour, at a fearful rate; but
all they could do they never changed it in the least, neither could
they injure the purse, for the quality of it became miraculous after
his wish, and the people swore the devil was surely in the purse, for
they never saw anything like it. They were compelled at last to give
over, and Will returned home and went to bed, putting the purse under
his head. His wife was asleep, and the devil kept such a hissing,
puffing, and blowing under the bolster that he soon awakened her, and
she, almost frightened out of her wits, awakened Will, telling him that
the devil was under his head. “Well, if he be,” says Will, “I will take
him to the forge, where I assure you he will get a sound battering.”
“Oh, no,” says Satan, “I would rather be in hell than stay here
confined in this manner, and if you let me go I will never trouble you
again.” “With all my heart,” says Will; “on that head you shall have
your freedom,” and opening the purse, gave Satan his liberty.

Will was now free from all dread or fear of anything, and cared not
what he did. But I forgot to mention that at the time Will wished
nobody might take anything out of the purse, he wished he might never
put his hand in it himself but he would find money--but after Satan
being in it he found it empty ever after. By this unlucky accident,
he that had seen so much of the world for such a length of time was
reduced to the most indigent state, and at length forced to beg his
bread. In this miserable condition he spent many years until his glass
was run, and he had to pay that debt to nature which all creatures
have since the fall of Adam. However, his life was so ill-spent and
his actions so bad that it is recorded he could get no entrance to any
place of good after his decease, so that he was destined to follow
his own master. Coming to the gates of hell, he made a horrible noise
to get in; then Satan bid the porter ask who it was that made such a
din, and not to admit him till he would let him know. The porter did
so, and he bade him tell his master that he was his old friend, Will
Cooper, wanting to come to him once more. When Satan had heard who it
was he ordered the gates to be strongly guarded; “for if that villain
gets in,” says he, “we are all undone.” Will pleaded the distress he
was in, that he could not get backward nor forward with the darkness
he was surrounded with, and having lost his guide, if Satan would not
let him in; and being loath to listen to the noise and confusion he
was making at the gate, Satan sent one of his servants to conduct him
back to earth again, and particularly not to quit him until he left
him in Ireland. “Now,” says Satan to Will when he was going away, “you
were a trusty servant to me a long time; now you are going to earth
again, let me see you be busy, and gain all to me that you can; but
remember how you served me when in the purse, and you shall never be
out of darkness. I will give you a light in your hand to allure and
deceive the weary traveller, so that he may become a prey to us.” So
lighting a wisp, he gave it to Will, and he was conducted to earth,
where he wanders from that day to this, under the title of _Will o’
the Wisp_.

                                     _Hibernian Tales (a chap-book)._




                              _EPIGRAMS._


                        THE CHURL AND HIS WINE.

    To thirst he’ll never own,
    His wife’s a stingy crone,
    A little bottle, half-filled, _mavrone_,
    He keeps locked tight in a corner lone!


                          ON A SURLY PORTER.

    What a pity Hell’s gates are not kept by O’Flinn--
    The surly old dog would let nobody in.




                              _RIDDLES._


    There’s a garden that I ken
    Full of little gentlemen,
    Little caps of blue they wear,
    And green ribbons very fair.
            (_Flax._)


    I threw it up as white as snow,
    Like gold on a flag it fell below.
            (_Egg._)


    I ran and I got,
    I sat and I searched,
    If I could get it I would not bring it with me,
    As I got it not I brought it.
            (_A thorn in the foot._)


    From house to house he goes,
    A messenger small and slight,
    And whether it rains or snows
    He sleeps outside in the night.
      (_Boreen--lane or path._)


    On the top of the tree
    See the little man red,
    A stone in his belly,
    A cap on his head.
          (_Haw._)


    A bottomless barrel,
    It’s shaped like a hive,
    It is filled full of flesh,
    And the flesh is alive.
      (_Tailor’s thimble._)


    As I went through the garden
    I met my uncle Thady,
    I cut his head from off his neck
    And left his body “aisy.”
        (_A head of cabbage._)


    Out in the field my daddy grows,
    Wearing two hundred suits of clothes.
              (_Ditto._)


    Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,
    Fire in his heart and a cork in his eye.
            (_Bottle of whisky._)


    ’Tis round as dish was ever known,
    And white as snow the look of it,
    ’Tis food and life of all mankind,
    Yet no man e’er partook of it.
          (_Breast-milk._)


    MY daddy on the warm shelf
    Talking, talking to himself.
      (_Pot on the hob, simmering._)


    Up in the loft the round man lies,
    Looking through two hundred eyes.
            (_A sieve._)


    Out she goes and the priest’s dinner with her.
    (_Hen with an egg._)

                             _Translated by Dr. Hyde and F. A. Fahy._




                     _DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS._


Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Nery were near neighbours in the barony
of Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former,
envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his
bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured,
that going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands,
which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock
killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his
shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it,
to dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a
magpie flew on the top of the hide and began picking it, chattering
all the time. The bird had been taught to speak and imitate the human
voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying,
put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it,
he put it under his great-coat, and so went on to the town. Having
sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the
landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it
chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. “What is
that I hear?” said she to Donald; “I think it is talk, and yet I do
not understand.” “Indeed,” said Donald, “it is a bird I have that
tells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there
is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it says you have far better liquor
than you are giving me.” “That is strange,” said she, going to another
cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. “I
will,” said Donald, “if I get enough for it.” “I will fill your hat
with silver if you leave it with me.” Donald was glad to hear the news,
and taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not
been long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. “Mr.,” said he,
“you thought you did me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a
better, for look here what I have got for the hide,” showing them the
hatful of silver; “you never saw such a demand for hides in your life
as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their
bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming
to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get
a trifle for them. At last they had to take what they could get, and
came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had
a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the
kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him
when asleep, and on that account, when he was going to bed he left his
old mother in his place and lay down in her bed, which was on the other
side of the house; and taking the old woman for Donald, they choked her
in her bed, but he making some noise they had to retreat and leave the
money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak
Donald got his mother on his back and carried her to town. Stopping at
a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for
a drink, and then went into a public-house convenient and called for a
dram. “I wish,” said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell
my mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and
she is hard of hearing. If she does not observe you, give her a little
shake and tell her that I want her.” The woman called her several
times, but she seemed to take no notice; at length she went to her and
shook her by the arm, but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her
head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in
great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened.
“Oh, mercy,” said he, “what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the
well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner
that you would imagine he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other
hand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but
she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The
inhabitants of the town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make
Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened
in their place; and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than
he got for the magpie. They buried Donald’s mother, and as soon as he
saw Hudden and Dudden he showed them the last purse of money he had
got. “You thought to kill me last night,” said he, “but it was good for
me it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make
gunpowder.”

That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next
morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their
burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old
wives for gunpowder?” so that every one laughed at them, and the boys
at last clodded them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and
vowing revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit
of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast,
and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river
at some distance. As they were going along the highway they raised a
hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran
after her, thinking by appearance she would be easily taken. In their
absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the
sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,”
said he, “that you are singing, and you confined?” “Oh, I am going to
heaven,” said Donald, “and in a short time I expect to be free from
trouble.” “Oh, dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let
me to your place?” “Indeed, I do not know,” said he; “it would take a
good sum.” “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty
head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.”
“Well,” says Donald, “I do not care if I should; loose the sack, and I
will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him and went into the
sack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers, and left them in
his pasture.

Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the
sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the
river, and threw him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched
home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property; but
how great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before
them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none
before. “Donald,” said they, “what is all this? We thought you were
drowned, and yet you are here before us.” “Ah,” said he, “if I had but
help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best
job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever
was seen is there, and no one to own them; but I was not able to manage
more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might
get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald
accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up
a stone. “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream;
“there is the very place, and go in one of you first, and if you want
help you have nothing to do but call.” Hudden, jumping in and sinking
to the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do
that are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. “What is that he
is saying now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for
help; don’t you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I
leap in. I know how to do better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the
advantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with
Hudden. And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.

                                     _Hibernian Tales (a chap-book)._




                      _THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS._


    O Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don’t let your tongue thus rattle!
    Oh, don’t be saucy, don’t be stiff, because you may have cattle.
    I have seen--and here’s my hand to you, I only say what’s true--
    A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

    Good luck to you, don’t scorn the poor, and don’t be their despiser;
    For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:
    And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,
    Then don’t be stiff, and don’t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

    See where Momonia’s heroes lie, proud Owen More’s descendants--
    ’Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!
    If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
    Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

    The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;
    _Mavrone!_ for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;
    Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?
    Yet _you_ can give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

    Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted--
    See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
    He sleeps, the great O’Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse--
    Then ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

    O’Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in
      story--
    Think how their high achievements once made Erin’s greatest glory;
    Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,
    And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!

    The O’Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,
    Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin’s best and oldest;
    Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?
    Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

    Your neighbour’s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,
    Because, _inagh_,[3] you’ve got three cows, one more, I see, than
      _she_ has;
    That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows--
    But if you’re strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!


                            THE SUMMING-UP.

    Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful
      bearing,
    And I’m too poor to hinder you--but, by the cloak I’m wearing,
    If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
    I’d thrash you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

                               _Translated by James Clarence Mangan._




                      _IN PRAISE OF DIGRESSIONS._


I have sometimes heard of an Iliad in a nut-shell, but it has been my
fortune to have much oftener seen a nut-shell in an Iliad. There is
no doubt that human life has received most wonderful advantages from
both, but to which of the two the world is chiefly indebted I shall
leave among the curious as a problem worthy of their utmost inquiry.
For the invention of the latter I think the commonwealth of learning
is chiefly obliged to the great modern improvement of digressions:
the late refinements in knowledge running parallel to those of diet
in our nation, which, among men of a judicious taste, are dressed up
in various compounds, consisting in soups and olios, fricassees and
ragouts.

It is true, there is a sort of morose, detracting, ill-bred people
who pretend utterly to disrelish these polite innovations; and as to
the similitude from diet, they allow the parallel, but are so bold to
pronounce the example itself a corruption and degeneracy of taste.
They tell us that the fashion of jumbling fifty things together in a
dish was at first introduced in compliance to a depraved and debauched
appetite, as well as to a crazy constitution; and to see a man hunting
through an olio after the head and brains of a goose, a widgeon,
or a woodcock, is a sign he wants a stomach and digestion for more
substantial victuals. Further, they affirm that digressions in a book
are like foreign troops in a state, which argue the nation to want a
heart and hands of its own, and often either subdue the natives or
drive them into the most unfruitful corners.

But after all that can be objected by these supercilious censors,
it is manifest the society of writers would quickly be reduced to a
very inconsiderable number if men were put upon making books with the
fatal confinement of delivering nothing beyond what is to the purpose.
It is acknowledged that were the case the same among us as with the
Greeks and Romans, when learning was in its cradle, to be reared and
fed, and clothed by invention, it would be an easy task to fill up
volumes upon particular occasions, without further expatiating from the
subjects than by moderate excursions, helping to advance or clear the
main design. But with knowledge it has fared as with a numerous army
encamped in a fruitful country, which, for a few days, maintains itself
by the product of the soil it is on; till, provisions being spent, they
are sent to forage many a mile, among friends or enemies, it matters
not. Meanwhile, the neighbouring fields, trampled and beaten down,
become barren and dry, affording no sustenance but clouds of dust.

The whole course of things being thus entirely changed between us and
the ancients, and the moderns wisely sensible of it, we of this age
have discovered a shorter and more prudent method to become scholars
and wits, without the fatigue of reading or of thinking. The most
accomplished way of using books at present is twofold: either, first,
to serve them as some men do lords, learn their titles exactly, and
then brag of their acquaintance; or, secondly, what is indeed the
choicer, the profounder, and politer method, to get a thorough insight
into the index, by which the whole book is governed, and turned like
fishes by the tail. For to enter the palace of learning at the great
gate requires an expense of time and forms; therefore men of much haste
and little ceremony are content to get in by the back door. For the
arts are all in flying march, and therefore more easily subdued by
attacking them in the rear. Thus physicians discover the state of the
whole body by consulting only what comes from behind. Thus men catch
knowledge by throwing their wit into the posteriors of a book, as boys
do sparrows with flinging salt upon their tails. Thus human life is
best understood by the wise man’s rule of regarding the end. Thus are
the sciences found, like Hercules’ oxen, by tracing them backwards.
Thus are old sciences unravelled, like old stockings, by beginning at
the foot. Beside all this, the army of the sciences has been of late,
with a world of martial discipline, drawn into its close order, so that
a view or a muster may be taken of it with abundance of expedition. For
this great blessing we are wholly indebted to systems and abstracts in
which the modern fathers of learning, like prudent usurers, spent their
sweat for the ease of us their children. For labour is the seed of
idleness, and it is the peculiar happiness of our noble age to gather
the fruit.

Now, the method of growing wise, learned and sublime, having become so
regular an affair, and so established in all its forms, the number of
writers must needs have increased accordingly, and to a pitch that has
made it absolutely necessary for them to interfere continually with
each other. Besides, it is reckoned that there is not at this present
a sufficient quantity of new matter left in nature to furnish and adorn
any one particular subject to the extent of a volume. This I am told by
a very skilful computer, who has given a full demonstration of it from
rules of arithmetic.

       *       *       *       *       *

By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer
capable of managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For
what though his head be empty, provided his commonplace book be full?
and if you will bate him but the circumstances of method, and style,
and grammar, and invention; allow him but the common privileges of
transcribing from others, and digressing from himself, as often as he
shall see occasion; he will desire no more ingredients towards fitting
up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a bookseller’s
shelf; there to be preserved neat and clean for a long eternity,
adorned with the heraldry of its title fairly inscribed on a label;
never to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting
chains of darkness in a library; but when the fulness of time is come,
shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the
sky.

Without these allowances, how is it possible we modern wits should
ever have an opportunity to introduce our collections, listed under
so many thousand heads of a different nature; for want of which the
learned world would be deprived of infinite delight, as well as
instruction, and we ourselves buried beyond redress in an inglorious
and undistinguished oblivion.

From such elements as these I am alive to behold the day wherein the
corporation of authors can outvie all its brethren in the guild. A
happiness derived to us, with a great many others, from our Scythian
ancestors; among whom the number of pens was so infinite, that the
Grecian eloquence had no other way of expressing it than by saying that
in the regions far to the north it was hardly possible for a man to
travel, the very air was so replete with feathers.

                                        _Jonathan Swift_ (1667–1745).




                        _A RHAPSODY ON POETRY._


    All human race would fain be wits,
    And millions miss for one who hits:
    Young’s universal passion, Pride,
    Was never known to spread so wide.
    Say, Britain! could you ever boast,
    Three poets in an age at most?
    Our chilling climate hardly bears
    A sprig of bays in fifty years,
    While every fool his claim alleges,
    As if it grew in common hedges.
    What reason can there be assigned
    For this perverseness in the mind?
    Brutes find out where their talents lie:
    A bear will not attempt to fly:
    A foundered horse will oft debate
    Before he tries a five-barred gate:
    A dog by instinct turns aside,
    Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;
    But man we find the only creature
    Who, led by folly, combats Nature;
    Who, where she loudly cries “Forbear,”
    With obstinacy fixes there,
    And where his genius least inclines,
    Absurdly bends his whole designs.
    Not empire to the rising sun,
    By valour, conduct, fortune, won:
    Not highest wisdom in debates,
    For framing laws to govern states:
    Not skill in sciences profound,
    So large to grasp the circle round,
    Such heavenly influence require
    As how to strike the Muse’s lyre.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!
    How unproportioned to thy pains!
    And here a simile comes pat in:
    A chicken takes a month to fatten,
    Tho’ guests in less than half-an-hour
    Will more than half-a-score devour.
    So after toiling twenty days
    To earn a stock of pence and praise,
    Thy labours, grown the critic’s prey,
    Are swallowed o’er a dish of tea;
    Gone to be never heard of more,
    Gone where the chickens went before.
        How shall a new attempter learn
        Of different spirits to discern?
        And how distinguish which is which,
        The poet’s vein or scribbling itch?
        Then hear an old experienced sinner
        Instructing thus a young beginner.
        Consult yourself, and if you find
        A powerful impulse urge your mind,
        Impartial judge within your breast,
        What subject you can manage best:
        Whether your genius most inclines
        To satire, praise, or hum’rous lines;
        To elegies in mournful tone,
        Or prologue sent from hand unknown;
    Then rising with Aurora’s light,
    The Muse invok’d, sit down to write;
    Blot out, correct, insert, refine,
    Enlarge, diminish, interline;
    Be mindful, when invention fails,
    To scratch your head and bite your nails.
        Your poem finished, next your care
        Is needful to transcribe it fair:
        In modern wit all printed trash is
        Set off with num’rous breaks--and dashes--
        To statesmen would you give a wipe
        You print it in _Italic_ type:
        When letters are in vulgar shapes,
        ’Tis ten to one the wit escapes;
        But when in CAPITALS exprest,
        The dullest reader smokes the jest;
        Or else perhaps he may invent
        A better than the poet meant,
        As learned commentators view
        In Homer more than Homer knew.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Be sure at Will’s the foll’wing day,
    Lie snug and hear what critics say,
    And if you find the general vogue
    Pronounces you a stupid rogue,
    Damns all your thoughts as low and little,
    Sit still, and swallow down your spittle:
    Be silent as a politician,
    For talking may beget suspicion;
    Or praise the judgment of the Town,
    And help yourself to run it down;--
    Give up your fond paternal pride,
    Nor argue on the weaker side:
    For poems read without a name
    We justly praise or justly blame;
    And critics have no partial views,
    Except they know whom they abuse;
    And since you ne’er provoked their spite,
    Depend upon’t, their judgment’s right.
    But if you blab you are undone,
    Consider what a risk you run;
    You lose your credit all at once,
    The Town will mark you for a dunce;
    The vilest doggerel Grub Street sends
    Will pass for yours with foes and friends,
    And you must bear the whole disgrace,
    Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.
    Your secret kept, your poem sunk,
    And sent in quires to line a trunk,
    If still you be disposed to rhyme,
    Go try your hand a second time.
    Again you fail; yet safe’s the word;
    Take courage, and attempt a third:
    But first with care employ your thoughts
    Where critics marked your former fau’ts;
    The trivial turns, the borrow’d wit,
    The similies that nothing fit;
    The cant which every fool repeats,
    Town-jests and coffee-house conceits;
    Descriptions tedious, flat and dry,
    And introduced the Lord knows why;
    Or where we find your fury set
    Against the harmless alphabet;
    On A’s and B’s your malice vent
    While readers wonder whom you meant;
    A public or a private robber,
    A statesman or a South Sea jobber;
    A pr-l-te, who no God believes;
    A p-m-t or den of thieves;
    A pickpurse at the bar or bench,
    A duchess or a suburb-wench;
    “An House of P--rs, a gaming crew,
    A griping ---- or a Jew.”
    Or oft, when epithets you link
    In gaping lines to fill a chink,
    Like stepping-stones to save a stride
    In streets where kennels are too wide;
    Or like a heel-piece to support
    A cripple, with one leg too short;
    Or like a bridge that joins a marish
    To moorlands of a different parish.
    So have I seen ill-coupled hounds
    Drag diff’rent ways in miry grounds;
    So geographers in Afric maps
    With savage pictures fill their gaps,
    And o’er unhabitable downs
    Place elephants for want of towns.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Then, poet! if you mean to thrive,
    Employ your muse on kings alive,
    With prudence gath’ring up a cluster
    Of all the virtues you can muster,
    Which, formed into a garland sweet,
    Lay humbly at your monarch’s feet,
    Who, as the odours reach his throne,
    Will smile, and think them all his own:
    For law and gospel doth determine
    All virtues lodge in royal ermine;
    (I mean the oracles of both,
    Who shall depose it upon oath);
    Your garland, in the following reign,
    Change but the names, ’twill do again.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Hobbes clearly proves that ev’ry creature
    Lives in a state of war by nature;
    The greater for the smaller watch,
    But meddle seldom with their match.
    A whale of mod’rate size will draw
    A shoal of herrings in his maw;
    A fox with geese his belly crams;
    A wolf destroys a thousand lambs;
    But search among the rhyming race,
    The brave are worried by the base.
    If on Parnassus’ top you sit,
    You rarely bite, are always bit.
    Each poet of inferior size
    On you shall rail and criticize,
    And strive to tear you limb from limb,
    While others do as much for him.
        The vermin only tease and pinch
        Their foes superior by an inch,
        So nat’ralists observe a flea
        Have smaller fleas on him that prey,
        And these have smaller still to bite ’em,
        And so proceed _ad infinitum_.

                                                    _Jonathan Swift._




                         _LETTER FROM A LIAR._


I shall, without any manner of preface or apology, acquaint you that
I am, and ever have been from my youth upward, one of the greatest
liars this island has produced. I have read all the moralists upon
the subject, but could never find any effect their discourses had
upon me but to add to my misfortune by new thoughts and ideas, and
making me more ready in my language, and capable of sometimes mixing
seeming truths with my improbabilities. With this strong passion
towards falsehood in this kind there does not live an honester man or a
sincerer friend; but my imagination runs away with me, and whatever
is started, I have such a scene of adventures appear in an instant
before me, that I cannot help uttering them, though, to my immediate
confusion, I cannot but know I am liable to be detected by the first
man I meet.

  [Illustration: “MY IMAGINATION RUNS AWAY WITH ME.”]

Upon occasion of the mention of the battle of Pultowa I could not
forbear giving an account of a kinsman of mine, a young merchant, who
was bred at Moscow, that had too much mettle to attend books of entries
and accounts when there was so active a scene in the country where he
resided, and followed the Czar as a volunteer. This warm youth, born
at the instant the thing was spoken of, was the man who unhorsed the
Swedish general; he was the occasion that the Muscovites kept their
fire in so soldier-like a manner, and brought up those troops which
were covered from the enemy at the beginning of the day; besides
this, he had at last the good fortune to be the man who took Count
Piper. With all this fire I knew my cousin to be the civilest man in
the world. He never made any impertinent show of his valour, and then
he had an excellent genius for the world in every other kind. I had
letters from him--here I felt in my pockets--that exactly spoke the
Czar’s character, which I knew perfectly well, and I could not forbear
concluding that I lay with his imperial majesty twice or thrice a week
all the while he lodged at Deptford. What is worse than all this, it
is impossible to speak to me but you give me some occasion of coming
out with one lie or other that has neither wit, humour, prospect of
interest, nor any other motive that I can think of in nature. The
other day, when one was commending an eminent and learned divine, what
occasion had I to say, “Methinks he would look more venerable if he
were not so fair a man”? I remember the company smiled. I have seen the
gentleman since, and he is coal black. I have intimations every day
in my life that nobody believes me, yet I am never the better. I was
saying something the other day to an old friend at Will’s coffee-house,
and he made me no manner of answer, but told me that an acquaintance
of Tully the orator, having two or three times together said to him,
without receiving an answer, “That upon his honour he was but that
very month forty years of age,” Tully answered, “Surely you think me
the most incredulous man in the world, if I don’t believe what you
have told me every day these ten years.” The mischief of it is, I find
myself wonderfully inclined to have been present at every encounter
that is spoken of before me; this has led me into many inconveniences,
but indeed they have been the fewer because I am no ill-natured man,
and never speak things to any man’s disadvantage. I never directly
defame, but I do what is as bad in the consequence, for I have often
made a man say such and such a lively expression, who was born a mere
elder brother. When one has said in my hearing, “Such a one is no
wiser than he should be,” I immediately have replied, “Now, faith, I
can’t see that; he said a very good thing to my lord such-a-one, upon
such an occasion,” and the like. Such an honest dolt as this has been
watched in every expression he uttered, upon my recommendation of him,
and consequently been subject to the more ridicule. I once endeavoured
to cure myself of this impertinent quality, and resolved to hold my
tongue for seven days together; I did so, but then I had so many winks
and contortions of my face upon what anybody else said that I found I
only forbore the expression, and that I still lied in my heart to every
man I met with. You are to know one thing, which I believe you will
say is a pity, considering the use I should have made of it. I never
travelled in my life; but I do not know whether I could have spoken
of any foreign country with more familiarity than I do at present, in
company who are strangers too ... though I was never out of this town,
and fifty miles about it.

It were endless to give you particulars of this kind, but I can assure
you, Mr. Spectator, there are about twenty or thirty of us in this town
(I mean by this town the cities of London and Westminster); I say there
are in town a sufficient number to make a society among ourselves; and
since we cannot be believed any longer, I beg of you to print this
letter that we may meet together, and be under such regulation as there
may be no occasion for belief or confidence among us. If you think fit,
we might be called THE HISTORIANS, for liar is become a very
harsh word.

       *       *       *       *       *

But, alas! whither am I running! While I complain, while I remonstrate
to you, even all this is a lie, for there is no such person of quality,
lover, soldier, or merchant, as I have now described, in the whole
world, that I know of. But I will catch myself once in my life, and
in spite of nature speak one truth, to wit, that I am,--Your humble
servant.

                                    _Sir Richard Steele_ (1672–1729).

  [Illustration: “GOD BLESS YOU, SIR!”]




                               EPIGRAMS.


                             ON A FAT MAN.

    When Fatty walks the street, the paviors cry,
    “God bless you, sir!” and lay their rammers by.


                           ON A STINGY BEAU.

    Curio’s rich sideboard seldom sees the light;
    Clean is his kitchen, his spits are always bright;
    His knives and spoons, all ranged in even rows,
    No hands molest, or fingers discompose.
    A curious jack, hung up to please the eye,
    For ever still, whose flyers never fly;
    His plates unsullied, shining on the shelf,
    For Curio dresses nothing,--but himself.


                             ON MARRIAGE.

    Cries Celia to a reverend dean,
      “What reason can be given,
    Since marriage is a holy thing,
      That there are none in heaven?”

    “There are no women,” he reply’d;
      She quick returns the jest;
    “Women there are, but I’m afraid
      They cannot find a priest.”

                                       _John Winstanley_ (1678–1750).




                            _A FINE LADY._

             _A Lady’s Apartment. Two Chambermaids enter._


_First Chambermaid._ Are all things set in order? The toilette
fixed, the bottles and combs put in form, and the chocolate ready?

_2nd Cham._ ’Tis no greater matter whether they be right or not;
for right or wrong we shall be sure of our lecture. I wish for my part
that my time were out.

_1st Cham._ Nay, ’tis a hundred to one but we may run away before
our time be half expired, and she’s worse this morning than ever. Here
she comes.

                        LADY LUREWELL _enters_.

_Lure._ Ay, there’s a couple of you indeed! But how, how in the
name of negligence could you two contrive to make a bed as mine was
last night; a wrinkle on one side, and a rumple on t’other; the pillows
awry, and the quilt askew. I did nothing but tumble about and fence
with the sheets all night along. Oh! my bones ache this morning as if
I had lain all night on a pair of Dutch stairs.--Go, bring chocolate.
And, d’ye hear? be sure to stay an hour or two at least.--Well! these
English animals are so unpolished! I wish the persecution would rage a
little harder, that we might have more of these French refugees among
us.

                                      _The Maids enter with chocolate._

These wenches are gone to Smyrna for this chocolate---- And what made
you stay so long?

_Cham._ I thought we did not stay at all, madam.

_Lure._ Only an hour and a half by the slowest clock in
Christendom--and such salvers and dishes too! The lard be merciful to
me! what have I committed to be plagued with such animals? Where are my
new japan salvers? Broke, o’ my conscience! all to pieces, I’ll lay my
life on’t.

_Cham._ No, indeed, madam, but your husband----

_Lure._ How! husband, impudence! I’ll teach you manners. (_Gives
her a box on the ear._) Husband! Is that your Welsh breeding? Ha’n’t
the Colonel a name of his own?

_Cham._ Well, then, the Colonel. He used them this morning, and we
ha’n’t got them since.

_Lure._ How! the Colonel use my things! How dare the Colonel
use any thing of mine? But his campaign education must be pardoned.
And I warrant they were fisted about among his dirty _levée_
of disbanded officers? Faugh! the very thoughts of them fellows,
with their eager looks, iron swords, tied-up wigs, and tucked in
cravats, make me sick as death. Come, let me see. (_Goes to take the
chocolate, and starts back._) Heavens protect me from such a sight!
Lord, girl! when did you wash your hands last? And have you been pawing
me all this morning with them dirty fists of yours? (_Runs to the
glass._) I must dress all over again. Go, take it away, I shall
swoon else. Here, Mrs. Monster, call up my tailor; and d’ye hear? you,
Mrs. Hobbyhorse, see if my company be come to cards yet.

                         _The Tailor enters._

Oh, Mr. Remnant! I don’t know what ails these stays you have made me;
but something is the matter, I don’t like them.

_Rem._ I am very sorry for that, madam. But what fault does your
ladyship find?

_Lure._ I don’t know where the fault lies; but, in short, I don’t
like them; I can’t tell how; the things are well enough made, but I
don’t like them.

_Rem._ Are they too wide, madam?

_Lure._ No.

_Rem._ Too straight, perhaps?

_Lure._ Not at all! they fit me very well; but--lard bless me;
can’t you tell where the fault lies?

_Rem._ Why, truly, madam, I can’t tell. But your ladyship, I
think, is a little too slender for the fashion.

_Lure._ How! too slender for the fashion, say you?

_Rem._ Yes, madam! there’s no such thing as a good shape worn
among the quality; you fine waists are clear out, madam.

_Lure._ And why did not you plump up my stays to the fashionable
size?

_Rem._ I made them to fit you, madam.

_Lure._ Fit me! fit my monkey. What, d’ye think I wear clothes
to please myself! Fit me! fit the fashion, pray; no matter for me--I
thought something was the matter, I wanted quality-air. Pray, Mr.
Remnant, let me have a bulk of quality, a spreading counter. I do
remember now, the ladies in the apartments, the birth-night, were most
of them two yards about. Indeed, sir, if you contrive my things any
more with your scanty chambermaid’s air, you shall work no more for me.

_Rem._ I shall take care to please your ladyship for the future.
[_Exit._

                          _A Servant enters._

_Serv._ Madam, my master desires----

_Lure._ Hold, hold, fellow; for gad’s sake, hold; if thou touch
my clothes with that tobacco breath of thine, I shall poison the whole
drawing-room. Stand at the door pray, and speak. (_Servant goes to
the door and speaks._)

_Serv._ My master, madam, desires----

_Lure._ Oh, hideous! Now the rascal bellows so loud that he tears
my head to pieces. Here, awkwardness, go take the booby’s message, and
bring it to me.

           (_Maid goes to the door, whispers, and returns._)

_Cham._ My master desires to know how your ladyship rested last
night, and if you are pleased to admit of a visit this morning.

_Lure._ Ay--why this is civil. ’Tis an insupportable toil though
for women of quality to model their husbands to good breeding.

                                       _George Farquhar_ (1678–1707).




                            _THE BORROWER_.


_Richmore._ You may keep the letter.

_Young Wou’d-be._ But why would you trust it with me? You know I
can’t keep a secret that has any scandal in ’t.

_Rich._ For that reason I communicate it. I know thou art a
perfect Gazette, and will spread the news all over the town; for you
must understand that I am now besieging another, and I would have the
fame of my conquest upon the wing, that the town may surrender the
sooner.

_Y. W._ But if the report of your cruelty goes along with that of
your valour, you’ll find no garrison of any strength will open their
gates to you.

_Rich._ No, no; women are cowards, terror prevails upon them
more than clemency; my best pretence to my success with the fair is
my using them ill; ’tis turning their own guns upon them, and I have
always found it the most successful battery to assail one reputation by
sacrificing another.

_Y. W._ I could love thee for thy mischief, did I not envy thee
for thy success in it.

_Rich._ You never attempt a woman of figure.

_Y. W._ How can I? This confounded hump of mine is such a burden
to my back that it presses me down here in the dirt and diseases
of Covent Garden, the low suburbs of pleasure. Curst fortune! I
am a younger brother, and yet cruelly deprived of my birthright,
a handsome person; seven thousand a year, in a direct line, would
have straightened my back to some purpose. But I look, in my present
circumstances, like a branch of another kind, grafted only upon the
stock which makes me look so crooked.

_Rich._ Come, come, ’tis no misfortune, your father is so as well
as you.

_Y. W._ Then why should not I be a lord as well as he? Had I the
same title to the deformity I could bear it.

_Rich._ But how does my lord bear the absence of your twin-brother?

_Y. W._ My twin-brother? Ay, ’twas his crowding me that spoiled my
shape, and his coming half-an-hour before me that ruined my fortune. My
father expelled me from his house some two years ago, because I would
have persuaded him that my twin-brother was a bastard. He gave me my
portion, which was about fifteen hundred pounds, and I have spent two
thousand of it already. As for my brother, he don’t care a farthing for
me.

_Rich._ Why so, pray?

_Y. W._ A very odd reason--because I hate him.

_Rich._ How should he know that?

_Y. W._ Because he thinks it reasonable it should be so.

_Rich._ But did your actions ever express any malice to him?

_Y. W._ Yes; I would fain have kept him company; but being aware
of my kindness, he went abroad. He has travelled these five years, and
I am told is a grave, sober fellow, and in danger of living a great
while; all my hope is, that when he gets into his honour and estate
the nobility will soon kill him by drinking him up to his dignity. But
come, Frank, I have but two eyesores in the world, a brother before me
and a hump behind me, and thou art still laying them in my way; let us
assume an argument of less severity. Can’st thou lend me a brace of
hundred pounds?

_Rich._ What would you do with them?

_Y. W._ Do with them? There’s a question indeed. Do you think I
would eat them?

_Rich._ Yes, o’ my troth would you, and drink them together. Look
’e, Mr. Wou’d-be, whilst you kept well with your father, I could have
ventured to have lent you five guineas. But as the case stands, I can
assure you I have lately paid off my sister’s fortune, and----

_Y. W._ Sir, this put-off looks like an affront, when you know I
don’t use to take such things.

_Rich._ Sir, your demand is rather an affront, when you know I
don’t use to give such things.

_Y. W._ Sir, I’ll pawn my honour.

_Rich._ That’s mortgaged already for more than it is worth; you
had better pawn your sword there, ’twill bring you forty shillings.

_Y. W._ ’Sdeath, sir----              [_Takes his sword off the table._

_Rich._ Hold, Mr. Wou’dbe--suppose I put an end to your misfortunes all
at once.

_Y. W._ How, sir?

_Rich._ Why, go to a magistrate and swear you would have robbed
me of two hundred pounds. Look ’e, sir, you have been often told that
your extravagance would some time or other be the ruin of you; and it
will go a great way in your indictment to have turned the pad upon your
friend.

_Y. W._ This usage is the height of ingratitude from you, in whose
company I have spent my fortune.

_Rich._ I’m therefore a witness that it was very ill spent. Why
would you keep company, be at equal expenses with me, that have fifty
times your estate? What was gallantry in me was prodigality in you;
mine was my health, because I could pay for it; yours a disease,
because you could not.

_Y. W._ And is this all I must expect from our friendship?

_Rich._ Friendship! Sir, there can be no such thing without an
equality.

_Y. W._ That is, there can be no such thing when there is occasion
for ’t.

_Rich._ Right, sir--our friendship was over a bottle only; and
whilst you can pay your club of friendship, I’m that way your humble
servant; but when once you come borrowing, I’m this way--your humble
servant.                                                       [_Exit._

_Y. W._ Rich, big, proud, arrogant villain! I have been twice his
second, thrice sick of the same love, and thrice cured by the same
physic, and now he drops me for a trifle--that an honest fellow in
his cups should be such a rogue when he is sober! The narrow-hearted
rascal has been drinking coffee this morning. Well, thou dear solitary
half-crown, adieu! Here, Jack, take this, pay for a bottle of wine, and
bid Balderdash bring it himself. [_Exit Servant._] How melancholy
are my poor breeches; not one chink! Thou art a villainous hand, for
thou hast picked my pocket. This vintner now has all the marks of an
honest fellow, a broad face, a copious look, a strutting belly, and a
jolly mien. I have brought him above three pounds a night for these two
years successively. The rogue has money, I’m sure, if he would but lend
it.

            _Enter_ BALDERDASH, _with a bottle and glass_.

Oh, Mr. Balderdash, good-morrow.

_Bald._ Noble Mr. Wou’dbe, I’m your most humble servant. I have
brought you a whetting-glass, the best Old Hock in Europe; I know ’tis
your drink in a morning.

_Y. W._ I’ll pledge you, Mr. Balderdash.

_Bald._ Your health, sir.                                    [_Drinks._

_Y. W._ Pray, Mr. Balderdash, tell me one thing, but first sit
down; now tell me plainly what you think of me?

_Bald._ Think of you, sir? I think that you are the honestest,
noblest gentleman that ever drank a glass of wine, and the best
customer that ever came into my house.

_Y. W._ And do you really think as you speak?

_Bald._ May this wine be my poison, sir, if I don’t speak from the
bottom of my heart.                                          [_Drinks._

_Y. W._ And how much money do you think I have spent in your house?

_Bald._ Why, truly, sir, by a moderate computation I do believe
that I have handled of your money the best part of five hundred pounds
within these two years.

_Y. W._ Very well! And do you think that you lie under any
obligation for the trade I have promoted to your advantage?

  [Illustration: “I THINK THAT YOU ARE THE HONESTEST, NOBLEST
  GENTLEMAN THAT EVER DRANK A GLASS OF WINE.”]

_Bald._ Yes, sir; and if I can serve you in any respect, pray
command me to the utmost of my ability.

_Y. W._ Well! thanks to my stars, there is still some honesty in
wine. Mr. Balderdash, I embrace you and your kindness; I am at present
a little low in cash, and must beg you to lend me a hundred pieces.

_Bald._ Why, truly, Mr. Wou’dbe, I was afraid it would come to
this; I have had it in my head several times to caution you upon your
expenses, but you were so very genteel in my house, and your liberality
became you so very well, that I was unwilling to say anything that
might check your disposition; but truly, sir, I can forbear no longer
to tell you that you have been a little too extravagant.

_Y. W._ But since you reaped the benefit of my extravagance, you
will, I hope, consider my necessity.

_Bald._ Consider your necessity! I do, with all my heart; and must
tell you, moreover, that I will be no longer accessory to it: I desire
you, sir, to frequent my house no more.

_Y. W._ How, sir?

_Bald._ I say, sir, that I have an honour for my good lord your
father, and will not suffer his son to run into any inconvenience. Sir,
I shall order my drawers not to serve you with a drop of wine. Would
you have me connive at a gentleman’s destruction?

_Y. W._ But methinks, sir, that a person of your nice conscience
should have cautioned me before.

_Bald._ Alas! sir, it was none of my business. Would you have me
be saucy to a gentleman that was my best customer? Lack-a-day, sir, had
you money to hold it out still, I had been hanged rather than be rude
to you. But truly, sir, when a man is ruined, ’tis but the duty of a
Christian to tell him of it.

_Y. W._ Will you lend me money, sir?

_Bald._ Will you pay me this bill, sir?

_Y. W._ Lend me the hundred pound, and I’ll pay the bill.

_Bald._ Pay me the bill, and I will--not lend you the hundred
pound, sir. But pray consider with yourself, now, sir; would not you
think me an errant coxcomb to trust a person with money that has always
been so extravagant under my eye? whose profuseness I have seen, I have
felt, I have handled? Have not I known you, sir, throw away ten pounds
a-night upon a covey of pit-partridges and a setting-dog? Sir, you have
made my house an ill house; my very chairs will bear you no longer. In
short, sir, I desire you to frequent the “Crown” no more, sir.

_Y. W._ Thou sophisticated ton of iniquity, have I fattened your
carcass and swelled your bags with my vital blood? Have I made you
my companion to be thus saucy to me? But now I will keep you at your
distance.

                                                          [_Kicks him._

_Ser._ Welcome, sir!                                      [_Kicks him._

_Y. W._ Well said, Jack.                            [_Kicks him again._

_Ser._ Very welcome, sir! I hope we shall have your company
another time. Welcome, sir!                        [_He is kicked off._

_Y. W._ Pray wait on him downstairs, and give him a welcome at the
door too. (_Exit Servant._) This is the punishment of hell; the
very devil that tempted me to sin, now upbraids me with the crime. I
have villainously murdered my fortune, and now its ghost, in the lank
shape of poverty, haunts me. Is there no charm to conjure down the
fiend?

                                                   _George Farquhar._




                          WIDOW WADMAN’S EYE.


“I am half distracted, Captain Shandy,” said Mrs. Wadman, holding up
her cambric handkerchief to her left eye, as she approached the door of
my uncle Toby’s sentry-box; “a mote--or sand--or something--I know not
what, has got into this eye of mine;--do look into it--it is not in the
white.”

  [Illustration: “‘DO LOOK INTO IT,’ SAID SHE.”]

In saying which Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside my uncle
Toby, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of his bench, she gave
him an opportunity of doing it without rising up. “Do look into it,”
said she.

Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocency of heart
as ever child looked into a raree show-box; and ’twere as much a sin to
have hurt thee.

If a man will be peeping of his own accord into things of that nature,
I’ve nothing to say to it.

My uncle Toby never did; and I will answer for him that he would have
sat quietly upon a sofa from June to January (which, you know, takes
in both the hot and cold months) with an eye as fine as the Thracian
Rhodope’s beside him, without being able to tell whether it was a black
or a blue one.

The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look at one at all.

’Tis surmounted. And--

I see him yonder, with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes
falling out of it--looking-and looking--then rubbing his eyes--and
looking again, with twice the good nature that ever Galileo looked for
a spot in the sun.

In vain! for, by all the powers which animate the organ--Widow Wadman’s
left eye shines this moment as lucid as her right;--there is neither
mote, nor sand, nor dust, nor chaff, nor speck, nor particle of opaque
matter floating in it. There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but
one lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of
it, in all directions into thine.

If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this mote one moment longer,
thou art undone.

An eye is, for all the world, exactly like a cannon, in this respect,
that it is not so much the eye or the cannon in themselves, as it is
the carriage of the eye--and the carriage of the cannon; by which both
the one and the other are enabled to do so much execution. I don’t
think the comparison a bad one; however, as ’tis made and placed at
the head of the chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in
return is that whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman’s eyes (except once in
the next period) that you keep it in your fancy.

“I protest, Madam,” said my uncle Toby, “I can see nothing whatever in
your eye.”

“It is not in the white,” said Mrs. Wadman. My uncle Toby looked with
might and main into the pupil.

Now, of all the eyes which ever were created, from your own, Madam, up
to those of Venus herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of
eyes as ever stood in a head, there never was an eye of them all so
fitted to rob my uncle Toby of his repose as the very eye at which he
was looking;--it was not, Madam, a rolling eye--a romping, or a wanton
one,--nor was it an eye sparkling, petulant, or imperious--of high
claims and terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that
milk of human nature of which my uncle Toby was made up; but ’twas an
eye full of gentle salutations--and soft responses--speaking--not like
the trumpet-stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to
holds coarse converse, but whispering soft--like the last low accents
of an expiring saint-“How can you live comfortless, Captain Shandy, and
alone, without a bosom to lean your head on--or trust your cares to?”

It was an eye----

But I shall be in love with it myself if I say another word about it.

It did my uncle Toby’s business.

                                       _Laurence Sterne_ (1713–1768).




                       _BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES._


            Ye good fellows all,
    Who love to be told where good claret’s in store,
            Attend to the call
            Of one who’s ne’er frighted,
            But greatly delighted
              With six bottles more.
            Be sure you don’t pass
            The good house, Moneyglass,
    Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns,
    ’Twill well suit your humour--
    For, pray, what would you more,
    Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?

            Ye lovers who pine
    For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,
            Who whimper and whine
            For lilies and roses,
            With eyes, lips, and noses,
    Or tip of an ear!
            Come hither, I’ll show ye
            How Phillis and Chloe
    No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans;
    For what mortal’s so stupid
    As not to quit Cupid,
    When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?

            Ye poets who write,
    And brag of your drinking famed Helicon’s brook,--
            Though all you get by it
            Is a dinner ofttimes,
            In reward for your rhymes,
            With Humphry the Duke,--
            Learn Bacchus to follow,
            And quit your Apollo,
    Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones:
            Our jingling of glasses
            Your rhyming surpasses
    When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

            Ye soldiers so stout,
    With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,
            Who make such a rout
            Of all your commanders,
            Who served us in Flanders,
            And eke at the Boyne,--
            Come leave off your rattling
            Of sieging and battling,
    And know you’d much better to sleep in whole bones;
            Were you sent to Gibraltar,
            Your notes you’d soon alter,
    And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

            Ye clergy so wise,
    Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear,
    How worthy to rise!
            You preach once a week,
            But your tithes never seek
              Above once in a year!
            Come here without failing,
            And leave off your railing
    ’Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;
            Says the text so divine,
            “What is life without wine?”
    Then away with the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!

            Ye lawyers so just,
    Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,
            How worthy of trust!
              You know black from white,
            You prefer wrong to right,
            As you chance to be fee’d:--
            Leave musty reports
            And forsake the king’s courts,
    Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones;
            Burn Salkeld and Ventris,[4]
            And all your damned entries,
    And away with the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!

            Ye physical tribe
    Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace,
            Whene’er you prescribe,
            Have at your devotion,
            Pills, bolus, or potion,
            Be what will the case;
            Pray where is the need
            To purge, blister, and bleed?
    When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns
            That the forms of old Galen
            Are not so prevailing
    As mirth with good claret,--and bumpers, Squire Jones!

            Ye fox-hunters eke,
    That follow the call of the horn and the hound,
            Who your ladies forsake
            Before they’re awake,
            To beat up the brake
            Where the vermin is found:--
            Leave Piper and Blueman,
            Shrill Duchess and Trueman,--
    No music is found in such dissonant tones!
            Would you ravish your ears
            With the songs of the spheres,
    Hark away to the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!

                                        _Arthur Dawson_ (1700?–1775).




                             _JACK LOFTY._

                       _Scene_--CROAKER’S HOUSE.
                       _Present_--MRS. CROAKER _and_ LOFTY.


               _Enter_ LOFTY, _speaking to his servant_.

_Lofty._ And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing
creature, the marquis, should call, I am not at home. D-- me, I’ll be
a pack-horse to none of them. My dear madam, I have just snatched a
moment--and if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent
off; they’re of importance. Madam, I ask a thousand pardons.

_Mrs. C._ Sir, this honour----

_Lofty._ And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the commission,
let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercout’s stale
request, it can keep cold; you understand me. Madam, I ask ten thousand
pardons. And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish borough,
you must do him--you must do him, I say. Madam, I ask you ten thousand
pardons--and if the Russian ambassador calls--but he will scarce call
to-day, I believe. And now, madam, I have just got time to express my
happiness in having the honour of being permitted to profess myself
your most obedient humble servant.

_Mrs. C._ Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine; and yet, I
am only robbing the public while I detain you.

_Lofty._ Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be attended.
Ah! could all my hours be so charmingly devoted! Thus it is eternally:
solicited for places here; teased for pensions there; and courted
everywhere. I know you pity me.

_Mrs. C._ Excuse me, sir. “Toils of empires, pleasures are,” as
Waller says----

_Lofty._ Waller, Waller! Is he of the house?

_Mrs. C._ The modern poet of that name, sir.

_Lofty._ Oh, a modern! We men of business despise the moderns; and
as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty
thing enough for our wives and daughters; but not for us. Why, now,
here I stand, that know nothing of books; and yet, I believe, upon a
land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two
hours without feeling the want of them.

_Mrs. C._ The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty’s eminence in
every capacity.

_Lofty._ I am nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere
obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present
ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they
are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees; yet, upon
my soul, I don’t know what they see in me to treat me so! Measures, not
men, have always been my mark; and I vow, by all that’s honourable, my
resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm;
that is, as mere men.

_Mrs. C._ What importance! and yet, what modesty!

_Lofty._ Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I own, I am
accessible to praise; modesty is my foible. It was so the Duke of
Brentford used to say of me, “I love Jack Lofty,” he used to say; “no
man has a finer knowledge of things, quite a man of information, and
when he speaks upon his legs, by the lord, he’s prodigious! He scouts
them. And yet all men have their faults,--too much modesty is his,”
says his Grace.

  [Illustration: “I CAN TALK MY TWO HOURS WITHOUT FEELING THE WANT
  OF THEM.”]

_Mrs. C._ And yet, I dare say, you don’t want assurance when you
come to solicit for your friends.

_Lofty._ Oh, there, indeed, I’m in bronze! Apropos, I have just
been mentioning Miss Richland’s case to a certain personage; we must
name no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off, madam. No, no; I
take my friend by the button: a fine girl, sir; great justice in her
case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr.
Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must be done, sir. That’s
my way, madam.

_Mrs. C._ Bless me! You said all this to the Secretary of State,
did you?

_Lofty._ I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, curse it! since
you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary.

_Mrs. C._ This was going to the fountain-head at once; not
applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us.

_Lofty._ Honeywood! he, he! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. I
suppose you have heard what has just happened to him?

_Mrs. C._ Poor, dear man! no accident, I hope.

_Lofty._ Undone, madam, that’s all. His creditors have taken him
into custody. A prisoner in his own house.

_Mrs. C._ A prisoner in his own house? How! I am quite unhappy for
him.

_Lofty._ Why, so am I. This man, to be sure, was immensely
good-natured; but, then, I could never find that he had anything in him.

_Mrs. C._ His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless; some,
indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my
opinion.

_Lofty._ It can’t be concealed, madam, the man was dull; dull as
the last new comedy. A poor, impracticable creature! I tried once or
twice to know if he was fit for business; but he had scarce talents to
be groom-porter to an orange-barrow.

_Mrs. C._ How differently does Miss Richland think of him; for, I
believe, with all his faults, she loves him.

_Lofty._ Loves him! Does she? You should cure her of that, by
all means. Let me see, what if she were sent to him this instant, in
his present doleful situation? My life for it, that works her cure.
Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in the
next room? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must
not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss
Richland; and rather than she should be thrown away, I should think it
no indignity to marry her myself.

                                                             [_Exeunt._


                   _Scene_--YOUNG HONEYWOOD’S HOUSE.

         _Present_--SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD _and_ MISS RICHLAND.

_Sir W._ Do not make any apologies, madam. I only find myself
unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest
of late to serve you. Having learned, madam, that you had some demands
upon Government, I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there.

_Miss R._ Sir, I am infinitely obliged to your intentions; but my
guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures of success.

_Sir W._ Who? The important little man that visits here? Trust me,
madam, he’s quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable
to serve you. Mr. Lofty’s promises are much better known to people of
fashion than his person, I assure you.

_Miss R._ How have we been deceived! As sure as can be, here he
comes.

_Sir W._ Does he? Remember, I am to continue unknown; my return to
England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters!

                            _Enter_ LOFTY.

_Lofty._ Let the chariot--let my chariot drive off; I’ll visit his
Grace’s in a chair. Miss Richland here before me! Punctual, as usual,
to the calls of humanity. I am very sorry, madam, things of this kind
should happen, especially to a man I have shown everywhere, and carried
amongst us as a particular acquaintance.

_Miss R._ I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes
of others your own.

_Lofty._ My dear madam, what can a private man like me do? One man
can’t do everything--and, then, I do so much in this way every day. Let
me see: something considerable might be done for him by subscription;
it could not fail if I carried the list. I’ll undertake to set down a
brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own
peril.

_Sir W._ And, after all, it is more than probable, sir, he might
reject the offer of such powerful patronage

_Lofty._ Then, madam, what can we do? You know, I never make
promises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him
in the way of business; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir William
Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable.

_Sir W._ His uncle! Then that gentleman, I suppose, is a
particular friend of yours?

_Lofty._ Meaning me, sir? Yes, madam; as I often said, “My dear
Sir William, you are sensible I would do anything, as far as my poor
interest goes, to serve your family;” but what can be done? There’s no
procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities.

_Miss R._ I have heard of Sir William Honeywood; he’s abroad in
employment; he confided in your judgment, I suppose.

_Lofty._ Why, yes, madam; I believe Sir William had some reason to
confide in my judgment; one little reason, perhaps.

_Miss R._ Pray, sir, what was it?

_Lofty._ Why, madam--but let it go no further; it was I procured
him his place.

_Sir W._ Did you, sir?

_Lofty._ Either you or I, sir.

_Miss R._ This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, indeed.

_Lofty._ I did love him; to be sure, he had some amusing
qualities; no man was fitter to be toast-master to a club, or had a
better head.

_Miss R._ A better head?

_Lofty._ Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as dull as a choice
spirit; but hang it, he was grateful--very grateful; and gratitude
hides a multitude of faults.

_Sir W._ He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty
considerable, I am told.

_Lofty._ A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of business. The
truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater.

_Sir W._ Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? I am told he is much
about my size and figure, sir.

_Lofty._ Ay; tall enough for a marching regiment, but then he
wanted a something; a consequence of form; a kind of a--I believe the
lady perceives my meaning.

_Miss R._ Oh, perfectly; you courtiers can do anything, I see.

_Lofty._ My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange; we do
greater things for one another every day. Why as thus, now, let me
suppose you the First Lord of the Treasury, you have an employment in
you that I want; I have a place in me that you want; do me here, do you
there; interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it’s
over.

_Sir W._ A thought strikes me. (_Aside._) Now you mention
Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of
yours, you’ll be glad to hear he’s arrived from Italy; I had it from a
friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my
information.

_Lofty._ The devil he is. (_Aside._)

_Sir W._ He is certainly returned; and as this gentleman is a
friend of yours, you can be of signal service to us, by introducing me
to him; there are some papers relative to your affairs that require
despatch and his inspection.

_Miss R._ This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my
affairs; I know you will serve us.

_Lofty._ My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall
even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it.

_Sir W._ That would be quite unnecessary.

_Lofty._ Well, we must introduce you, then. Call upon me--let me
see--ay, in two days.

_Sir W._ Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever.

_Lofty._ Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But, d--n it,
that’s unfortunate; my Lord Grig’s cursed Pensacola business comes on
this very hour, and I’m engaged to attend--another time----

_Sir W._ A short letter to Sir William will do.

_Lofty._ You shall have it; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very
bad way of going to work; face to face, that’s my way.

_Sir W._ The letter, sir, will do quite as well.

_Lofty._ Zounds, sir! do you pretend to direct me--direct me in
the business of office? Do you know me, sir? Who am I?

_Miss R._ Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine;
if my commands--but you despise my power.

_Lofty._ Sweet creature! your commands could even control a debate
at midnight; to a power so constitutional, I am all obedience and
tranquillity. He shall have a letter; where is my secretary, Dubardieu?
And yet, I protest, I don’t like this way of doing business. I think if
I spoke first to Sir William---- But you will have it so.

                                                   [_Exit with Miss R._


                           _Scene_--AN INN.

             _Present_--SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, HIS NEPHEW,
                 CROAKER, LOFTY, _and_ MISS RICHLAND.

                            _Enter_ LOFTY.

_Lofty._ Is the coast clear? None but friends. I have followed you
here with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes no further,
things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a
certain board; your affair at the Treasury will be done in less than--a
thousand years. Mum!

_Miss R._ Sooner, sir, I should hope.

_Lofty._ Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper
hands, that know where to push and where to parry; that know how the
land lies.

_Miss R._ It is fallen into yours.

_Lofty._ Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is
done. It is done, I say; that’s all I have just had assurances from
Lord Neverout that the claim has been examined and found admissible.
Quietus is the word, madam.

_Miss R._ But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten
days.

_Lofty._ Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most d--y
mistaken. I had it of him.

_Miss R._ He? Why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the
country this month.

_Lofty._ This month? It must certainly be so. Sir Gilbert’s letter
did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship
there; and so it came about. I have his letter about me; I’ll read
it to you. (_Taking out a large bundle._) That’s from Paoli of
Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a mind to see
a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? Honest Pon----
(_Searching._) Oh, sir, what, are you here too? I’ll tell you
what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to
Sir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him.

_Sir W._ Sir, I have delivered it, and must inform you, it was
received with the most mortifying contempt.

_Croa._ Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean?

_Lofty._ Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You’ll find it come
to something directly.

_Sir W._ Yes, sir, I believe you’ll be amazed; after waiting some
time in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curiosity
by the passing servants, I was at last assured that Sir William
Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been imposed
upon.

_Lofty._ Good; let me die, very good. Ha, ha, ha!

_Croa._ Now, for my life, I can’t find out half the goodness of it.

_Lofty._ You can’t? Ha, ha!

_Croa._ No, for the soul of me; I think it was as confounded a bad
answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another.

_Lofty._ And so you can’t find out the force of the message? Why,
I was in the house at that very time. Ha, ha! It was I that sent that
very answer to my own letter. Ha, ha!

_Croa._ Indeed! How?--why?

_Lofty._ In one word, things between Sir William and me must be
behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard,
I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery.

_Croa._ And so it does, indeed, and all my suspicions are over.

_Lofty._ Your suspicions! What, then, you have been suspecting,
you have been suspecting, have you? Mr. Croaker, you and I were
friends, we are friends no longer.

_Croa._ As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It
escaped me. Don’t be discomposed.

_Lofty._ Zounds, sir! but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To
be treated thus! Who am I? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by
ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the _Gazetteer_ and praised in
the _St. James’s_? Have I been chaired at Wildman’s, and a speaker at
Merchant Tailors’ Hall? Have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in
the print-shops, and talk to me of suspects!

_Croa._ My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking
pardon?

_Lofty._ Sis, I will not be pacified! Suspects! Who am I? To be
used thus, have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends, the
Lords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang,
and talk to me of suspects! Who am I, I say--who am I?

_Sir W._ Since, sir, you’re so pressing for an answer, I’ll tell
you who you are. A gentleman, as well acquainted with politics as
with men in power; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with
modesty; with the Lords of the Treasury as with truth; and with all, as
you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood.

                                  [_Discovers his ensigns of the Bath._

_Croa._ Sir William Honeywood!

_Hon._ Astonishment! my uncle!                                [_Aside._

_Lofty._ So, then, my confounded genius has been all this time
only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the
window.

_Croa._ What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works? Suspect
you! You who have been dreaded by the ins and outs. You who have had
your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops. If you
were served right, you should have your head stuck up in the pillory.

_Lofty._ Ay, stick it where you will; for, by the lord, it cuts
but a very poor figure where it sticks at present.

                                      _Oliver Goldsmith_ (1728–1774).




                             _BEAU TIBBS._


Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I lately went
to gaze upon the company in one of the public walks near the city. Here
we sauntered together for some time, either praising the beauty of
such as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to
recommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time,
when, stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow and led me
out of the public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his pace,
and by his frequently looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid
somebody who followed; we now turned to the right, then to the left; as
we went forward, he still went faster, but in vain; the person whom he
attempted to escape hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon
us each moment, so that at last we fairly stood still, resolving to
face what we could not avoid.

  [Illustration: “‘YOU KNOW I HATE FLATTERY,--ON MY SOUL, I DO.’”]

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity of an
old acquaintance. “My dear Drybone,” cries he, shaking my friend’s
hand, “where have you been hiding this half a century? Positively I
had fancied you were gone to cultivate matrimony and your estate in
the country.” During the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the
appearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with peculiar
smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his neck he wore
a broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass;
his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword
with a black hilt, and his stockings of silk, though newly washed,
were grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with the
peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of
my friend’s reply, in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of
his clothes and the bloom in his countenance. “Pshaw, pshaw, Will,”
cried the figure, “no more of that, if you love me; you know I hate
flattery,--on my soul, I do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with
the great will improve one’s appearance, and a course of venison will
fatten; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do; but
there are a great many damn’d honest fellows among them, and we must
not quarrel with one half because the other wants weeding. If they were
all such as my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that
ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their
admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly’s. My
lord was there. ‘Ned,’ says he to me; ‘Ned,’ says he, ‘I’ll hold gold
to silver I can tell where you were poaching last night?’ ‘Poaching, my
lord?’ says I; ‘faith, you have missed already; for I stayed at home,
and let the girls poach for me. That’s my way: I take a fine woman as
some animals do their prey--stand still, and swoop, they fall into my
mouth.’”

“Ah! Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,” cried my companion, with looks
of infinite pity; “I hope your fortune is as much improved as your
understanding in such company?” “Improved!” replied the other; “you
shall know,--but let it go no farther--a great secret--five hundred a
year to begin with--my lord’s word of honour for it. His lordship took
me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a _tête-à-tête_
dinner in the country, where we talked of nothing else.” “I fancy you
forget, sir,” cried I, “you told us but this moment of your dining
yesterday in town.” “Did I say so?” replied he, coolly; “to be sure,
if I said so, it was so. Dined in town; egad, now I do remember I did
dine in town; but I dined in the country, too; for you must know, my
boys, I eat two dinners. By-the-bye, I am grown as nice as the devil in
my eating. We were a select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram’s,--an
affected piece, but let it go no farther--a secret. Well, there
happened to be no asafœtida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which says
I, ‘I’ll hold a thousand guineas, and say done first, that---- ’ But,
dear Drybone, you are an honest creature; lend me half-a-crown for a
minute or two, or so, just till--but hearkee, ask me for it the next
time we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget to pay you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

My little Beau yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks,
and, slapping me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most
perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that he
had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple
spectacles, and his hat under his arm.

As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, I could not
return his smiles with any degree of severity; so we walked forward
on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all
the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation. The oddities
that marked his character, however, soon began to appear; he bowed to
several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the
compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a
pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the company, with
much importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the
length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying
myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator. When we were
got to the end of our procession, “Blast me,” cries he, with an
air of vivacity, “I never saw the Park so thin in my life before!
There’s no company at all to-day; not a single face to be seen.” “No
company!” interrupted I, peevishly; “no company where there is such a
crowd? why, man, there’s too much. What are the thousands that have
been laughing at us but company?” “Lord, my dear,” returned he with
the utmost good-humour, “you seem immensely chagrined; but, blast
me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at the world, and so we are
even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, sometimes make
a party at being ridiculous; and so we say and do a thousand things
for the joke’s sake. But I see you are grave, and if you are for a
fine, grave, sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife
to-day; I must insist on’t. I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of
as elegant qualifications as any in nature; she was bred (but that’s
between ourselves) under the inspection of the Countess of All-Night.
A charming body of voice; but no more of that,--she will give us a
song. You shall see my little girl, too, Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia
Tibbs, a sweet, pretty creature! I design her for my Lord Drumstick’s
eldest son; but that’s in friendship--let it go no farther: she’s but
six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar
immensely already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in
every accomplishment. In the first place, I’ll make her a scholar; I’ll
teach her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to instruct
her; but let that be a secret.”

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm and
hauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways;
for, from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular
aversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the
door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where he
informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. We entered
the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably open; and I
began to ascend an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mounted
to show me the way, he demanded whether I delighted in prospects; to
which, answering in the affirmative, “Then,” says he, “I shall show you
one of the most charming in the world out of my window; you shall see
the ships sailing and the whole country for twenty miles round, tip
top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for such
a one; but, as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep
my prospects at home, that my friends may visit me the oftener.”

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to
ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the
first floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from
within demanded, “Who’s there?” My conductor answered that it was
him. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated
the demand; to which he answered louder than before; and now the door
was opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance. When we were got
in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning to
the old woman, asked where was her lady. “Good troth,” replied she
in a peculiar dialect, “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next
door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the tub
any longer.” “My two shirts!” cried he in a tone that faltered with
confusion, “what does the idiot mean?” “I ken what I mean weel enough,”
replied the other; “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door,
because----” “Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations!”
cried he; “go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch
hag,” continued he, turning to me, “to be for ever in my family, she
would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent
of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and
yet it is very surprising, too, as I had her from a parliament man,
a friend of mine from the Highlands, one of the politest men in the
world; but that’s a secret.”

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs’ arrival, during which interval I
had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture,
which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he
assured me were his wife’s embroidery; a square table that had been
once japanned; a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the
other; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a head, were stuck
over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry unframed pictures,
which, he observed, were all his own drawing. “What do you think, sir,
of that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni? there’s the
true keeping in it; it is my own face, and though there happens to be
no likeness, a Countess offered me a hundred for its fellow; I refused
her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.”

The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a
coquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She
made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious deshabille, but
hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night with the Countess,
who was excessively fond of the horns. “And, indeed, my dear,” added
she, turning to her husband, “his lordship drank your health in a
bumper.” “Poor Jack!” cries he, “a dear, good-natured fellow; I know he
loves me. But I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner; you
need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us;
something elegant, and little, will do,--a turbot, an ortolan, a----”
“Or what do you think, my dear,” interrupts the wife, “of a nice
pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own
sauce?” “The very thing!” replies he; “it will eat best with some smart
bottled beer; but be sure to let us have the sauce his Grace was so
fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over;
extremely disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with
high life.” By this time my curiosity began to abate and my appetite
to increase: the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at
last never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended
to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect
to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the
old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mrs. Tibbs
assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less
than two hours.

                                                  _Oliver Goldsmith._

  [Illustration: “A CHIRPING CUP IS MY MATIN SONG.”]




                      _THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY._


    I am a friar of orders grey:
    As down the valley I take my way,
        I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
        Good store of venison does fill my scrip:
      My long bead-roll I merrily chaunt,
      Where’er I walk, no money I want;
    And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell--
    Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
          What baron or squire
          Or knight of the shire
      Lives half so well as a holy friar!

    After supper, of heaven I dream,
    But that is fat pullet and clouted cream.
        Myself, by denial, I mortify
        With a dainty bit of a warden pie:
      I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin:
      With old sack wine I’m lined within:
    A chirping cup is my matin song,
    And the vesper bell is my bowl’s ding dong.
          What baron or squire
          Or knight of the shire
      Lives half so well as a holy friar!

                                         _John O’Keeffe_ (1747–1833).




                   _THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER._

       (_The two tradesmen call for orders respecting a supposed
                               corpse._)


        _Enter_ SHEARS, _a tailor_, _and_ GRIZLEY, _a servant_.

_Griz._ Mr. Shears, sir,--I’ll tell him, sir.

_Shears._ Yes, Mr. Shears, to take orders for his mourning. (_Exit_
GRIZLEY.) A bailiff shall carry them home, tho’--yet no tailor in
town so complacently suits his own dress to the present humour of his
employer--to a brisk bridegroom, I’m white as a swan, and here, to this
woful widower, I appear black--black as my own goose.

                          _Enter_ UNDERTAKER.

_Under._ “Hearse--mourning-coaches--scarfs--pall.” Um--ay--if the
cash was plenty this might turn out a pretty sprightly funeral.

_Shears._ Servant, sir.

_Under._ Scarfs--a merry death--coffin--um--ay----

_Shears._ A sudden affair this, sir.

_Under._ Sudden--ah! I’m always prepared for death.

_Shears._ Sign of a good liver.

_Under._ No tradesman within the bills of mortality lives better.

_Shears._ You’ve many customers then, sir?

_Under._ Not one breathing.

_Shears._ You disoblige them, perhaps?

_Under._ Why, the truth is, sir, tho’ my friends would die to
serve me, yet I can’t keep one three days without turning up my nose at
him--Od so! I forgot to take measure of the body.

_Shears_ (_aside_). Oh, oh!--a brother tailor--you measure
nobody here.

_Under._ Yes, I shall--Mr. Sandford’s body.

_Shears._ For what, pray?

_Under._ For a wooden surtout lined with white satin.

_Shears_ (_aside_). Odd sort of mourning!--But, sir, I have
the business of this family.

_Under._ You! I know I have had it since St. James’s churchyard
was set on fire by old Mattack the grave-digger, twenty years last
influenza business. I have nineteen bodies under lock and key this
moment.

_Shears._ You may have bodies, skirts, cuffs, and buttons--my
business!--ask my foreman--I don’t set a stitch--I’m merely an
undertaker.

_Under._ Undertaker! so am I!--and for work----

_Shears._ Now I do no work--I cut out indeed----

_Under._ Cut out! oh, you embowel ’em, perhaps--can you make a
mummy in the Egyptian fashion?

_Shears._ I never made masquerade habits.

_Under._ What! could you stuff a person of rank, to send him sweet
over sea?

_Shears._ Stuff! persons of rank--Irish tabinets are in style for
people of rank.

_Under._ Nothing like sage, thyme, pepper and salt.

_Shears._ Pepper and salt!--thunder and lightning!--for a colour!

_Under._ Thunder and lightning! why, you are in the clouds,
man--in one word, could you pickle a Duke?

_Shears._ I pickle a Duke!

_Under._ Could you place a lozenge over a window, or make out a
coat for a hatchment, without the help of a herald?

_Shears._ Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gentleman of that
name.

_Under._ Mr. Hatchment--you’ve a skull as thick as a tombstone.

_Shears._ Mayhap so, but I’ll let you know no cross-legg’d and
bandy button-making, Bedford-bury, shred-seller shall rip a customer
from me.

_Under._ Friend, depart in peace--or my cane shall make you a
_memento mori_ to all impertinent rascals.

_Shears._ Here’s a cowardly advantage! to attack a naked man--lay
by your cane, and I’ll talk to you.

            (_The_ UNDERTAKER _throws down his cane, which_
                SHEARS _takes up and beats him with._)

_Under._ Oh, death and treachery! help! murder!

                            _Enter_ DENNIS.

_Den._ Hey! what’s all this?

  [Illustration: “I PERCEIVE THIS MISTAKE.”]

_Under._ A villain!--why, here’s another undertaker insists that
he’s to bury your master.

_Shears._ Oh, thread and needles! I bury a gentleman! but, egad,
you’re a frolicsome tailor.

_Under._ Tailor! oh, you son of a sexton! call you me tailor? a
more capital undertaker than yourself.

_Shears._ Zounds, man, I’m no undertaker! I’m a tailor.

_Under._ And, zounds, man--tailor, I mean--I’m an undertaker.

_Den._ (_aside_). I perceive this mistake. One word, good
gentlemen mechanics--Mr. Tailor!

_Shears._ Sir!

_Den._ My lady is not dead.

_Shears._ Your lady not dead!

_Den._ No, nor my master neither.

_Under._ Your master not dead!

_Den._ No.

_Under._ Then perhaps he don’t want to be buried!

_Den._ Not alive, I believe.

_Under._ The most good-for-nothing family in the parish.

_Shears._ By these shears, parchment of mine shall never cross a
shoulder in it. [_Exit._

_Under._ Zounds, I’ll go home and bury myself for the good of my
family. [_Exit._

                                                     _John O’Keeffe._




                              _TOM GROG._

                   _Present_--TOM GROG _and_ RUPEE.

_Rupee._ I drink tea at Sir Toby Tacit’s this evening. Tom, you’ll
come--I’ll introduce you to the ladies; you’ll see my intended sposa,
Cornelia.

_Grog._ Ay, give me her little waiting-maid, Nancy. If I can get
her to my berth in the Minories, I shall be as happy as an Admiral.

_Rupee._ Admiral! _apropos_--I shall be married to-morrow--Tom, you’ll
dress to honour my wedding?

_Grog._ Ay, if the tailor brings home my new rigging. But now you
talk of a wife, the first time I ever saw my wife, the pretty Peggy,
was on Portsmouth ramparts, full dress’d, streamers flying, gay as
a commissioner’s yacht at a naval review--What cheer, my heart! says
I--she bore away; love gave signal for chase, so I crowded sail, threw
a salute shot across her fore-foot to make her bring-to; prepared for
an engagement, we came to close quarters, grappled. I threw a volley of
kisses at her round-top, she struck--next day, with a cheer, I took my
prize in tow to Farum Church, and the parson made out my warrant for
command--captain of the Pretty Peggy fifteen years; then she foundered
in Blanket Bay--Death took charge, and left me to swim thro’ life, and
keep my chin above water as long as I cou’d.

_Rupee._ Tom, you may be chin-deep, but water can never reach your
lips unless mixed with brandy--brandy! _apropos_, now for the
ladies.

_Grog._ Well, sheer off; d’ye see, I have business at the
Admiralty, and then I bear away for Tower Hill, to meet some Hearts of
Oak.

_Rupee._ Adieu, my Man of War; my _vis-a-vis_ is at St. James’ Gate,
so, Tom, farewell; and now, hey for the land of love.

                                                               [_Exit._

_Grog._ Now must I cruise in the channel of Charing Cross, to look
out for this lubber that affronted me aboard the _Dreadnought_. I
heard he put in at the Admiralty--Hold! is Rupee gone? If he thought I
went to fight, mayhap he’d bring the Master-at-Arms upon me, and have
me in the bilboes--Smite my timbers! there goes the enemy.

                      _Enter_ STERN (_crossing_).

I’ll hail him--yo! ho!

_Stern._ What cheer?

_Grog._ You’re Sam Stern?

_Stern._ Yes.

_Grog._ Do you remember me?

_Stern._ Remember! Yes, though you’re rich now, you’re still Tom
Grog.

_Grog._ You affronted me aboard the _Dreadnought_; the Spaniards were
then in view, and I didn’t think it time to resent private quarrels
when it is our duty to thrash the enemies of our country; but, Sam
Stern, you are the man that affronted Tom Grog.

_Stern._ Mayhap so.

_Grog._ Mayhap you’ll fight me?

  [Illustration: “WHAT CHEER?”]

_Stern._ I will--when and where?

_Grog._ The _where_ is here, and _when_ is now; and slap’s the word.
(_Lays his hand on his hanger._) But hold, we must steer off the open
sea into some creek.

_Stern._ But I’ve neither cutlash nor pistols.

_Grog._ I saw a handsome cutlash and a pretty pair of barking-irons in
a pawnbroker’s window; come, it lies on our way to the War Office.

_Stern._ I should like to touch at the _Victualling_ Office
in our voyage.

_Grog._ Why, ha’n’t you dined?

_Stern._ I’ve none to eat.

_Grog._ A seaman in England without a dinner! that’s hard, d--d
hard! there’s money--pay me when you can. (_Gives a handful of
money._)

_Stern._ How much?

_Grog._ I don’t know--get your dinner--buy the arms--meet me in
two hours at Deptford, and, shiver me like a biscuit, if I don’t blow
your head off.

_Stern._ Then I can’t pay you your money.

_Grog._ True; but mayhap you may take off mine; and if so, I shall
have no occasion for it.

_Stern._ Right, I forgot that.

                                    (_Wipes his eyes with his sleeve._)

_Grog._ What do you snivel for?

_Stern._ What a dog am I to use a man ill, and now be obliged to
him for a meal’s meat.

_Grog._ Then you own you’ve used me ill! Ask my pardon.

_Stern._ I’ll be d--d if I do.

_Grog._ Then take it without asking. You’re cursed saucy, but
you’re a good seaman; and hark ye, Sam, the brave man, though he
scorns the fear of punishment, is always afraid to deserve it. Come,
when you’ve stowed your bread-room, a bowl of punch shall again set
friendship afloat. (_Shake hands._)

_Stern._ Oh, I’m a lubber!

_Grog._ Avast! Swab the spray from your bows! poor fellow! don’t
heed, my soul! whilst you’ve the heart of a lion, never be ashamed of
the feelings of a man.

                                                     _John O’Keeffe._




                               _BULLS._

In a speech on the threatened French invasion into Ireland, made, like
the rest, in the Irish House of Commons, Sir Boyle Roche said--

“Mr. Speaker, if we once permitted the villainous French masons to
meddle with the buttresses and walls of our ancient constitution, they
would never stop nor stay, sir, till they brought the foundation-stones
tumbling down about the ears of the nation.... Here, perhaps, sirs,
the murderous Marshellaw men (Marseillais) would break in, cut us to
mincemeat, and throw our bleeding heads upon that table, to stare us in
the face.”

When a member had committed a breach of privilege, and the
sergeant-at-arms was censured for letting him escape, he said--

“How could the sergeant-at-arms stop him in the rear, while he was
catching him in the front? Could he, like a bird, be in two places at
once?”

In opposing a proposed grant for some public works, he said--

“What, Mr. Speaker, and so we are to beggar ourselves for the fear of
vexing posterity? Now, I would ask the honourable gentleman, and this
still more honourable house, why we should put ourselves out of our
way to do anything for posterity; for what has posterity done for us!
(Laughter.) I apprehend gentlemen have entirely mistaken my words. I
assure the house that by posterity I do not mean my ancestors, but
those who are to come immediately after them.”

                                     _Sir Boyle Roche_ (1740?--1807).




  [Illustration]




                       _THE MONKS OF THE SCREW._


    When St. Patrick this order established,
      He called us the “Monks of the Screw”;
    Good rules he revealed to our abbot
      To guide us in what we should do.
    But first he replenished our fountain
      With liquor the best from on high;
    And he said, on the word of a saint,
      That the fountain should never run dry.


    Each year, when your octaves approach,
      In full chapter convened let me find you;
    And when to the convent you come,
      Leave your favourite temptation behind you.
    And be not a glass in your convent--
      Unless on a festival--found;
    And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it
      One festival all the year round.

    My brethren, be chaste--till you’re tempted;
      While sober, be grave and discreet;
    And humble your bodies with fasting,
      As oft as you’ve nothing to eat.
    Yet, in honour of fasting, one lean face
      Among you I’d always require;
    If the abbot should please, he may wear it,
      If not, let it come to the prior.

    Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren,
      And with due devotion, prepare,
    With hands and with voices uplifted,
      Our hymn to conclude with a prayer.
    May this chapter oft joyously meet,
      And this gladsome libation renew,
    To the saint, and the founder, and abbot,
      And prior, and Monks of the Screw.

                                   _John Philpot Curran_ (1750–1817).




                                _ANA._


One day, when out riding with Lord Norbury, they came to a gallows, and
pointing to it the judge said, “Where would you be, Curran, if that
scaffold had its due?” “Riding alone, my lord,” was Curran’s prompt
reply.

The same judge (noted for his merciless severity) was seated opposite
Curran at dinner on another occasion, and asked, “Is that _hung_
beef before you, Curran?” “Do you try it, my lord,” replied the
advocate, “and it is sure to be.”

A blustering Irish barrister once told the little man he would put him
in his pocket if he provoked him further. “Egad, if you do, you’ll
have more law in your pocket than ever you had in your head.”

“Do you see anything ridiculous in my wig, Curran?” asked a vain
barrister, whose displaced head-gear had caused some merriment in
court. “Nothing, _except the head_, sir,” answered Curran.

Another judge had the habit of continually shaking his head during
Curran’s addresses to the jury, and the counsel, fearing the jury
might be influenced, assured them that the judge was not expressing
dissent--“when he shakes his head, _there’s nothing in it_.”

When he had to meet a notorious duellist named Bully Egan, whose girth
was twice that of Curran’s, Egan complained that the advantages were
all on one side, inasmuch as he could barely see Curran’s diminutive
person, while Curran could hardly fail to hit him. “Oh!” said Curran,
“we can soon arrange that. Let the size of my body be chalked on Mr.
Egan’s, and I am willing all shots outside the marks should not be
counted.”

  [Illustration]




  [Illustration]




                         _THE CRUISKEEN LAWN._


    Let the farmer praise his grounds,
    Let the huntsman praise his hounds,
      The farmer his sweet-scented lawn;
    While I, more blest than they,
    Spend each happy night and day
      With my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
          _Gra-ma-chree-ma cruiskeen,
          Slainte geal ma vourneen,
          Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn, bawn, bawn,
          Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn!_

    Immortal and divine,
    Great Bacchus, god of wine,
      Create me by adoption your son,
    In hope that you’ll comply
    That my glass shall ne’er run dry,
      Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
          Gra-ma-chree, etc.

    And when grim Death appears,
    After few but happy years,
      And tells me my glass it is run,
    I’ll say, “Begone, you slave!
    For great Bacchus gave me leave
      Just to fill another cruiskeen lawn.”
          Gra-ma-chree, etc.

    Then fill your glasses high,
    Let’s not part with lips a-dry,
      Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn;
    And since we can’t remain,
    May we shortly meet again
      To fill another cruiskeen lawn.
          Gra-ma-chree, etc.

                                                         _Anonymous._

  [Illustration]




                        _THE SCANDAL-MONGERS._


                   _Scene_--LADY SNEERWELL’S HOUSE.

         _Present_--LADY SNEERWELL, MARIA, MRS. CANDOUR, _and_
                            JOSEPH SURFACE.

_Mrs. C._ My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this century?
Mr. Surface, what news do you hear? though indeed it is no matter, for
I think one hears nothing else but scandal.

_Joseph._ Just so, indeed, ma’am.

_Mrs. C._ (_to Maria_). Oh, Maria! child, what! is the whole
affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume; the
town talks of nothing else.

_Maria._ I am very sorry, ma’am, the town has so little to do.

_Mrs. C._ True, true, child; but there’s no stopping people’s
tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn, from
the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle, have
not agreed lately as well as could be wished.

_Maria._ ’Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves
so.

_Mrs. C._ Very true, child; but what’s to be done? People will
talk, there’s no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told
that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filigree Flirt. But, lord!
there’s no minding what one hears; though, to be sure, I had this from
very good authority.

_Maria._ Such reports are highly scandalous.

_Mrs. C._ So they are, child; shameful, shameful! But the world
is so censorious, no character escapes. Lord, now, who would have
suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the
ill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopped her last week,
just as she was stepping into the York mail with her dancing-master.

_Maria._ I’ll answer for’t, there are no grounds for that report.

_Mrs. C._ Ay, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more,
probably, than for the story circulated last month of Mrs. Festino’s
affair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never
rightly cleared up.

_Joseph._ The licence of invention some people take is monstrous,
indeed.

_Maria._ ’Tis so; but, in my opinion, those who report such things
are equally culpable.

_Mrs. C._ To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as
tale-makers; ’tis an old observation, and a very true one; but what’s
to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking?
To-day, Mrs. Clackit assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last
become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. She
likewise hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of
her dropsy, and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner. And
at the same time Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed that Lord Buffalo
had discovered his lady at a house of no extraordinary fame; and that
Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar
provocation. But, lord! do you think I would report these things? No,
no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as tale-makers.

_Joseph._ Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and
good nature!

_Mrs. C._ I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people attacked
behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our
acquaintance, I own I always love to think the best. (LADY SNEERWELL
_and_ MARIA _retire_.) By-the-bye, I hope ’tis not true that your
brother is absolutely ruined?

_Joseph._ I am afraid his circumstances are very bad, indeed,
ma’am.

_Mrs. C._ Ah! I heard so. But you must tell him to keep up his
spirits; everybody almost is in the same way. Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas
Splint, and Mr. Nickit--all up, I hear, within this week; so if Charles
be undone, he’ll find half his acquaintance ruined, too; and that, you
know, is a consolation.

_Joseph._ Doubtless, ma’am: a very great one.

                           _Enter_ SERVANT.

_Serv._ Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. [_Exit._

_Lady S._ So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively,
you shan’t escape.

             _Enter_ CRABTREE _and_ SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.

_Crab._ Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand! Mrs. Candour, I don’t
believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad,
ma’am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too; isn’t he, Lady
Sneerwell?

_Sir B._ Oh, fie, uncle!

_Crab._ Nay, egad! it is true; I back him at a rebus or a charade
against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the
epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle’s feather catching fire.
Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore
at Mrs. Drowzie’s conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a
fish, your second a great naval commander, and----

_Sir B._ Uncle, now--pr’ythee----

_Crab._ I’faith, ma’am, ’twould surprise you to hear how ready he
is at these things.

_Lady S._ I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish anything.

_Sir B._ To say the truth, ma’am, ’tis very vulgar to print; and
as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular
people, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to
the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which,
when favoured with this lady’s smiles, I mean to give the public.

_Crab._ ’Fore heaven, ma’am, they’ll immortalise you! you will be
handed down to posterity, like Petrarch’s Laura, or Waller’s Sacharissa.

_Sir B._ Yes, madam, I think you will like them, when you shall
see them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall
meander through a meadow of margin. ’Fore gad! they will be the most
elegant things of their kind.

_Crab._ But, ladies, have you heard the news?

_Mrs. C._ What, sir, do you mean the report of----

_Crab._ No, ma’am, that’s not it--Miss Nicely is going to be
married to her own footman.

_Mrs. C._ Impossible!

_Crab._ Ask Sir Benjamin.

_Sir B._ ’Tis very true, ma’am; everything is fixed, and the
wedding liveries bespoke.

_Crab._ Yes; and they do say there were very pressing reasons for
it.

_Lady S._ Why, I have heard something of this before.

_Mrs. C._ It can’t be; and I wonder any one should believe such a
story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.

_Sir B._ Oh, lud! ma’am, that’s the very reason ’twas believed at
once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that everybody
was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

_Mrs. C._ Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the
credit of a prudent lady of her stamp, as a fever is generally to
those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny
sickly reputation that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster
characters of a hundred prudes.

_Sir B._ True, madam; there are true valetudinarians in reputation
as well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid
the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and
circumspection.

_Mrs. C._ Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know, Sir
Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most
injurious tales.

_Crab._ That they do, I’ll be sworn, ma’am. Did you ever hear how
Miss Piper came to lose her lover and her character last summer at
Tunbridge? Sir Benjamin, you remember it?

_Sir B._ Oh, to be sure; the most whimsical of circumstances.

_Lady S._ How was it, pray?

_Crab._ Why, one evening at Miss Ponto’s assembly, the conversation
happened to turn on the breeding Nova Scotia sheep in this country.
Says a young lady in company, I have known instances of it; for Miss
Letitia Piper, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova Scotia sheep that
produced her twins. What! cries the lady dowager Dundizzy (who you know
is as deaf as a post), has Miss Piper had twins? This mistake, as you
may imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of laughter. However,
’twas the next day everywhere reported, and in a few days believed by
the whole town, that Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to
bed of a fine boy and girl; and in less than a week there were some
people who could name the father, and the farmhouse where the babies
were put to nurse.

_Lady S._ Strange, indeed!

_Crab._ Matter of fact, I assure you. Oh, lud! Mr. Surface, pray
is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?

_Joseph._ Not that I know of, indeed, sir.

_Crab._ He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can
scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort, whenever he returns, to
hear how your brother has gone on.

_Joseph._ Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope
no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may
reform.

_Sir B._ To be sure he may; for my part, I never believed him to
be so utterly void of principle as people say; and though he has lost
all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews.

_Crab._ That’s true, egad! nephew. If the Old Jewry were a ward, I
believe Charles would be an alderman: no man more popular there, ’fore
gad! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that
whenever he is sick, they have prayers for the recovery of his health
in all the synagogues.

_Sir B._ Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell me,
when he entertains his friends, he will sit down to dinner with a
dozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen waiting in the
ante-chamber, and an officer behind every guest’s chair.

_Joseph._ This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen, but you pay
very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

_Maria._ Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish
you a good morning. I’m not very well. [_Exit._

_Mrs. C._ Oh, dear! she changes colour very much.

_Lady S._ Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want your
assistance.

_Mrs. C._ That I will, with all my soul, ma’am. Poor dear girl,
who knows what her situation may be? [_Exit._

_Lady S._ ’Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear
Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.

_Sir B._ The young lady’s _penchant_ is obvious.

_Crab._ But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for that;
follow her, and put her into good humour. Repeat her some of your own
verses. Come, I’ll assist you.

_Sir B._ Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you; but depend on’t,
your brother is utterly undone.

_Crab._ Oh, lud! ay, undone as ever man was. Can’t raise a guinea!

_Sir B._ And everything sold, I’m told, that was movable.

  [Illustration: “POOR DEAR GIRL, WHO KNOWS WHAT HER SITUATION MAY
  BE?”]

_Crab._ I have seen one that was at his house. Not a thing left
but some empty bottles that were overlooked, and the family pictures,
which I believe are framed in the wainscot!

_Sir B._ And I’m very sorry, also, to hear some bad stories
against him.

_Crab._ Oh! he has done many mean things, that’s certain.

_Sir B._ But, however, as he’s your brother----

_Crab._ We’ll tell you all another opportunity.

                                             [_Exit with_ SIR BENJAMIN.

                                        _R. B. Sheridan_ (1751–1816).




                   _CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE’S SUBMISSION._


                 _Scene_--CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE’S LODGINGS.

              _Present_--CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE AND HIS FATHER.


_Capt. Absolute._ Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has heard
nothing of the business that has brought me here. I wish the gout had
held him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul!

                         _Enter_ SIR ANTHONY.

Sir, I am glad to see you here, and looking so well!--your sudden
arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.

_Sir Anth._ Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are
recruiting here, eh?

_Capt. A._ Yes, sir, I am on duty.

_Sir Anth._ Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not
expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of
business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and
shall probably not trouble you long.

_Capt. A._ Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and
hearty, and I pray fervently that you may continue so.

_Sir Anth._ I hope your prayers may be heard with all my heart.
Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty
I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that
the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is
but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.

_Capt. A._ Sir, you are very good.

_Sir Anth._ And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy
make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you
at once in a noble independence.

_Capt. A._ Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I presume
you would not wish me to quit the army?

_Sir Anth._ Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses.

_Capt. A._ My wife, sir!

_Sir Anth._ Ay, ay, settle that between you; settle that between
you.

_Capt. A._ A wife, sir, did you say?

_Sir Anth._ Ay, a wife; why, did not I mention her before?

_Capt. A._ Not a word of her, sir.

_Sir Anth._ Od so! I mustn’t forget her though--Yes, Jack, the
independence I was talking of is by a marriage; the fortune is saddled
with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference.

_Capt. A._ Sir, sir, you amaze me!

_Sir Anth._ Why, what the devil’s the matter with the fool? Just
now you were all gratitude and duty.

_Capt. A._ I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a
fortune, but not a word of a wife.

_Sir Anth._ Why, what difference does that make? Ods life, sir! if
you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it
stands.

_Capt. A._ Pray, sir, who is the lady?

_Sir Anth._ What’s that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to
love, and to marry her directly.

_Capt. A._ Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my
affections for a lady I know nothing of!

_Sir Anth._ I am sure, sir, ’tis more unreasonable in you to
object to a lady you know nothing of.

_Capt. A._ You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all,
that in this point I cannot obey you.

_Sir Anth._ Harkye, Jack! I have heard you for some time with
patience, I have been cool, quite cool; but take care; you know I
am compliance itself,--when I am not thwarted! No one more easily
led,--when I have my own way; but don’t put me in a frenzy.

_Capt. A._ Sir, I must repeat it,--in this I cannot obey you.

_Sir Anth._ Now, d--n me! if ever I call you Jack again, while I
live!

_Capt. A._ Nay, sir, but hear me.

_Sir Anth._ Sir, I won’t hear a word, not a word; not one word: so
give me your promise by a nod; and I’ll tell you what, Jack (I mean,
you dog!), if you don’t, by----

_Capt. A._ What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of
ugliness!----

_Sir Anth._ Zounds, sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose:
she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the
crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull’s in Cox’s museum; she
shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be
all this, sirrah! yet, I’ll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all
night to write sonnets on her beauty.

_Capt. A._ This is reason and moderation, indeed!

_Sir Anth._ None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes!

_Capt. A._ Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth in
my life.

_Sir Anth._ ’Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your
sleeve! I know you’ll grin when I am gone, sirrah!

_Capt. A._ Sir, I hope I know my duty better.

_Sir Anth._ None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if
you please; it won’t do with me, I promise you.

_Capt. A._ Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.

_Sir Anth._ ’Tis a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion at
your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog; but it won’t
do.

_Capt. A._ Nay, sir, upon my word----

_Sir Anth._ So you will fly out! Can’t you be cool, like me? What
the devil good can passion do? passion is of no service, you impudent,
insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! don’t provoke
me! but you rely upon the mildness of my temper; you do, you dog! you
play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet, take care; the patience
of a saint may be overcome at last. But mark!--I give you six hours and
a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition,
to do every thing on earth that I choose, why--confound you! I may in
time forgive you. If not, zounds! don’t enter into the same hemisphere
with me! don’t dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with
me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I’ll strip you of your
commission! I’ll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees,
and you shall live on the interest. I’ll disown you, I’ll disinherit
you, I’ll unget you! and d--n me! if ever I call you Jack again!
[_Exit_.]

_Capt. A._ Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hands.

                             _Enter_ FAG.

_Fag._ Assuredly, sir, your father is wroth to a degree; he comes
downstairs eight or ten steps at a time, muttering, growling, or
thumping the banisters all the way; I and the cook’s dog stand bowing
at the door--rap! he gives me a stroke on the head with his cane; bids
me carry that to my master; then kicking the poor turnspit into the
area, d--ns us all for a puppy triumvirate! Upon my credit, sir, were
I in your place, and found my father such very bad company, I should
certainly drop his acquaintance.

_Capt. A._ Cease your impertinence, sir; did you come in for
nothing more? Stand out of the way.

                                         [_Pushes him aside, and exit._

_Fag._ So! Sir Anthony trims my master; he is afraid to reply to
his father, then vents his spleen on poor Fag! When one is vexed by one
person, to revenge one’s self on another who happens to come in the
way, shows the worst of temper, the basest----

                          _Enter_ ERRAND BOY.

_Boy._ Mr. Fag! Mr. Fag! your master calls you.

_Fag._ Well, you little, dirty puppy, you needn’t bawl so: the
meanest disposition, the----

_Boy._ Quick, quick, Mr. Fag!

  [Illustration: “YOU LITTLE, IMPERTINENT, INSOLENT,
  KITCHEN-BRED----”]

_Fag._ Quick, quick, you impudent jackanapes! am I to be commanded
by you, too? you little, impertinent, insolent, kitchen-bred----
                                            [_Kicks him off, and exit._


                      _Scene_--THE NORTH PARADE.

                       _Enter_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

_Capt. A._ ’Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough,
’faith. My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am
plotting to run away with. He must not know of my connection with her
yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters;
however, I’ll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something
sudden, indeed; but, I can assure him, it is very sincere. So, so, here
he comes; he looks plaguy gruff. (_Steps aside._)

                         _Enter_ SIR ANTHONY.

_Sir Anth._ No--I’ll sooner die than forgive him! Die, did I say?
I’ll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his
impudence had almost put me out of temper; an obstinate, passionate,
self-willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my return for getting
him before all his brothers and sisters! for putting him at twelve
years old into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds
a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I’ve done with him; he’s
anybody’s son for me: I never will see him more, never, never; never,
never.

_Capt. A._ Now for a penitential face! (_Advances._)

_Sir Anth._ Fellow, get out of the way!

_Capt. A._ Sir, you see a penitent before you.

_Sir Anth._ I see an impudent scoundrel before me.

_Capt. A._ A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my
error, and to submit entirely to your will.

_Sir Anth._ What’s that?

_Capt. A._ I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering
on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.

_Sir Anth._ Well, sir?

_Capt. A._ I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you
were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.

_Sir Anth._ Well, puppy?

_Capt. A._ Why, then, sir, the result of my reflections is,
a resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your
satisfaction.

_Sir Anth._ Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard
anything more sensible in my life. Confound you! you shall be Jack
again.

  [Illustration: “SIR, YOU SEE A PENITENT BEFORE YOU.”]

_Capt. A._ I am happy in the appellation.

_Sir Anth._ Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you
who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you
silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for
wonder and rapture--prepare. What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?

_Capt. A._ Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?

_Sir Anth._ Worcestershire! no. Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop
and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you
were last ordered to your regiment?

_Capt. A._ Malaprop! Languish! I don’t remember ever to have
heard the names before. Yet stay, I think I do recollect
something--Languish--Languish--She squints, don’t she? A little
red-hair’d girl!

_Sir Anth._ Squints! A red-hair’d girl! Zounds! no!

_Capt. A._ Then I must have forgot; it can’t be the same person.

_Sir Anth._ Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming love-breathing
seventeen?

_Capt. A._ As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent; if I can
please you in the matter, ’tis all I desire.

_Sir Anth._ Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently
wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some
thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply
blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her
lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not
smiling, more sweetly pouting--more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack,
her neck! Oh, Jack! Jack!

_Capt. A._ And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or her aunt?

_Sir Anth._ Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you.
When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like
a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Ods life! when I ran away with your mother,
I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.

_Capt. A._ Not to please your father, sir?

_Sir Anth._ To please my father--Zounds! not to please--Oh, my
father--Odso!--yes, yes; if my father, indeed, had desired--that’s
quite another matter. Though he wasn’t the indulgent father that I am,
Jack.

_Capt. A._ I dare say not, sir.

_Sir Anth._ But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is
so beautiful?

_Capt. A._ Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, ’tis
all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome;
but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something
about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind; now,
without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine
to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back: and
though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always
run in favour of two, I should not wish to affect a singularity in that
article.

_Sir Anth._ What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an
anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! You’re a walking
block, fit only to dust the company’s regimentals on! Ods life! I’ve a
great mind to marry the girl myself!

_Capt. A._ I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should
think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have
me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old
lady,--’tis the same to me, I’ll marry the niece.

_Sir Anth._ Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great
hypocrite, or--but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject
must be all a lie--I’m sure it must--come now, d--n your demure face;
come, confess, Jack, you have been lying--ha’n’t you? You have been
playing the hypocrite, eh?--I’ll never forgive you, if you ha’n’t been
lying and playing the hypocrite.

_Capt. A._ I’m sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear
to you should be so mistaken.

_Sir Anth._ Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me.
I’ll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady
directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you--come along:
I’ll never forgive you, if you don’t come back stark mad with rapture
and impatience--if you don’t, egad, I’ll marry the girl myself.
                                                             [_Exeunt._

                                                    _R. B. Sheridan._




                                _ANA._


When some one proposed to tax milestones, Sheridan protested that
it would not be constitutional or fair, as they could not meet to
remonstrate.

Lord Lauderdale having declared his intention to circulate some
witticism of Sheridan’s, the latter hastily exclaimed, “Pray don’t, my
dear Lauderdale; a joke in your mouth is no laughing matter!”

Lord Erskine on one occasion said that “a wife was only a tin canister
tied to one’s tail.” Lady Erskine was justly annoyed at this remark,
and Sheridan dashed off this impromptu:--

    “Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail,
    Calls a wife a tin canister tied to one’s tail;
    And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on,
    Seems hurt at his lordship’s degrading comparison.
    But wherefore degrading? Considered aright,
    A canister’s polished and useful and bright;
    And should dirt its original purity hide,
    That’s the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.”

Sheridan met two sprigs of nobility one day in St. James’s Street, and
one of them said to him, “I say, Sherry, we have just been discussing
which you were, a knave or a fool. What is your opinion on the
subject?” Sheridan took each of them by the arm, and replied, “Why,
faith, I believe I am between the two.”

Of his parliamentary opponent, Mr. Dundas, he once said, “The
honourable gentleman is indebted to his imagination for his facts, and
to his memory for his jests.”

  [Illustration: “‘WHY, FAITH, I BELIEVE I AM BETWEEN THE TWO.’”]

When he was found intoxicated in the gutter by a night-watchman and was
asked his name, he replied, “Wilberforce,” meaning the eminent teetotal
advocate.

Once at a parliamentary committee he found every seat occupied, and
looking round, asked, “Will any gentleman _move_ that I may
_take the chair_?”

Michael Kelly, the singer and composer, kept a shop at the bottom of
the Haymarket, where he sold wine and music. He asked Sheridan for a
sign, and Sheridan gave him the following:--“Michael Kelly, composer of
wine and importer of music.”




                            _MY AMBITION._


    _Ease_ often visits shepherd-swains,
    Nor in the lowly cot disdains
        To take a bit of dinner;
    But would not for a turtle-treat,
    Sit with a miser or a cheat,
        Or cankered party sinner.

    _Ease_ makes the sons of labour glad,
    _Ease_ travels with the merry lad
        Who whistles by his waggon;
    With me she prattles all day long,
    And choruses my simple song,
        And shares my foaming flagon.

    The lamp of life is soon burnt out;
    Then who’d for riches make a rout,
        Except a doating blockhead?
    When Charon takes ’em both aboard,
    Of equal worth’s the miser’s hoard
        And spendthrift’s empty pocket.

    In such a scurvy world as this
    We must not hope for perfect bliss,
        And length of life together;
    We have no moral liberty
    At will to live, at will to die,
        In fair or stormy weather.

    Many, I see, have riches plenty--
    Fine coaches, livery, servants twenty;--
        Yet envy never pains me;
    My appetite’s as good as theirs,
    I sleep as sound, as free from fears;
        I’ve only what maintains me!

    And while the precious joys I prove
    Of Tom’s true friendship--and the love
        Of bonny black-ey’d Jenny,--
    Ye gods! my wishes are confin’d
    To--health of body, peace of mind,
        Clean linen, and a guinea!

                                        _Edward Lysaght_ (1763–1810).




                        _A WAREHOUSE FOR WIT._


It is with men of their wit, as with women of their beauty. Tell a
woman she is fair, and she will not be offended that you tell her she
is cruel. Tell a man that he is a wit, and if you lay to his charge
ill-nature or blasphemy, he will take it as a compliment rather than a
reproach. Thus, too, there is no woman but lays some claim to beauty;
and no man will give up his pretensions to wit. In cases of this
kind, therefore, where so much depends upon opinion, and where every
man thinks himself qualified to be his own judge, there is nothing
so useless to a reader as illustrations; and nothing to an author so
dangerous as definition. Any attempt therefore to decide what true
WIT is must be ineffectual, as not one in a hundred would be
content to abide by the decision; it is impossible to rank all mankind
under the name of wits, and there is scarce one in a hundred who does
not think that he merits the appellation.

Hence it is that every one, how little qualified soever, is fond of
making a display of his fancied abilities; and generally at the expense
of some one to whom he supposes himself infinitely superior. And from
this supposition many mistakes arise to those who commence wags, with
a very small share of wit, and a still smaller of judgment; whose
imaginations are by nature unprolific, and whose minds are uncultivated
by education. These persons, while they are ringing their rounds on
a few dull jests, are apt to mistake the rude and noisy merriment
of illiterate jocularity for genuine humour. They often unhappily
conceive that those laugh _with_ them who laugh _at_ them. The sarcasms
which every one disdains to answer, they vainly flatter themselves
are unanswerable; forgetting, no doubt, that their _good things_
are unworthy the notice of a retort, and below the condescension
of criticism. They know not perhaps that the Ass, whom the fable
represents assuming the playfulness of the lap-dog, is a perfect
picture of jocular stupidity; and that, in like manner, that awkward
absurdity of waggishness which they expect should delight, cannot
but disgust; and instead of laying claim to admiration, must ensure
contempt. But, alas! I am aware that mine will prove a success-less
undertaking; and that though knight-errant-like I sally forth to
engage with the monsters of witticism and waggery, all my prowess will
be inadequate to the achievement of the enterprise. The world will
continue as facetious as ever in spite of all I can do; and people will
be just as fond of their “little jokes and old stories” as if I had
never combated their inclination.

Since then I cannot utterly extirpate this unchristian practice, my
next endeavour must be to direct it properly, and improve it by some
wholesome regulations. I propose, if I meet with proper encouragement,
making application to Parliament for permission to open “_A Licensed
Warehouse for Wit_,” and for a patent, entitling me to the sole vending
and uttering ware of this kind, for a certain term of years. For
this purpose I have already laid in _Jokes_, _Jests_, _Witticisms_,
_Morceaus_, and _Bon-Mots_ of every kind, to a very considerable
amount, well worthy the attention of the public. I have _Epigrams_
that want nothing but the sting; _Conundrums_ that need nothing but an
explanation; _Rebuses_ and _Acrostics_ that will be complete with the
addition of the name only. These being in great request, may be had at
an hour’s warning. _Impromptus_ will be got ready at a week’s notice.
For common and vernacular use, I have a long list of the most palpable
_Puns_ in the language, digested in alphabetical order; for these I
expect good sale at both the universities. _Jokes_ of all kinds, ready
_cut_ and _dry_.

N.B.--Proper allowance made to gentlemen of the law going on circuit;
and to all second-hand vendors of wit and retailers of repartee, who
take large quantities.

N.B.--_Attic Salt_ in any quantity.

N.B.--Most money for old _Jokes_.

                                        _George Canning_ (1770–1827).




                         _CONJUGAL AFFECTION._


    When Elliott (called the Salamander)
    Was famed Gibraltar’s stout commander,
    A soldier there went to a well
    To fetch home water to his Nell;
    But fate decreed the youth to fall
    A victim to a cannon ball.
    One brought the tidings to his spouse,
    Which drove her frantic from the house;
    On wings of love the creature fled
    To seek her dear--she found him dead!
    Her husband killed--the water spilt--
    Judge, ye fond females, what she felt!
    She looked--she sighed--and melting, spoke--
    “Thank God, the pitcher is not broke!”

                                 _Thomas Cannings_ (_fl._ 1790–1800).




                        _WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE!_


    Whisky, drink divine!
      Why should drivellers bore us
    With the praise of wine
      While we’ve thee before us?
    Were it not a shame,
      Whilst we gaily fling thee
    To our lips of flame,
      If we could not sing thee?
              Whisky, drink divine, etc.

    Greek and Roman sung
      Chian and Falernian--
    Shall no harp be strung
      To thy praise, Hibernian?
    Yes! let Erin’s sons--
      Generous, brave, and frisky--
    Tell the world at once
      They owe it to their whisky--
              Whisky, drink divine, etc.

    If Anacreon--who
      Was the grape’s best poet--
    Drank our _mountain-dew_,
      How his verse would show it!
    As the best then known,
      He to wine was civil;
    Had he _Inishowen_,
      He’d pitch wine to the divil--
              Whisky, drink divine, etc.

    Bright as beauty’s eye,
      When no sorrow veils it:
    Sweet as beauty’s sigh,
      When young love inhales it:
    Come, then, to my lips--
      Come, thou rich in blisses!
    Every drop I sip
      Seems a shower of kisses--
              Whisky, drink divine, etc.

    Could my feeble lays
      Half thy virtues number,
    A whole _grove_ of bays
      Should my brows encumber.
    Be his name adored,
      Who summed up thy merits
    In one little word,
      When he called thee _spirits_--
              Whisky, drink divine, etc.

    Send it gaily round--
      Life would be no pleasure,
    If we had not found
      This enchanting treasure:
    And when tyrant death’s
      Arrow shall transfix ye,
    Let your latest breaths
      Be whisky! whisky! whisky!
              Whisky, drink divine, etc.

                                      _Joseph O’Leary_ (17-- -1845?).




                 _TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE
                         WITH HER PETTICOAT._


    Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid!
      Though we delighted gaze,
    While artless you excite the flame,
      We perish in the blaze.
    Haply you too provoke your harm--
      Forgive the bold remark--
    Your petticoat may fan the fire,
      But, O! beware a _spark_!

                                                  _Anonymous_ (1772).




                           _EPIGRAMS, ETC._


          _On Lord Dudley, who was noted for learning all his
                          speeches by heart._

    In vain my affections the ladies are seeking:
    If I give up my heart, there’s an end to my speaking.


                   _On Miss Ellen Tree, the singer._

    On this _Tree_ if a nightingale settles and sings,
    The _tree_ will return her as good as she brings.


    _On Moore the poet’s excuse to his guests that his servant was
                 ill from the effects of a carousal._

    Come, come, for trifles never stick,
      Most servants have a failing,
    Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,
      But mine are always _aleing_.

On being asked what “on the contrary” meant, when that phrase was used
by a person charged with eating three eggs every morning, Luttrell’s
ready retort was, “Laying them, I daresay.”

I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind one so of poor relations.


                  _On a man run over by an omnibus._

    Killed by an omnibus--why not?
      So quick a death a boon is.
    Let not his friends lament his lot--
      _Mors omnibus communis_.

At one of the crowded receptions at Holland House, Lady Holland
was requested by the guests to “make room.” “It must certainly be
_made_, for it does not exist,” said Luttrell.


      _On Samuel Rogers’ poem, “Italy,” which was illustrated by
                               Turner._

    Of Rogers’ “Italy” Luttrell relates
    That ’twould have been _dished_, if ’twere not for the _plates_!

                                       _Henry Luttrell_ (1766?-1851.)




                   _LETTER FROM MISS BETTY FUDGE, IN
                     PARIS, TO MISS DOROTHY----._


    What a time since I wrote!--I’m a sad naughty girl--
    For though, like a tee-totum, I’m all in a twirl;--
    Yet ev’n (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
    Between all its twirls gives a letter to note ’em.
    But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
    My gowns, so divine!--there’s no language expresses,
    Except just the words “superbe,” “magnifique,”
    The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
    It is call’d--I forget--_à la_--something which sounded
    Like _alicampane_--but, in truth, I’m confounded
    And bother’d, my dear, ’twixt that troublesome boy’s
    (Bob’s) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi’s:
    What with fillets of roses and fillets of veal,
    Things _garni_ with lace, and things _garni_ with eel,
    One’s hair and one’s cutlets both _en popillote_,
    And a thousand more things I shall ne’er have by rote,
    I can scarce tell the diff’rence, at least as to phrase,
    Between beef _à la Psyche_ and curls _à la braise_.--
    But, in short, dear, I’m trick’d out quite _à la Française_,
    With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking,
    Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

    Where shall I begin with the endless delights
    Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights--
    This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transacting
    But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
    _Imprimis_, the opera--mercy, my ears!
      Brother Bobby’s remark, t’other night, was a true one;--
        “This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,
      For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run through one!”
    Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out,
    ’Twas the Jacobins brought ev’ry mischief about)
    That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
    Since the rabble all tried for a _voice_ in the State.--
    What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!
    What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,
    If, when of age, every man in the realm
    Had a voice like old Laïs,[5] and chose to make use of it;
    No--never was known in this riotous sphere
    Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.
    So bad, too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,
      Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
    For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
      And composing a fine rumbling base in a cholic!

    But the dancing--ah! _parlez-moi_, Dolly, _de ça_--
    There, _indeed_, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
    Such beauty--such grace--oh, ye sylphs of romance!
      Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if _she_ has
    One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
      Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
    Fanny Bias in _Flora_--dear creature!--you’d swear,
      When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
    That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
      And she only _par complaisance_ touches the ground.
    And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels
      Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,
    Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
      That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?
    Then, the music--so softly its cadences die,
      So divinely--oh, Dolly! between you and I,
    It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nigh
      To make love to me then--_you’ve_ a soul, and can judge
    What a crisis ’twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!

    The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)
    They call it the Play-house--I think--of St. Martin;
    Quite charming--and _very_ religious--what folly
    To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
    When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
    The Testament turned into _melodrames_ nightly;
    And, doubtless, so fond they’re of scriptural facts,
    They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
    Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance
    To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions,
    While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
    In very thin clothing, and _but_ little of it;--
    Here Bégrand,[6] who shines in the scriptural path,
      As the lovely Suzanna, without ev’n a relic
    Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath
      In a manner that, Bob says, is quite _Eve-angelic_!
    But, in short, dear, ’twould take me a month to recite
    All the exquisite places we’re at, day and night.

                                          _Thomas Moore_ (1779–1852).




                     _MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA._

   [The two extracts which follow are taken from a burlesque novel
   which had a great success early in the century. Its ridicule of
   the Radcliffian type of romance, full of accumulated horrors and
   grotesque affectation, probably did much to extirpate the worst
   examples of that unrealistic school.]


This morning, soon after breakfast, I heard a gentle knocking at my
door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour,
entered. Oh! ye conscious blushes; it was my Montmorenci! A plume of
white feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were
wanting. “I come,” cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand
to his lips, “I come in the ancient armour of my family to perform my
promise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.” “My
lord,” said I, “rise and be seated. Cherubina knows how to appreciate
the honour that Montmorenci confers.” He bowed; and having laid by his
spear, shield, and helmet, he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and
began his heart-rending history.

“All was dark. The hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder
rolled. Nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced. In the
province of Languedoc stood the Gothic castle of Montmorenci. Before
it ran the Garonne, and behind it rose the Pyrenees, whose summits
exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapours
rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue
tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that
swept downward to their base. ‘My lads, are your carbines charged, and
your daggers sharpened?’ whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of black
feathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. ‘If they an’t,’ said
Bernardo, ‘by St. Jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and
sharpen our daggers against this confounded north-wind.’ ‘The wind is
east-south-east,’ said Ugo. At this moment the bell of Montmorenci
Castle tolled one. The sound vibrated through the long corridors, the
spiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears
of the personage who has the honour to address you. Much alarmed, I
started from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet
of flowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with
jonquils and butterflies by Michael Angelo. But conceive my horror when
I beheld my chamber filled with banditti! Snatching my faulchion, I
flew to the armoury for my coat of mail; the bravos rushed after me,
but I fought and dressed and dressed and fought, till I had perfectly
completed my unpleasing toilet. I then stood alone, firm, dignified,
collected, and only fifteen years of age.”

    “‘Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,
    Than twenty of their swords----’

To describe the horror of the contest that followed were beyond the pen
of an Anacreon. In short, I fought till my silver skin was laced with
my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail,

    “‘And whistled as they went for want of thought.’

At length I murdered my way down to my little skiff, embarked in it,
and arrived at this island. As I first touched foot on its chalky
beach, ‘Hail! happy land,’ cried I, ‘hail, thrice hail!’ ‘There is no
hail here, sir,’ said a child running by.... Nine days and nights I
wandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my
repast; the turf my couch, and the sky my canopy.” “Ah!” interrupted
I, “how much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted
over with jonquils and butterflies!” “Extremely,” said he, “for during
sixteen long years I had not a roof over my head--I was an itinerant
beggar! One summer’s day, the cattle lay panting under the broad
umbrage, the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and
the struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. I sat
under a hedge, and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form,
flexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the
sighs of a dying vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the
daisies as it trod. What a divinity! she was fresh as the Anadyomene
of Apelles, and beautiful as the Gnidus of Praxiteles, or the Helen of
Zeuxis. Her eyes dipt in heaven’s own hue----” “Sir,” said I, “you
need not mind her eyes; I dare say they were blue enough. But pray, who
was this immortal doll of yours?” “Who?” cried he, “why, who but--shall
I speak it? who but--the LADY CHERUBINA DE WILLOUGHBY!!!”
“I!” “You!” “Ah! Montmorenci!” “Ah! Cherubina! I followed you with
cautious steps,” continued he, “till I traced you into your--you had a
garden, had you not?” “Yes.” “Into your garden. I thought ten thousand
flowerets would have leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay.
But the age of gallantry is past, that of merchants, placemen, and
fortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of Cupid is extinguished
for ever!... But wherefore,” cried he, starting from his seat,
“wherefore talk of the past? Oh! let me tell you of the present and of
the future. Oh! let me tell you how dearly, how deeply, how devotedly
I love you!” “Love me!” cried I, giving such a start as the nature of
the case required. “My Lord, this is so--really now, so----” “Pardon
this abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,” said he, flinging himself
at my feet; “fain would I have let concealment, like a worm in the
bud, feed on my damask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the maddening
sight of so much beauty?” I remained silent, and, with the elegant
embarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. I never
looked so lovely.... “I declare,” said I, “I would say anything on
earth to relieve you--only tell me what.” “Angel of light!” exclaimed
he, springing upon his feet, and beaming on me a smile that might
liquefy marble. “Have I then hope? Dare I say it? Dare I pronounce the
divine words, ‘she loves me’?” “I am thine and thou art mine,” murmured
I, while the room swam before me.

                                _Eaton Stannard Barrett_ (1786–1820).




  [Illustration]




                         _MODERN MEDIÆVALISM._


                              CHAPTER I.

                    “Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.”
                                          --_Shakespeare._

                    “Blow, breezes, blow.”
                                    --_Moore._

It was on a nocturnal night in autumnal October; the wet rain fell in
liquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and Ossianly
manner. The lowly but peaceful inhabitants of a small but decent
cottage were just sitting down to their homely but wholesome supper,
when a loud knocking at the door alarmed them. Bertram armed himself
with a ladle. “Lack-a-daisy!” cried old Margueritone, and little Billy
seized the favourable moment to fill his mouth with meat. Innocent
fraud! happy childhood!

    “The father’s lustre and the mother’s bloom.”

Bertram then opened the door, when, lo! pale, breathless, dripping,
and with a look that would have shocked the Royal Humane Society, a
beautiful female tottered into the room. “Lack-a-daisy! ma’am,” said
Margueritone, “are you wet?” “Wet?” exclaimed the fair unknown,
wringing a rivulet of rain from the corner of her robe; “O ye gods,
wet!” Margueritone felt the justice, the gentleness of the reproof, and
turned the subject, by recommending a glass of spirits.

    “Spirit of my sainted sire.”

The stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. Her hair was long and
dark, and the bed was ready; so since she seems in distress, we will
leave her there awhile, lest we should betray an ignorance of the world
in appearing not to know the proper time for deserting people.

On the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed
by the angry Atlantic, stood a moated and turreted structure called
Il Castello di Grimgothico. As the northern tower had remained
uninhabited since the death of its late lord, Henriques de Violenci,
lights and figures were, _par consequence_, observed in it at
midnight. Besides, the black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit
of meeting for several years, and _quelque fois_, he paced the
picture-gallery with a hurried step. These circumstances combined,
there could be no doubt of his having committed murder....


                              CHAPTER II.

                                 “Oh!”
                                   --_Milton._

                                 “Ah!”
                                   --_Pope._

One evening, the Baroness de Violenci, having sprained her left leg
in the composition of an ecstatic ode, resolved not to go to Lady
Penthesilea Rouge’s rout. While she was sitting alone at a plate of
prawns, the footman entered with a basket, which had just been left
for her. “Lay it down, John,” said she, touching his forehead with her
fork. The gay-hearted young fellow did as he was desired and capered
out of the room. Judge of her astonishment when she found, on opening
it, a little cherub of a baby sleeping within. An oaken cross, with
“Hysterica” inscribed in chalk, was appended at its neck, and a mark,
like a bruised gooseberry, added interest to its elbow. As she and
her lord had never had children, she determined, _sur le champ_,
on adopting the pretty Hysterica. Fifteen years did this worthy woman
dedicate to the progress of her little charge; and in that time taught
her every mortal accomplishment. Her sigh, particularly, was esteemed
the softest in Europe.

But the stroke of death is inevitable; come it must at last, and
neither virtue nor wisdom can avoid it. In a word, the good old
Baroness died, and our heroine fell senseless on her body.

    “O what a fall was there, my countrymen!”

But it is now time to describe our heroine. As Milton tells us that Eve
was “more lovely than Pandora” (an imaginary lady who never existed but
in the brains of poets), so do we declare, and are ready to stake our
lives, that our heroine excelled in her form the Timinitilidi, whom no
man ever saw; and in her voice, the music of the spheres, which no man
ever heard. Perhaps her face was not perfect; but it was more--it was
interesting--it was oval. Her eyes were of the real, original old blue;
and her lashes of the best silk. You forgot the thickness of her lips
in the casket of pearls which they enshrined; and the roses of York
and Lancaster were united in her cheek. A nose of the Grecian order
surmounted the whole. Such was Hysterica.

But, alas! misfortunes are often gregarious, like sheep. For one night,
when our heroine had repaired to the chapel, intending to drop her
customary tear on the tomb of her sainted benefactress, she heard on a
sudden,

    “Oh, horrid horrible, and horridest horror!”

the distant organ peal a solemn voluntary. While she was preparing, in
much terror and astonishment, to accompany it with her voice, four men
in masks rushed from among some tombs and bore her to a carriage, which
instantly drove off with the whole party. In vain she sought to soften
them by swoons, tears, and a simple little ballad; they sat counting
murders and not minding her. As the blinds of the carriage were closed
the whole way, we waive a description of the country which they
traversed. Besides, the prospect within the carriage will occupy the
reader enough; for in one of the villains Hysterica discovered--Count
Stilletto! She fainted. On the second day the carriage stopped at an
old castle, and she was conveyed into a tapestried apartment--in which
rusty daggers, mouldering bones, and ragged palls lay scattered in all
the profusion of feudal plenty--where the delicate creature fell ill of
an inverted eyelash, caused by continual weeping....


                             CHAPTER III.

           “Sure such a day as this was never seen!”
                                            --_Thomas Thumb._

           “The day, th’ important day!”
                                --_Addison._

           “O giorno felice!”
                     --_Italian._

The morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered
into the world with a blue sky, and the ringing of bells. Maidens,
united in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the
pipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity
to the union of congenial minds. On the left of the village are some
plantations of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog-kennel

    “With venerable grandeur marks the scene,”

while everywhere the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and
minute daisies. In a word,

    “All nature wears one universal grin.”

The procession now set forward to the church. The bride was habited in
white drapery. Ten signs of the Zodiac, worked in spangles, sparkled
round its edge, but Virgo was omitted at her desire, and the bridegroom
proposed to dispense with Capricorn. Sweet delicacy! She held a pot
of myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small lighted torch,
emblematical of Hymen.... The marriage ceremony passed off with great
spirit, and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt
how pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue.

                                            _Eaton Stannard Barrett._




                      _THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS
                            STRETCHED._[7]


    The night before Larry was stretched,
      The boys they all paid him a visit;
    A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched--
      They sweated their duds till they riz it;
    For Larry was always the lad,
      When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,
    To fence all the togs that he had,
      Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,
        And moisten his gob ’fore he died.

    “I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,
      “To see you in this situation;
    ’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,
      I’d rather it was my own station.”
    “Ochone! ’tis all over,” says he,
      “For the neckcloth I am forced to put on,
    And by this time to-morrow you’ll see
      Your Larry will be dead as mutton;
        Bekase why?--his courage was good!”

    The boys they came crowding in fast;
      They drew all their stools round about him,
    Six glims round his trap-case were placed--
      He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.
    I ax’d him was he fit to die,
      Without having duly repented?
    Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,
      And all by the gownsmen invented,
        To make a fat bit for themselves.”

    Then the cards being called for, they played,
      Till Larry found one of them cheated;
    Quick he made a smart stroke at his head--
      The lad being easily heated.
    “Oh! by the holy, you thief,
      I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!
    You cheat me bekase I’m in grief,
      But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,
        And leave you your claret to drink.”

    Then in came the priest with his book;
      He spoke him so smooth and so civil;
    Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,
      And pitched his big wig to the divil.
    Then stooping a little his head,
      To get a sweet drop of the bottle,
    And pitiful, sighing he said,
      “Oh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,
        And choke my poor windpipe to death!”

    So moving these last words he spoke,
      We all vented our tears in a shower;
    For my part, I thought my heart broke,
      To see him cut down like a flower!
    On his travels we watched him next day,
      Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!
    Not one word did our poor Larry say,
      Nor changed, till he came to “King William”:
        Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.

    When he came to the nubbling chit,
      He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,
    The rumbler jogged off from his feet,
      And he died with his face to the city.
    He kicked, too, but that was all pride,
      For soon you might see ’twas all over;
    And as soon as the noose was untied,
      Then at evening we waked him in clover,
        And sent him to take a ground sweat.

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




                    DARBY DOYLE’S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC.


I _tuck_ the road, one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an’ got
up to the Cove safe an’ sound. There I saw many ships with big broad
boords fastened to ropes, every one ov them saying, “The first vessel
for Quebec.” Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager; this
one siz she’ll be first, and that one siz she’ll be first. At any rate
I pitched on one that was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax
the fare, who shou’d come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould
townsman ov my own.

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

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

“Meat! that’s yer sort, Ned,” siz I; “then we’ll only want bread.
Hadn’t I betther go and pay my way?”

“You’re time enough,” siz Ned; “I’ll tell you when we’re ready for
sea--leave the rest to me, Darby.”

“Och, tip us your fist,” siz I; “you were always the broath of a boy;
for the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a
bite to ate.” So, my jewel, Ned brought me to where there was right
good stuff. When it got up to three o’clock I found myself mighty weak
with hunger. I got the smell ov corn-beef an’ cabbage that knock’d me
up entirely. I then wint to the landlady, and siz I to her, “Maybee
your leddyship ’id not think me rood by axin iv Ned an’ myself cou’d
get our dinner ov that fine hot mate that I got a taste ov in my nose?”
“In throath you can,” siz she (an’ she look’d mighty pleasant), “an’
welkim.” So my darlin’ dish and all came up. “That’s what I call a
_flaugholoch_[8] mess,” siz I. So we ate and drank away.

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

Many’s the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to leave it all to
him, and how comfortable he’d make me on the voyage. Day afther day we
spint together, waitin’ for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to
grow very light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther dinner--

“Darby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow--you’d betther go
on boord an’ pay your way.”

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

“Ah! Darby,” siz he, “you’re for takin’ a rise out o’ me; shure enough,
ye were the lad that was never without a joke--the very priest himself
couldn’t get over ye. But, Darby, there’s no joke like the thrue one.
I’ll stick to my promise; but, Darby, you must pay your way.”

“Oh, Ned,” siz I, “is this the way you’re goin’ to threat me afther
all? I’m a rooin’d man; all I cou’d scrape together I spint on you. If
you don’t do something for me, I’m lost. Is there no place where you
cou’d hide me from the captin?”

“Not a place,” siz Ned.

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

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

“An’ is there no other place?” siz I.

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

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

“Not a mother’s soul,” siz he.

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

“Why, Darby,” siz he (an’ he look’d mighty pittyfull), “I must thry.
But mind, Darby, you’ll have to hide all day in an empty barrel, and
when it comes to my watch, I’ll bring you down some prog; but if you’re
diskiver’d, it’s all over with me, an’ you’ll be put on a dissilute
island to starve.”

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

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

When night cum on I got down into the dark cellar, among the barrels;
poor Ned fixt a place in a corner for me to sleep, an’ every night he
brought me down hard black cakes and salt mate. There I lay snug for
a whole month. At last, one night, siz he to me, “Now, Darby, what’s
to be done? we’re within three days’ sail ov Quebec; the ship will
be overhauled, and all the passengers’ names called over; if you are
found, you’ll be sould as a slave for your passage money.” “An’ is that
all that frets you, my jewel?” siz I; “can’t you leave it all to me?
In throath, Ned, I’ll never forget your hospitality, at any rate. But
what place is outside ov the ship?” “Why, the sea, to be shure,” siz
he. “Och! botheration,” siz I. “I mean what’s the outside ov the ship?”
“Why, Darby,” siz he, “part of it’s called the bulwark.” “An’ fire an’
faggots!” siz I, “is it bulls work the vessel along?” “No, nor horses,”
siz he, “neither; this is no time for jokin’; what do you mean to do?”
“Why, I’ll tell you, Ned; get me an empty meal-bag, a bottle, an’ a
bare ham-bone, and that’s all I’ll ax.” So, begad, Ned look’d very
queer at me; but he got them for me, anyhow. “Well, Ned,” siz I, “you
know I’m a great shwimmer; your watch will be early in the mornin’;
I’ll jist slip down into the sea; do you cry out, ‘There’s a man in the
wather,’ as loud as you can, and leave all the rest to me.” Well, to
be shure, down into the sea I dropt without as much as a splash. Ned
roared out with the hoarseness ov a brayin’ ass, “A man in the sea! a
man in the sea!” Every man, woman, and child came running up out ov
the hole, the captain among the rest, who put a long red barrel like a
gun to his eye--gibbet me, but I thought he was for shootin’ me! down
I dived. When I got my head over the wather agen, what shou’d I see
but a boat rowin’ to me, as fast as a throut after a pinkeen. When it
came up close enough to be heard, I roared out: “Bad end to yees, for
a set ov spalpeen rascals, did ye hear me at last?” The boat now run
’pon the top ov me; down I dived agen like a duck afther a frog, but
the minnit my skull came over the wather, I was gript by the scruff ov
the neck and dhragged into the boat. To be shure, I didn’t kick up a
row--“Let go my hair, ye blue divils,” I roared; “it’s well ye have me
in your marcy in this dissilute place, or by the powthers I’d make ye
feel the strinth of my bones. What hard look I had to follow yees, at
all, at all--which ov ye is the masther?” As I sed this every mother’s
son began to stare at me, with my bag round my neck, an’ my bottle
by my side, an’ the bare bone in my fist. “There he is,” siz they,
pointin’ to a little yellow man in a corner ov the boat. “May the----
rise blisthers on your rapin’ hook shins,” siz I, “you yallow-lookin’
monkey, but it’s a’most time for you to think ov lettin’ me into your
ship--I’m here plowin’ and plungin’ this month afther ye: shure I
didn’t care a _thrawneen_ was it not that you have my best Sunday
clothes in your ship, and my name in your books. For three sthraws, if
I don’t know how to write, I’d leave my mark on your skull;” so sayin’,
I made a lick at him with the ham-bone, but I was near tumblin’ into
the sea agen. “An’ pray, what is your name, my lad?” siz the captin.
“What’s my name! What ’id you give to know?” siz I; “ye unmannerly
spalpeen, it might be what’s your name, Darby Doyle, out ov your
mouth--ay, Darby Doyle, that was never afraid or ashamed to own it at
home or abroad!”

“An’, Mr. Darby Doyle,” siz he, “do you mean to persuade us that you
swum from Cork to this afther us?”

“This is more ov your ignorance,” siz I--“ay, an’ if you sted three
days longer and not take me up, I’d be in Quebec before ye, only my
purvisions were out, and the few rags of bank-notes I had all melted
into paste in my pocket, for I hadn’t time to get them changed. But
stay, wait till I get my foot on shore, there’s ne’er a cottoner in
Cork iv you don’t pay for leavin’ me to the marcy ov the waves.”

All this time the blue chaps were pushin’ the boat with sticks through
the wather, till at last we came close to the ship. Every one on board
saw me at the Cove but didn’t see me on the voyage; to be sure, every
one’s mouth was wide open, crying out “Darby Doyle.”

“The---- stop your throats,” siz I, “it’s now you call me loud enough,”
siz I; “ye wouldn’t shout that way when ye saw me rowlin’ like a tub in
a mill-race the other day fornenst your faces.”

When they heard me say that, some of them grew pale as a sheet--every
thumb was at work till they a’most brought the blood from their
forreds. But, my jewel, the captin does no more than runs to the book,
an’ calls out the names that paid, and them that wasn’t paid--to be
shure, I was one ov them that didn’t pay. If the captin looked at
me before with _wondherment_, he now looked with astonishment.
Nothin’ was tawk’d ov for the other three days but Darby Doyle’s great
shwim from the Cove to Quebec. One sed, “I always knew Darby to be a
great shwimmer.” “Do ye remimher,” siz another, “when Darby’s dog was
nigh been dhrownded in the great duck hunt, whin Darby peeled off an’
brought in the dog, an’ made afther the duck himself, and swam for two
hours endways; an’ do ye remimber whin all the dogs gather round the
duck at one time; whin it wint down how Darby dived afther it,--an’
sted below while the creathur was eatin’ a few frogs, for she was weak
an’ hungry; an’ whin everybody thought he was lost, up he came with the
duck by the leg in his kithogue” (left hand). Begar, I agreed to all
they sed, till at last we got to Amerrykey. I was now in a quare way;
the captin wouldn’t let me go till a friend of his would see me. By
this time, my jewel, not only his friends came, but swarms upon swarms,
starin’ at poor Darby.

At last I called Ned. “Ned, avic,” siz I, “I want to go about my
_bisness_.” “Be asy, Darby,” siz he; “haven’t ye your fill ov good
atin’, an’ the captin’s got mighty fond ov ye entirely.” “Is he, Ned?”
siz I; “but tell us, Ned, are all them crowd ov people goin’ to sea?”
“Augh, ye _omadhaun_,”[9] siz Ned, “sure they are come to look at
you.” Just as he said this a tall yallow man, with a black curly head,
comes and stares me full in the face. “You’ll know me agen,” siz I,
“bad luck to yer manners an’ the school-masther that taught ye.” But
I thought he was goin’ to shake hands with me when he tuck hould ov
my fist and opened every finger, one by one, then opened my shirt and
look’d at my breast. “Pull away, _ma bouchal_”[10] siz I, “I’m no
desarthur, at any rate.” But never an answer he made, but walk’d down
into the hole where the captin lived. “This is more ov it,” siz I;
“Ned, what could that tallah-faced man mean?” “Why,” siz Ned, “he was
_lookin’ to see_ if your fingers were webbed, or had ye scales
on your breast.” “His impidence is great,” siz I; “did he take me for
a duck or a bream? But, Ned, what’s the meanin’ ov the boords acrass
the stick the people walk on, and the big white boord up there?” “Why,
come over and read,” siz Ned. But, my jewel, I didn’t know whether
I was stannin’ on my head or my heels when I saw in great big black
letthers:--

                   THE GREATEST WONDHER OF THE WORLD
                           TO BE SEEN HERE!

              _A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver!_

                 He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey!!

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

                     _Admittance--Half a Dollar._

“Bloody wars! Ned,” siz I, “does this mean your humble sarvint?” “Divil
another,” siz he. So I makes no more ado, than with a hop, skip, and
jump gets over to the captin, who was now talkin’ to the yallow fellow
that was afther starin’ me out ov countenance. “Pardon my roodness,
your honour,” siz I, mighty polite, and makin’ a bow,--at the same time
Ned was at my heels--so risin’ my foot to give the genteel scrape,
shure I scraped all the skin off Ned’s shins. “May bad luck to your
brogues,” siz he. “You’d betther not curse the wearer,” siz I, “or----”
“Oh, Darby!” siz the captin, “don’t be unginteel, an’ so many ladies
and gintlemen lookin’ at ye.” “The never another mother’s soul shall
lay their peepers on me till I see sweet Inchegelagh agen,” siz I.
“Begar, ye are doin’ it well. How much money have ye gother for my
shwimmin’?” “Be quiet, Darby,” siz the captin, an’ he look’d very much
frickened; “I have plenty, an’ I’ll have more for ye if ye do what I
want ye to do.” “An’ what is it, avic?” siz I. “Why, Darby,” siz he,
“I’m afther houldin’ a wager last night with this gintleman for all the
worth ov my ship, that you’ll shwim agen any shwimmer in the world;
an’ Darby, if ye don’t do that, I’m a gone man.” “Augh, give us your
fist,” siz I; “did ye ever hear ov Paddies disheving any man in the
European world yet--barrin’ themselves?” “Well, Darby,” siz he, “I’ll
give you a hundred dollars; but, Darby, you must be to your word, an’
you shall have another hundred.” So sayin’, he brought me down into the
cellar; but, my jewel, I didn’t think for the life of me to see sich
a wondherful place--nothin’ but goold every way I turn’d, an’ Darby’s
own sweet face in twenty places. Begar, I was a’most ashamed to ax the
gintleman for the dollars. “But,” siz I to myself agen, “the gintleman
has too much money, I suppose, he does be throwin’ it into the sea, for
I often heard the sea was much richer than the land, so I may as well
take it, anyhow.” “Now, Darby,” siz he, “here’s the dollars for ye.”
But, begar, it was only a bit of paper he was handin’ me. “Arrah, none
ov yer thricks upon thravellers,” siz I; “I had betther nor that, an’
many more ov them, melted in the sea; give me what won’t wash out ov my
pocket” “Why, Darby,” siz he, “this is an ordher on a marchant for the
amount.” “Pho, pho!” siz I, “I’d sooner take your word nor his oath,”
lookin’ round mighty respectful at the goold walls. “Well, Darby,” siz
he, “ye must have the raal thing.” So, by the powthers, he reckoned
me out a hundred dollars in goold. I never saw the like since the
stockin’ fell out of the chimley on my aunt and cut her forred. “Now,
Darby,” siz he, “ye are a rich man, and ye are worthy ov it all--sit
down, Darby, an’ take a bottle ov wine.” So to please the gintleman I
sat down. Afther a bit, who comes down but Ned. “Captin,” siz he, “the
deck is crowded; I had to block up the gangway to prevint any more from
comin’ in to see Darby. Bring him up, or blow me if the ship won’t be
sunk.” “Come up, Darby,” siz the captin, lookin’ roguish pleasant at
myself. So, my jewel, he handed me up through the hall, as tendher as
if I was a lady, or a pound ov fresh butther in the dog days.

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

When I got up, shure enough I couldn’t help starin’; sich crowds of
fine ladies and yallow gintlemen never was seen before in any ship. One
ov them, a little rosy-cheeked beauty, whispered the captin somethin’,
but he shuk his head, and then came over to me. “Darby,” siz he, “I
know an Irishman would do anything to please a lady.” “In throth you
may say that with your own ugly mouth,” siz I. “Well, then, Darby,”
siz he, “the ladies would wish to see you give a few sthrokes in the
sea.” “Och, an’ they shall have them, an’ welkim,” siz I. “That’s a
good fellow,” siz he; “now strip off.” “Decency, captin,” siz I; “is
it in my mother-naked pelt before the ladies? Bad luck to the undacent
brazen-faced--but no matther! Irish girls for ever, afther all!” But
all to no use. I was made to peel off behind a big sheet, and then I
made one race an’ jump’d ten yards into the wather to get out of their
sight. Shure enough, every one’s eyes danced in their head, while they
look’d on the spot where I went down. A thought came into my head while
I was below, how I’d show them a little divarsion, as I could use a
great many thricks on the wather. So I didn’t rise at all till I got
to the other side, an’ every one run to that side; then I took a hoult
ov my two big toes, an’ makin’ a ring ov myself, rowled like a hoop
on the top ov the wather all round the ship. I b’leeve I opened their
eyes! Then I yarded, back swum, an’ dived, till at last the captin made
signs for me to come out so I got into the boat an’ threw on my duds.
The very ladies were breakin’ their necks runnin’ to shake hands with
me. “Shure,” siz they, “you’re the greatest man in the world!!” So for
three days I showed off to crowds ov people, though I was _fryin’_
in the wather for shame.

At last the day came that I was to stand the tug. I saw the captin
lookin’ very often at me. At last, “Darby,” siz he, “are you any way
cow’d? The fellow you have to shwim agenst can shwim down watherfalls
an’ catharacts.” “Can he, avic?” says I; “but can he shwim up agenst
them? Wow, wow, Darby, for that. But, captin, come here; is all my
purvisions ready? don’t let me fall short ov a dhrop ov the raal stuff
above all things.” An’ who should come up while I was tawkin’ to the
captin but the chap I was to shwim with, an’ heard all I sed. Begar!
his eyes grew as big as two oysther-shells. Then the captin called me
aside. “Darby,” siz he, “do you put on this green jacket an’ white
throwsers, that the people may betther extinguish you from the other
chap.” “With all hearts, avic,” siz I; “green for ever! Darby’s own
favourite colour the world over; but where am I goin’ to, captin?” “To
the swhimmin’ place, to be shure,” siz he. “Divil shoot the failers
an’ take the hindmost,” siz I; “here’s at ye.” I was then inthrojuiced
to the shwimmer. I looked at him from head to foot. He was so tall
he could eat bread an’ butther over my head--with a face as yallow
as a kite’s foot. “Tip us the mitten, _ma bouchal_” siz I (but,
begad, I was puzzled. “Begar,” siz I to myself, “I’m done. Cheer up,
Darby. If I’m not able to kill him, I’ll fricken the life out ov him.”)
“Where are we goin’ to shwim to?” But never a word he answered. “Are ye
bothered, neighbour?” “I reckon I’m not,” siz he, mighty chuff. “Well,
then,” siz I, “why didn’t ye answer your betthers? What ’ud ye think if
we shwum to Keep Cleer or the Keep ov Good Hope?” “I reckon neither,”
siz he agen, eyein’ me as if I was goin’ to pick his pockets. “Well,
then, have ye any favourite place?” siz I. “Now, I’ve heard a great
deal about the place where poor Boney died; I’d like to see it, if
I’d any one to show me the place; suppose we wint there?” Not a taste
ov a word could I get out ov him, good or bad. Off we set through the
crowds ov ladies and gintlemen. Sich cheerin’ an’ wavin’ ov hats was
never seen even at _Dan’s_[11] enthry; an’ then the row ov purty
girls laughin’ an’ rubbin’ up agenst me, that I could har’ly get on. To
be shure, no one could be lookin’ to the ground, an’ not be lookin’ at
them, till at last I was thript up by a big loomp ov iron stuck fast in
the ground with a big ring to it. “Whoo, Darby!” siz I, makin’ a hop
an’ a crack ov my finger, “you’re not down yet.” I turn’d round to look
at what thript me.

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

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

“Have ye any use for it?” siz I.

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

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

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

“God bless your honour, sir,” siz I, “it’s my poor father that will
pray for you. When I left home the creather hadn’t as much as an anvil
but what was sthreeled away by the agint--bad end to them. This will
be jist the thing that’ll match him; he can tie the horse to the ring,
while he forges on the other part. Now, will ye obleege me by gettin’
a couple ov chaps to lay it on my shoulder when I get into the wather,
and I won’t have to be comin’ back for it afther I shake hands with
this fellow.”

Begar, the chap turned from yallow to white when he heard me say this.
An’ siz he to the gintleman that was walkin’ by _his_ side--

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

“An’, murdher an’ Irish, if you’re yer brother, can’t you send him
for yerself, an’ I’ll wait here till he comes. Here, man, take a dhrop
ov this before ye go. Here’s to yer betther health, and your brother’s
into the bargain.” So I took off my glass, and handed him another; but
the never a dhrop ov it he’d take. “No force,” siz I, “avic; maybee you
think there’s poison in it--well, here’s another good luck to us. An’
when will ye be able for the shwim, avic?” siz I, mighty complisant.

“I reckon in another week,” siz he.

So we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow went home, took the
fever, then began to rave. “Shwim up catharacts!--shwim to the Keep ov
Good Hope!--shwim to St Helena!--shwim to Keep Cleer!--shwim with an
anchor on his back!--Oh! oh! oh!”

I now thought it best to be on the move; so I gother up my winners; and
here I sit undher my own hickory threes, as indipindent as any Yankee.

                                    _Thomas Ettingsall_ (17--–1850?).

  [Illustration: ST. PATRICK AND THE SNAKES.]




                  _ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!_


    A fig for St. Denis of France--
      He’s a trumpery fellow to brag on;
    A fig for St. George and his lance,
      Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
    And the saints of the Welshman or Scot
      Are a couple of pitiful pipers;
    Both of whom may just travel to pot,
      Compared with that patron of swipers,
          St Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

    He came to the Emerald Isle
      On a lump of a paving stone mounted;
    The steamboat he beat by a mile,
      Which mighty good sailing was counted.
    Says he, “The salt water, I think,
      Has made me most fishily thirsty;
    So bring me a flagon of drink
      To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye--
          Of drink that is fit for a saint.”

    He preached, then, with wonderful force,
      The ignorant natives a’ teaching;
    With a pint he washed down his discourse,
      “For,” says he, “I detest your dry preaching.”
    The people, with wonderment struck,
      At a pastor so pious and civil,
    Exclaimed--“We’re for you, my old buck!
      And we pitch our blind gods to the divil,
          Who dwells in hot water below!”

    This ended, our worshipful spoon
      Went to visit an elegant fellow,
    Whose practice, each cool afternoon,
      Was to get most delightfully mellow
    That day, with a black-jack of beer,
      It chanced he was treating a party;
    Says the Saint--“This good day, do you hear,
      I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty!
          So give me a pull at the pot!”

    The pewter he lifted in sport
      (Believe me, I tell you no fable),
    A gallon he drank from the quart,
      And then placed it full on the table.
    “A miracle!” every one said,
      And they all took a haul at the stingo;
    They were capital hands at the trade,
      And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo,
          The pot still frothed over the brim!

    Next day, quoth his host, “’Tis a fast,
      And I’ve naught in my larder but mutton;
    And on Fridays, who’d make such repast,
      Except an unchristian-like glutton?”
    Says Pat, “Cease your nonsense, I beg,
      What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
    Take my compliments down to the leg,
      And bid it come hither a salmon!”
          And the leg most politely complied!

    You’ve heard, I suppose, long ago,
      How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
    He marched to the County Mayo,
      And trundled them into th’ Atlantic.
    Hence, not to use water for drink,
      The people of Ireland determine:
    With mighty good reason, I think,
      Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin,
          And vipers and such other stuff!

    Oh! he was an elegant blade
      As you’d meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper!
    And though under the sod he is laid,
      Yet here goes his health in a bumper!
    I wish he was here, that my glass
      He might by art magic replenish;
    But since he is not--why, alas!
      My ditty must come to a finish,
          Because all the liquor is out.

                                 _William Maginn, LL.D._ (1793–1842).




                     _THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY._

                          A MOORE-ISH MELODY.


    The last lamp of the alley
      Is burning alone!
    All its brilliant companions
      Are shivered and gone;
    No lamp of her kindred,
      No burner is nigh
    To rival her glimmer
      Or light to supply.

    I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
      To vanish in smoke,
    As the bright ones are shattered,
      Thou too shalt be broke:
    Thus kindly I scatter
      Thy globe o’er the street,
    Where the watch in his rambles
      Thy fragments shall meet.

    Then home will I stagger
      As well as I may,
    By the light of my nose, sure,
      I’ll find out the way;
    When thy blaze is extinguished,
      Thy brilliancy gone,
    Oh! my beak shall illumine
      The alley alone!

                                              _William Maginn, LL.D._

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




                        _THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS._


Alas! how we are changed as we progress through the world! That breast
becomes arid which once was open to every impression of the tender
passion. The rattle of the dice-box beats out of the head the rattle
of the quiver of Cupid; and the shuffling of the cards renders the
rustling of his wings inaudible. The necessity of looking after a
tablecloth supersedes that of looking after a petticoat; and we more
willingly make an assignation with a mutton-chop than with an angel
in female form. The bonds of love are exchanged for those of the
conveyancer; bills take the place of billets; and we do not protest,
but are protested against, by a three-and-sixpenny notary. Such are the
melancholy effects of age.

                                   ⁂

There are few objects on which men differ so much as in regard to
blue-stockings. I believe that the majority of literary men look upon
them as entirely useless. Yet a little reflection will serve us to
show the unphilosophical nature of this opinion. There seems, indeed,
to be a system of exclusive appropriation in literature, as well as in
law, which cannot be too severely reprobated. A critic of the present
day cannot hear a young woman make a harmless observation on poetry
or politics without starting; which start, I am inclined to think,
proceeds from affectation, considering how often he must have heard
the same remark made on former occasions. Ought the female sex to be
debarred from speaking nonsense on literary matters any more than the
men? I think not. Even supposing that such privilege was not originally
conferred by a law of Nature, they have certainly acquired right to it
by the long prescription. Besides, if commonplace remarks were not
daily and nightly rendered more commonplace by continual repetition,
even a man of original mind might run the hazard of occasionally so far
forgetting himself and his subject as to record an idea which, upon
more mature deliberation, might be found to be no idea at all. This, I
contend, is prevented by the judicious interference of the fair sex.

                                   ⁂

Don’t marry any woman hastily at Brighton or Brussels without knowing
who she is, and where she lived before she came there. And whenever you
get a reference upon this or any other subject, always be sure and get
another reference about the person referred to.

                                   ⁂

Don’t marry any woman under twenty; she is not come to her wickedness
before that time; nor any woman who has a red nose at any age; because
people make observations as you go along the street. “A cast of the
eye”--as the lady casts it upon you--may pass muster under some
circumstances; and I have even known those who thought it desirable;
but absolute squinting is a monopoly of vision which ought not to be
tolerated.

                                   ⁂

Don’t on any account marry a “lively” young lady; that is, in other
words, a “romp”; that is, in other words, a woman who has been hauled
about by half your acquaintance.

                                   ⁂

On the very day after your marriage, whenever you do marry, take
one precaution. Be cursed with no more troubles for life than you
have bargained for. Call the roll of all your wife’s even speaking
acquaintance; and strike out every soul that you have--or fancy you
ought to have--or fancy you ever shall have--a glimpse of dislike
to. Upon this point be merciless. Your wife won’t hesitate--a hundred
to one--between a husband and a gossip; and if she does, don’t you. Be
particularly sharp upon the list of women; of course, men--you would
frankly kick any one from Pall Mall to Pimlico who presumed only to
recollect ever having seen her. And don’t be manœuvred out of what
you mean by cards or morning calls, or any notion of what people call
“good breeding.” ... Never dispute with her where the question is of no
importance; nor, where it is of the least consequence, let any earthly
consideration ever once induce you to give way.

                                   ⁂

Few pieces of cant are more common than that which consists in
re-echoing the old and ridiculous cry of “variety is charming,”
“_toujours perdrix_,” etc., etc., etc. I deny the fact. I want
no variety. Let things be really good, and I, for one, am in no
danger of wearying of them. For example, to rise every day about half
after nine--eat a couple of eggs and muffins, and drink some cups of
genuine sound, clear coffee--then to smoke a cigar or so--read the
_Chronicle_--skim a few volumes of some first-rate new novel, or
perhaps pen a libel or two in a slight sketchy vein--then to take a
bowl of strong, rich, invigorating soup--then to get on horseback, and
ride seven or eight miles, paying a visit to some amiable, well-bred,
accomplished young lady, in the course of it, and chattering away an
hour with her,

    “Sporting with Amaryllis in the shade,
    Or with the tangles of Neœra’s hair,”

as Milton expresses it--then to take a hot-bath, and dress--then to sit
down to a plain substantial dinner, in company with a select party of
real good, honest, jolly Tories--and to spend the rest of the evening
with them over a pitcher of cool Chateau-Margout, singing, laughing,
speechifying, blending wit and wisdom, and winding up the whole with
a devil, and a tumbler or two of hot rum-punch. This, repeated day
after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year, may
perhaps appear, to some people, a picture pregnant with ideas of the
most sickening and disgusting monotony. Not so with me, however. I am a
plain man. I could lead this dull course of uniform, unvaried existence
for the whole period of the Millennium. Indeed, I mean to do so.

                                   ⁂

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

                                   ⁂

In whatever country one is, one should choose the dishes of the
country. Every really national dish is good--at least, I never yet
met with one that did not gratify my appetite. The Turkish pilaws are
most excellent--but the so-called French cookery of Pera is execrable.
In like manner, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding is always a prime
feast in England, while John Bull’s _Fricandeaux soufflées_,
_etc._, are decidedly anathema. What a horror, again, is a
_Bifsteck_ of the Palais Royal! On the same principle--(for
all the fine arts follow exactly the same principles)--on the same
principle it is, that while Principal Robertson, Dugald Stewart, Dr.
Thomas Brown, and all the other would-be English writers of Scotland,
have long since been voted tame, insipid, and tasteless diet, the real
haggis-bag of a Robert Burns keeps, and must always keep, its place.

                                   ⁂

The next best thing to a really good woman is a really good-natured
one. The next worst thing to a really bad man (in other words, _a
knave_) is a really good-natured man (in other words, a fool).

  [Illustration: “WINDING UP THE WHOLE WITH A DEVIL, AND A TUMBLER
  OR TWO OF HOT RUM-PUNCH.”]

A married woman commonly falls in love with a man as unlike her
husband as is possible--but a widow very often marries a man extremely
resembling the defunct. The reason is obvious.

                                   ⁂

If you meet with a pleasant fellow in a stage-coach, dine and get drunk
with him, and, still holding him to be a pleasant fellow, hear from his
own lips at parting that he is a Whig--do not change your opinion of
the man. Depend on it, he is quizzing you.

                                   ⁂

The safety of women consists in one circumstance--men do not possess at
the same time the knowledge of thirty-five and the blood of seventeen.

                                   ⁂

If prudes were as pure as they would have us believe, they would not
rail so bitterly as they do. We do not thoroughly hate that which we do
not thoroughly understand.

                                   ⁂

Few idiots are entitled to claver on the same form with the
bibliomaniacs; but, indeed, to be a _collector_ of anything,
and to be an _ass_, are pretty nearly equivalent phrases in the
language of all rational men. No one _collects_ anything of which
he really makes use. Who ever suspected Lord Spencer, or his factotum,
little Dibdin, of reading? The old Quaker at York, who has a museum of
the ropes at which eminent criminals have dangled, has no intention
to make an airy and tassel-like termination of his own terrestrial
career--for that would be quite out of character with a man of his
brims. In like manner, it is now well known that the three thousand
three hundred and thirty-three young ladies who figure on the books
of the Seraglio have a very idle life of it, and that, in point of
fact, the Grand Seignior is a highly respectable man. The people that
collect pictures, also, are, generally speaking, such folk as Sir John
Leicester, the late Angerstein, and the like of that. The only two
things that I have any pleasure in collecting are bottles of excellent
wine and boxes of excellent cigars--articles, of the first of which I
flatter myself I know rather more than Lord Eldon does of pictures; and
of the latter whereof I make rather more use than old Mustapha can be
supposed to do of his 3333 knick-knacks in petticoats--or rather, I beg
their ladyships’ pardon, in trousers.

                                   ⁂

As to the beautiful material adaptation of cold rum and cold water,
that is beyond all praise, and indeed forms a theme of never-ceasing
admiration, being one of Nature’s most exquisite achievements.
Sturm has omitted it, but I intend to make a supplement to his
_Reflections_ when I get a little leisure.

                                              _William Maginn, LL.D._




  [Illustration]




                    _THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS._


    Jerry Mahony, arrah, my jewel, come let us be off to the fair,
    For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be
      there;
    Say they, “The whole Mahony faction we’ll banish ’em out clear and
      clean;”
    But it never was yet in their breeches their bullaboo words to
      maintain.

    There’s Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,
    ’Twould make your mouth water to see him just giving a bit of a
      stroke;
    There’s Corney, the bandy-legged tailor, a boy of the true sort of
      stuff,
    Who’d fight though the black blood was flowing like butter-milk out
      of his buff.

    There’s broken-nosed Bat from the mountain--last week he burst out
      of jail--
    And Murty, the beautiful Tory, who’d scorn in a row to turn tail;
    Bloody Bill will be there like a darling--and Jerry--och! let him
      alone
    For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone!

    And Tim, who’d served in the Militia, has his bayonet stuck on a
      pole;
    Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order--a neat sort of tool on the
      whole;
    A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;
    But I think that a man is more handy who fights, as I do, with a
      flail.

    We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by iligant men,
    Who battered the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;
    To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of
      their talk,
    We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the
      walk.

    After cutting out work for the sexton by smashing a dozen or so,
    We’ll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery’s
      go;
    In gallons we’ll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry
      day,
    When mustering again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

                                              _William Maginn, LL.D._




                          _DANIEL O’ROURKE._


People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke,
but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above
and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the
walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well: he lived at the
bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you
go towards Bantry. An old man was he, at the time that he told me the
story, with grey hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June,
1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe
under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the
sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the
morning at Glengariff.

“I am often _axed_ to tell it, sir,” said he, “so that this is
not the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond
foreign parts, in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go,
before Bonaparte or any such was ever heard of; and sure enough there
was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple,
high and low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the
gentlemen after all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a
body a little, to be sure, and maybe give one a cut of a whip now and
then, but we were no losers by it in the end, and they were so easy
and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes;
and there was no grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant
on the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and
often in a year, but now it’s another thing; no matter for that, sir,
for I’d better be telling you my story. Well, we had everything of
the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced,
and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from
the Bohereen--a lovely young couple they were, though they are both
low enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may
say, the same thing as tipsy almost. And so as I was crossing the
stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenogh, I missed my foot, and
souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I, ‘I’ll be drowned
now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear
life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of
me can tell how, upon a _dissolute_ island.

“I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered,
until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as
day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning
her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way,
and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I began to scratch my head,
and sing the _Ullagone_[12]--when all of a sudden the moon grew
black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it
was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was.
Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and
what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom
of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel
O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’
says I; ‘I hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all the time
how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings you here,
Dan?’ says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I; ‘only I wish I was safe
home again.’ ‘Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?’ says he.
‘’Tis, sir,’ says I, so I up and told him how I had taken a drop
too much, and fell into the water. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a minute’s
thought, ’though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day,
yet as you are a decent sober man, who ’tends mass well, and never
flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields--my
life for yours,’ says he, ‘so get up on my back, and grip me well for
fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog.’ ‘I am afraid,’
says I, ‘your honour’s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding
a horseback on an eagle before?’ ‘’Pon the honour of a gentleman,’ says
he, putting his right foot on his breast, ‘I am quite in earnest; and
so now either take my offer or starve in the bog--besides, I see that
your weight is sinking the stone.’

“It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute
going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint
heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. ‘I thank your
honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll take your
kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held
him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark.
Little I knew the thrick he was going to serve me. Up--up--up, God
knows how far up he flew. ‘Why then,’ said I to him--thinking he did
not know the right road home--very civilly, because why? I was in his
power entirely; ‘sir,’ says I, ‘please your honour’s glory, and with
humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit,
you’re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many
thanks to your worship.’

“‘_Arrah_, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? Look down in
the next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it
would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard
that I picked up off a _cowld_ stone in a bog.’ ‘Bother you,’ said
I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir,
up he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down,
and all to no use. ‘Where in the world are you going, sir?’ says I to
him. ‘Hold your tongue, Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and
don’t be interfering with the business of other people.’ ‘Faith, this
is my business, I think,’ says I. ‘Be quiet, Dan,’ says he; so I said
no more.

“At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can’t
see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook
sticking out of the side of the moon, this way [drawing the figure thus
[image] on the ground with the end of his stick].

“‘Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘I’m tired with this long fly; I had no
notion ’twas so far.’ ‘And, my lord, sir,’ said I, ‘who in the world
_axed_ you to fly so far--was it I? did not I beg and pray and
beseech you to stop half-an-hour ago?’ ‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’
says he; ‘I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on
the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘Is it sit down on the moon?’ said I;
‘is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I’d fall off
in a minute, and be _kilt_ and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you
are a vile deceiver, so you are.’ ‘Not at all, Dan,’ said he; ‘you can
catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that’s sticking out of the side
of the moon, and ’twill keep you up.’ ‘I won’t then,’ said I. ‘May be
not,’ said he, quite quiet. ‘If you don’t, my man, I shall just give
you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground,
where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew
on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a fine way,’ said
I to myself, ‘ever to have come along with the likes of you;’ and so
giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I
got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and
sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you
that.

“When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said,
‘Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he, ‘I think I’ve nicked
you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year’ (’twas true enough for
him, but how he found it out is hard to say), ‘and in return you
are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a
cockthrow.’

“‘Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?’ says
I. ‘You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve
me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all
your breed, you blackguard.’ ’Twas all to no manner of use; he spread
out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like
lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and
bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never
saw him from that day to this--sorrow fly away with him! You may be
sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the
bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the
moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month
before--I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there
walks--who do you think, but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by
his bush.

“‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he; ‘how do you do?’
‘Very well, thank your honour,’ said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’
‘What brought you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him how I was a
little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a
_dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the
thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that
he had fled me up to the moon.

“‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was
done, ‘you must not stay here.’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis much
against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back?’ ‘That’s your
business,’ said he; ‘Dan, mine is to tell you that here you must not
stay, so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m doing no harm,’ says I,
‘only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’ ‘That’s
what you must not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may I ask
how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller
lodging; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with strangers
coming to see you, for ’tis a long way.’ ‘I’m by myself, Dan,’ says
he; ‘but you’d better let go the reaping-hook.’ ‘And with your leave,’
says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I
won’t let go--so I will.’ ‘You had better, Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why,
then, my little fellow,’ says I, taking the whole weight of him with my
eye from head to foot, ‘there are two words to that bargain; and I’ll
not budge, but you may if you like.’ ‘We’ll see how that is to be,’
says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him
(for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would
fall down with it.

“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again
he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a
word he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was
keeping me up, and _whap!_ it came in two. ‘Good morning to you,
Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly
falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; ‘I thank you for your
visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.’ I had not time to make
any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and
rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. ‘God help me!’ says I, ‘this is a
pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I
am now sold fairly.’ The word was not out of my mouth when, whiz! what
should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way
from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else how should they know _me_?
The _ould_ gander, who was their general, turning about his head,
cried out to me, ‘Is that you, Dan?’ ‘The same,’ said I, not a bit
daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds
of _bedevilment_, and, besides, I knew him of _ould_. ‘Good
morrow to you,’ says he, ‘Daniel O’Rourke; how are you in health this
morning?’ ‘Very well, sir,’ says I, ‘I thank you kindly,’ drawing my
breath, for I was mightily in want of some. ‘I hope your honour’s the
same.’ ‘I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel,’ says he. ‘You may say
that, sir,’ says I. ‘And where are you going all the way so fast?’ said
the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on
the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an
eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me
out. ‘Dan,’ said he, ‘I’ll save you; put out your hand and catch me by
the leg, and I’ll fly you home.’ ‘Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of
honey, my jewel,’ says I, though all the time I thought within myself
that I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the
gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as
fast as hops.

  [Illustration: “I WAS TUMBLING OVER AND OVER, AND ROLLING AND
  ROLLING.”]

“We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide
ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking
up out of the water. ‘Ah! my lord,’ said I to the goose, for I thought
it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, ‘fly to land if
you please.’ ‘It is impossible, you see, Dan,’ said he, ‘for a while,
because you see we are going to Arabia.’ ‘To Arabia!’ said I, ‘that’s
surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose; why then,
to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.’ ‘Whist, whist, you
fool,’ said he, ‘hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent
sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only
there is a little more sand there.’

“Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful
before the wind; ‘Ah! then, sir,’ said I, ‘will you drop me on the
ship, if you please?’ ‘We are not fair over her,’ said he. ‘We are,’
said I. ‘We are not,’ said he; ‘if I dropped you now you would go
splash into the sea.’ ‘I would not,’ says I; ‘I know better than that,
for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.’ ‘If you
must, you must,’ said he; ‘there, take your own way;’ and he opened his
claw, and, faith, he was right--sure enough I came down plump into
the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I
gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching
himself after his night’s sleep, and looked me full in the face, and
never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all
over again with the cold salt water till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon
my whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying--’twas a voice I knew
too--‘Get up, you drunken brute, off o’ that;’ and with that I woke up,
and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing
all over me--for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never
could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. ‘Get
up,’ said she again; ‘and of all places in the parish would no place
_sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls
of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure
enough I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles,
and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales driving me through
bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If
I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down in
the same spot again, I know that.”

                                              _William Maginn, LL.D._




                   _THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR._


    Oh! ’twas Dermot O’Nowlan McFigg,
    That could properly handle a twig,
        He went to the Fair,
        And kicked up a dust there,
    In dancing the Donnybrook Jig,
        With his twig,
    Oh! my blessing to Dermot McFigg!

    When he came to the midst of the Fair,
    He was _all in a paugh_ for fresh air,
        For the Fair very soon
        Was as full as the moon,
    Such mobs upon mobs as were there,
        Oh! rare,
    So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.

    The souls, they came crowding in fast,
    To dance while the leather would last,
        For the Thomas Street brogue
        Was there much in vogue,
    And oft with a brogue the joke passed,
        Quite fast,
    While the Cash and the Whisky did last!

    But Dermot, his mind on love bent,
    In search of his sweetheart he went;
        Peep’d in here and there,
        As he walked thro’ the Fair,
    And took a small taste in each tent,
        As he went,
    Och! on Whisky and Love he was bent.

    And who should he spy in a jig,
    With a Meal-man so tall and so big,
        But his own darling Kate
        So gay and so neat;
    Faith, her partner he hit him a dig,
        The pig,
    He beat the meal out of his wig!

    Then Dermot, with conquest elate,
    Drew a stool near his beautiful Kate;
        “Arrah! Katty,” says he,
        “My own Cushlamachree,
    Sure the world for Beauty you beat,
        Complete,
    So we’ll just take a dance while we wait!”

    The Piper, to keep him in tune,
    Struck up a gay lilt very soon,
        Until an arch wag
        Cut a hole in his bag,
    And at once put an end to the tune
        Too soon,
    Oh! the music flew up to the moon!

    To the Fiddler says Dermot McFigg,
    “If you’ll please to play ‘Sheela na gig,’
        We’ll shake a loose toe
        While you humour the bow,
    To be sure you must warm the wig
        Of McFigg,
    While he’s dancing a neat Irish jig!”

    But says Katty, the darling, says she,
    “If you’ll only just listen to me,
        It’s myself that will show
        Billy can’t be your foe,
    Tho’ he fought for his Cousin, that’s me,”
        Says she,
    “For sure Billy’s related to me!

    “For my own cousin-german, Ann Wild,
    Stood for Biddy Mulrooney’s first child,
        And Biddy’s step-son,
        Sure he married Bess Dunn,
    Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild
        A child
    As ever at mother’s breast smiled.

    “And maybe you don’t know Jane Brown,
    Who served goat’s whey in sweet Dundrum town,
        ’Twas her uncle’s half-brother
        That married my mother,
    And bought me this new yellow gown,
        To go down,
    When the marriage was held in Miltown!”

    “By the Powers, then,” says Dermot, “’tis plain,
    Like a son of that rapscallion Cain,
        My best friend I’ve kilt,
        Tho’ no blood it is spilt,
    And the devil a harm did I mean,
        That’s plain,
    But by me he’ll be ne’er kilt again!”

    Then the Meal-man forgave him the blow,
    That laid him a-sprawling so low,
        And being quite gay,
        Asked them both to the play,
    But Katty, being bashful, said “No,”
        “No!” “No!”
    Yet he treated them all to the show!

                                    _Charles O’Flaherty_ (1794–1828).




                           _THE NIGHT-CAP._


    Jolly Phœbus his car to the coach-house had driven,
      And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;
    He gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,
      And rubbed them and littered them up for the night.

    Then down to the kitchen he leisurely strode,
      Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea;
    He swore he was tired with that damned up-hill road,
      He’d have none of her slops or hot water, not he.

    So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen
      Well filled with the nectar Apollo loves best,
    (From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen);
      And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.

    His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,
      For his bed, faith, ’twas dampish, and none of the best;
    All above him the clouds their bright-fringed curtains drew,
      And the tuft of his night-cap lay red in the west.

                                _Thomas Hamblin Porter_ (_fl._ 1820).




                          _KITTY OF COLERAINE._


    As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
      With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
    When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,
      And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain.
    “Oh! what shall I do now?--’twas looking at you, now!
      Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er see again;
    ’Twas the pride of my dairy--O Barney McCleary,
      You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!”

    I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
      That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
    A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,
      She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again.
    ’Twas hay-making season--I can’t tell the reason--
      Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain;
    For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster
      The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

                                                         _Anonymous._

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




                           _GIVING CREDIT._


In due time it was determined that Peter, as he understood poteen,
should open a shebeen-house. The moment this resolution was made, the
wife kept coaxing him until he took a small house at the cross-roads
before alluded to, where, in the course of a short time, he was
established, if not in his line, yet in a mode of life approximating
to it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would permit. The cabin
which they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and a room at each end
of it, in one of which was their own humble chaff bed, with its blue
quilted drugget cover; in the other stood a couple of small tables,
some stools, a short form, and one chair, being a present from his
father-in-law. These constituted Peter’s whole establishment, so far as
it defied the gauger. To this we must add a five-gallon keg of spirits
hid in the garden and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he
bottled, overnight, as much as was usually drunk the following day;
and from the tobacco, which was also kept underground, he cut, with
the same caution, as much as to-morrow’s exigencies might require.
This he kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never
think of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and pennyworths,
ounces, or half-ounces, according as it might be required; and, as he
had it without duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his
neighbours soon brought him a large increase of custom.

Peter’s wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant,
good-humoured man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of
amusement were of a high order, considering his station in life and his
want of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, to
bring both the young and the old to his house during the long winter
nights, in order to hear the fine racy humour with which he related his
frequent adventures and battles with excisemen. In the summer evenings
he usually engaged a piper or fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance
by which he not only rendered himself popular, but increased his
business.

In this mode of life the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and Ellish
was the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to give
them credit. Many plans were, with great skill and forethought, devised
to obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board was first procured,
on which they got written with chalk--

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

Before a week passed after this intimation, the number of “Pether’s
friends” increased so rapidly that neither he nor Ellish knew the half
of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him: the
drinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him and
Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his firmest
resolutions too often gave way before the open flattery with which
he was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to bear
the brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons were seen
approaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to expect an attack
upon his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept his eye
to the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the road, he
immediately slipped into bed, and lay close, in order to escape them.
In the meantime they enter.

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

“God save you kindly! Faix, I’m middlin’, I thank you, Condy; how is
yourself, an’ all at home?”

“Devil a heartier, barrin’ my father, that’s touched wid a loss of
appetite afther his meals--ha, ha, ha!”

“Musha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but you’re your father’s
son, anyway; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth,
whether you’re jokin’ or not, I’d be sarry to hear of anything to his
disadvantage, dacent man. Boys, won’t yees go down to the other room?”

  [Illustration: “HE KEPT HIS EYE TO THE WINDOW, AND IF THEY TURNED
  FROM THE DIRECT LINE OF THE ROAD, HE SLIPPED INTO BED.”]

“Go way wid yees, boys, till I spake to Ellish here about the affairs
o’ the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the
contints o’ the book, you do; Pether doesn’t stand it half so well. How
is he, the thief?”

“Throth, he’s not well to-day, in regard of a smotherin’ about the
heart he tuck this morning, afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself
on the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him--God be praised
for all his marcies!”

“Thin, upon my _sole_vation, I’m sorry to hear it, and so will
all at home, for there’s not in the parish we’re sittin’ in a couple
that our family has a greater regard an’ friendship for than him an’
yourself. Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued
down Bartle Meegan’s throath that you and Biddy Martin war the two
portliest weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I
was near quarrellin’ wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase I tuck my
modher’s part, as I had good right to do.”

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

“Oh, the sarra taste o’ kindness was in it all, Ellish, ’twas only the
thruth; an’ as long as I live I’ll stand up for that.”

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

“Indeed, thin, but middlin’, not gettin’ her health: she’ll soon give
the crow a puddin’, anyway; thin, Ellish, you thief, I’m _in_ for
the yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me?”

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

“Why, one o’ thim’s a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent boy,
indeed--him wid the frieze jock upon him, an’ the buckskin breeches.
The other three’s from Teenabraighera beyant. They’re related to my
brother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife’s brother-in-law’s
uncle. They’re come to this neighbourhood till the ’Sizes, bad luck to
them, goes over; for, you see, they’re in a little throuble.”

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

“I brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows; an’ Ellish,
avourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth
is, you see, that when we left home none of us had any notion of
dhrinkin’, or I’d a put a something in my pocket, so that I’m taken
at an average.--Bud-an’-age--how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, that
goor-soon, when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don’t think
there’s a finer child in Europe of his age, so there isn’t.”

“Indeed, he’s a good child, Condy. But, Condy, avick, about givin’
credit:--by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy in
the parish, it ud be to yourself. It was only last night that I made
a promise against doin’ sich a thing for man or mortual. We’re a’most
broken an’ harrish’d out o’ house an’ home by it; an’ what’s more,
Condy, we intend to give up the business. The landlord’s at us every
day for his rint, an’ we owe for the two last kegs we got, but hasn’t
a rap to meet aither o’ thim; an’ enough due to us if we could get
it together: an’ whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that’s what ails
Pether, although he doesn’t wish to let an to any one about it.”

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

“I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself; an’ should have what
you want wid a heart an’ a half, only for the promise I made an my two
knees last night aginst givin’ credit to man or woman. Why the dickens
didn’t you come yistherday?”

“Didn’t I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an’ that I
wished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish;
don’t disgrace me afore my sisther’s bachelor an’ the sthrange boys
that’s to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn’t for the best
cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an’ besides, there’s a
_cleeveenship_ atween your family an’ ours.”

“Condy, avourneen, say no more: if you were fed from the same breast
wid me, I couldn’t, nor wouldn’t break my promise. I wouldn’t have the
sin of it an me for the wealth o’ the three kingdoms.”

“Bedad, you’re a quare woman; an’ only that my regard for you is great
entirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you’re dacent still.”

He then left her, and joined his friends in the little room that was
appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he
related the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter
and Ellish.

“Boys,” said he, “she’s too many for us! St. Pether himself wouldn’t
make a hand of her. Faix, she’s a cute one. I palavered her at the
rate of a hunt, an’ she ped me back in my own coin, wid dacent
intherest--but no whisky!--Now to take a rise out o’ Pether. Jist sit
where yees are, till I come back.”

He then left them enjoying the intended “spree,” and went back to
Ellish.

“Well, I’m sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you’d
refuse my father’s son sich a thrifle, I wouldn’t believe them. It’s
not wid Pether’s knowledge you do it, I’ll be bound. But bad as you
thrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at any rate.”

As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into
the room where Peter lay.

“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, at this hour o’ the
day?”

“Eh? What’s that--who’s that? Oh!”

“Why, thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”

“Oh!--oh! Eh? Is that Condy?”

“All that’s to the fore of him. What’s asthray wid you, man alive?”

“Throth, Condy, I don’t know rightly. I went out, wantin’ my coat,
about a week ago, an’ got cowld in the small o’ the back: I’ve a pain
in it ever since. Be sittin’.”

“Is your _heart_ safe? You have no smotherin’ or anything upon
_it_?”

“Why, thin, thank goodness, no; it’s all about my back an’ my hinches.”

“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_
ails you, you shkaimer o’ the world wide. ’Tis the oil o’ the hazel, or
a rubbin’ down wid an oak towel, you want. Get up, I say, or, by this
an’ by that, I’ll flail you widin an inch o’ your life.”

“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”

“No, no, faix; I’ve found you out: Ellish is afther tellin’ me that it
was a smotherin’ on the heart; but it’s a pain in the small o’ the back
wid _yourself_. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I
take the stick to you!”

“Why, thin, all sorts o’ fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you’re
the sarra’s pet, for there’s no escapin’ you. What was that I hard
atween you an’ Ellish?” said Peter, getting up.

“The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into
the wrong side o’ the sacret afore you die. Go an’ get us a pint o’
what you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.

“Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose you must give it to thim. Give
it--give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin’ll you pay me for this?”

“Never fret yourself about that; you’ll be ped. Honour _bright_,
as the black said whin he stole the boots.”

“Now, Pether,” said the wife, “sure it’s no use axin me to give it,
afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I’ll
have no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we’ll soon get out of
it altogether, for myself’s sick an’ sore of it, dear knows!”

Peter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise
that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday,
which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant at
Condy’s success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after
pint followed in rapid succession.

Every additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from
Ellish; and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations
deepened. When the night was far advanced they departed, after having
first overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest friendship,
promising that in future she exclusively should reap whatever benefit
was to be derived from their patronage.

In the meantime Condy forgot to perform his promise. The next Sunday
passed, but Peter was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at
mass, or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month
afterwards--an instance of ingratitude which mortified his creditor
extremely. The latter, who felt that it was a _take in_, resolved
to cut short all hopes of obtaining credit from them in future. In
about a week after the foregoing hoax he got up a board, presenting a
more vigorous refusal of _score_ than the former. His friends,
who were more in number than he could possibly have imagined, on this
occasion were altogether wiped out of the exception. The notice ran to
the following effect:--

   “Notice to the Public, _and to Pether Connell’s friends in
   particular_--Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got
   or given in this house, while there is stick or stone of it
   together, barrin’ them that axes it has the _ready money_.

                                     “PETHER X CONNELL, his mark.
                                     “ELLISH X CONNELL, her mark.”

                                      _William Carleton_ (1794–1869).




                            _BRIAN O’LINN._


    Brian O’Linn was a gentleman born,
    His hair it was long and his beard unshorn,
    His teeth were out and his eyes far in--
    “I’m a wonderful beauty,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn was hard up for a coat,
    He borrowed the skin of a neighbouring goat,
    He buckled the horns right under his chin--
    “They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Linn;

    Brian O’Linn had no breeches to wear,
    He got him a sheepskin to make him a pair,
    With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in--
    “They are pleasant and cool,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn had no hat to his head,
    He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,
    He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin--
    “’Twill pass for a feather,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn had no shirt to his back,
    He went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack.
    He puckered a meal-bag under his chin--
    “They’ll take it for ruffles,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn had no shoes at all,
    He bought an old pair at a cobbler’s stall,
    The uppers were broke and the soles were thin--
    “They’ll do me for dancing,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn had no watch for to wear,
    He bought a fine turnip and scooped it out fair,
    He slipped a live cricket right under the skin--
    “They’ll think it is ticking,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn was in want of a brooch,
    He stuck a brass pin in a big cockroach,
    The breast of his shirt he fixed it straight in--
    “They’ll think it’s a diamond,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn went a-courting one night,
    He set both the mother and daughter to fight--
    “Stop, stop,” he exclaimed, “if you have but the tin,
    I’ll marry you both,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn went to bring his wife home,
    He had but one horse, that was all skin and bone--
    “I’ll put her behind me, as nate as a pin,
    And her mother before me,” says Brian O’Linn!

    Brian O’Linn and his wife and wife’s mother,
    They all crossed over the bridge together,
    The bridge broke down and they all tumbled in--
    “We’ll go home by water,” says Brian O’Linn!

                                                           _Anonymous._




  [Illustration]




                      _THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE._


Did yir honor ever hear of the wager ’tween the goose and the turkey?
Oncet upon a time an ould cock-turkey lived in the barony of Brawny,
or, let me see, was it in Inchebofin or Tubbercleer? faix, an’ it’s
meself forgets that same at the present writin’,--but Jim Gurn--you
know Jim Gurn, yir honor, Jim Gurn the nailer that lives hard by,--him
that fought his black-and-tan t’other day ’gainst Tim Fagan’s silver
hackle,--oh! Jim is the boy that’ll tell ye the _ins_ and
_outs_ of it any day yir honor wud pay him a visit, ’caze Jim’s in
the way of it. Well, as I was relatin’, the turkey was a parson’s bird,
and as proud as Lucifer, bein’ used to the best of livin’; while the
gander was only a poor _commoner_, for he was a _Roman_,[13]
and oblidged to live upon what he could get by the roadside. These two
fowls, yir honor, never could agree anyhow,--never could put up their
horses together on any blessed p’int,--till one day a big row happened
betune them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeplechase
across the country, day and dark, for twenty-four hours. Well, to my
surprise,--though I wasn’t there at the time, but Jim Gurn was, who
gave me the whole history,--to my surprise, the turkey didn’t say
_no_ to it, but was quite agreeable to it, all of a suddent; so
away they started from Jim Gurn’s dunghill one Sunday after mass, for
the gander wouldn’t stir a step afore prayers. Well, to be sure, to
give the divil his due, the turkey took the lead in fine style, and
was soon clane out of sight; but the gander kept movin’ on, no ways
downhearted, after him. About nightfall it was his business to pass
through an ould archway across the road; and as he was stoopin’ his
head to get under it,--for yir honor knows a gander will stoop his
head under a doorway if it was only as high as the moon,--who should
he see comfortably sated in an ivy-bush but the turkey himself, tucked
in for the night. The gander, winkin’ to himself, says, “Is it there
ye are, honey?”--but he kept never mindin’ him for all that, but only
walked bouldly on to his journey’s end, where he arrived safe and sound
next day, afore the turkey was out of his first sleep; ’caze why, ye
see, sir, a goose or a gander will travel all night; but in respect of
a turkey, once the day falls in, divil another inch of ground he’ll
put his futt to, barrin’ it’s to roost in a tree or the rafters of a
cow-house! Oh! maybe the parson’s bird wasn’t ashamed of himself! Jim
Gurn says he never held his head up afterward, though to be sure he
hadn’t long to fret, for Christmas was nigh at hand, and he had to
stand sentry by the kitchen fire one day without his body-clothes till
he could bear it no longer; so they dished him entirely. Them that
ett him said he was as tough as leather, no doubt from the grief; but
divil’s cure to him! what business had he to be so proud of himself,
the spalpeen?

                                        _Joseph A. Wade_ (1796–1845).




                           _WIDOW MACHREE._


    Widow Machree, it’s no wonder you frown,
      Och hone, Widow Machree--
    Faith, it ruins your looks that same dirty black gown,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.
    How altered your air,
    With that close cap you wear--
      It’s destroying your hair,
    Which should be flowing free,
      Be no longer a churl
    Of its black silken curl,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.

    Widow Machree, now the summer is come,
      Och hone, Widow Machree,
    When everything smiles--should a beauty look glum,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.
    See the birds go in pairs,
      And the rabbits and hares--
    Why even the bears,
      Now in couples agree,
    And the mute little fish,
      Though they can’t speak, they wish,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.

    Widow Machree, when the winter comes in,
      Och hone, Widow Machree,
    To be poking the fire, all alone, is a sin,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.
    Why the shovel and tongs,
      To each other belongs,
    And the kettle sings songs,
      Full of family glee,
    While alone with your cup,
      Like a hermit you sup,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.

    And how do you know, with the comforts I’ve told,
      Och hone, Widow Machree,
    But you’re keeping some poor divil out in the cold?
      Och hone, Widow Machree.
    With such sins on your head,
      Sure your peace would be fled,
    Could you sleep in your bed,
      Without thinking to see,
    Some ghost or some sprite,
      Come to wake you each night,
      Crying, och hone, Widow Machree.

    Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,
      Och hone, Widow Machree,
    And with my advice, faith, I wish you’d take me,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.
    You’d have me to desire.
      Then to stir up the fire,
    And sure hope is no liar,
      In whispering to me,
    That the ghosts would depart,
      When you’d me near your heart,
      Och hone, Widow Machree.

                                          _Samuel Lover_ (1797–1868).




  [Illustration]




                            _BARNEY O’HEA._


    Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,
        I know you won’t,
        I know you won’t,
    Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,
        Impudent Barney O’Hea.
    It makes me outrageous when you’re so contagious--
      You’d better look out for the stout Corney Creagh!
    For he is the boy that believes me his joy;--
      So you’d better behave yourself, Barney O’Hea.
        Impudent Barney--
        None of your blarney,
          Impudent Barney O’Hea.

    I hope you’re not going to Bandon fair,
        To Bandon fair,
        To Bandon fair,
    For sure I’m not wanting to meet you there,
        Impudent Barney O’Hea.
    For Corney’s at Cork, and my brother’s at work,
      And my mother sits spinning at home all the day;
    So no one will be there, of poor me to take care,
      And I hope you won’t follow me, Barney O’Hea.
        Impudent Barney--
        None of your blarney,
          Impudent Barney O’Hea.

    But as I was walking up Bandon Street,
    Just who do you think ’twas myself should meet
        But impudent Barney O’Hea!
          He said I look’d killin’,
          I call’d him a villain,
    And bid him that minute get out of my way.
          He said I was jokin’,
          And look’d so provokin’,--
    I could not help laughing with Barney O’Hea!
        Impudent Barney--
        ’Tis he has the blarney,
          Impudent Barney O’Hea!

    He knew ’twas all right when he saw me smile,
    For he is the rogue up to every wile,
        Is impudent Barney O’Hea!
          He coax’d me to choose him,
          For, if I’d refuse him,
    He swore he’d kill Corney the very next day;
          So for fear ’twould go further,
          And--just to save murther--
    I think I must marry that mad-cap O’Hea.
        Botherin’ Barney--
        ’Tis he has the blarney
          To make a girl Misthress O’Hea!

                                                      _Samuel Lover._




  [Illustration]




                            _MOLLY CAREW._


    Och hone, and what will I do?
            Sure, my love is all crost
            Like a bud in the frost,
    And there’s no use at all in my going to bed;
    For ’tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head;
            And ’tis all about you,
            My sweet Molly Carew--
        And indeed ’tis a sin and a shame;
            You’re complater than Nature
            In every feature,
            The snow can’t compare
            With your forehead so fair;
    And I rather would see just one blink of your eye
    Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky--
            And by this and by that,
            For the matter of that,
        You’re more distant by far than that same!
            Och hone! wirrasthrue!
        I’m alone in this world without you.

            Och hone! but why should I spake
            Of your forehead and eyes,
            When your nose it defies
    Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme?
    Tho’ there’s one Burke, he says, that would call it _snublime_.
            And then for your cheek!
            Throth, ’twould take him a week
        Its beauties to tell as he’d rather.
            Then your lips! oh, Machree!
            In their beautiful glow
            They a patthern might be
            For the cherries to grow.
    ’Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know--
    For apples were _scarce_, I suppose, long ago;
            But at this time o’ day,
            ’Pon my conscience, I’ll say,
        Such cherries might tempt a man’s father!
            Och hone! wirrasthrue!
        I’m alone in this world without you.

            Och hone! by the man in the moon,
            You _taze_ me all ways,
            That a woman can plaze,
    For you dance twice as high with that thief Pat Magee,
    As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me,
            Tho’ the piper I bate,
            For fear the ould chate
        Wouldn’t play you your favourite tune;
            And when you’re at mass
            My devotion you crass,
            For ’tis thinking of you
            I am, Molly Carew;
    While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,
    That I can’t at your sweet purty face get a peep:
            Oh! lave off that bonnet,
            Or else I’ll lave on it
        The loss of my wandherin’ sowl!
            Och hone! wirrasthrue!
            Och hone, like an owl,
        Day is night, dear, to me, without you!

            Och hone! don’t provoke me to do it;
            For there’s girls by the score
            That love me--and more;
    And you’d look very quare if some morning you’d meet
    My wedding all marchin’ in pride down the sthreet;
            Throth, you’d open your eyes,
            And you’d die with surprise,
        To think ’twasn’t you was come to it!
            And, faith, Katty Naile,
            And her cow, I go bail,
            Would jump if I’d say,
            “Katty Naile, name the day.”
    And tho’ you’re fair and fresh as a morning in May,
    While she’s short and dark like a cowld winther’s day,
            Yet if you don’t repent
            Before Easther, when Lent
        Is over I’ll marry for spite;
            Och hone! wirrasthrue!
            And when I die for you,
        My ghost will haunt you every night.

                                                      _Samuel Lover._




                   _HANDY ANDY AND THE POSTMASTER._


“Ride into the town, and see if there’s a letter for me,” said the
Squire one day to our hero.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know where to go?”

“To the town, sir.”

“But do you know where to go in the town?”

“No, sir.”

“And why don’t you ask, you stupid fellow?”

“Sure, I’d find out, sir.”

“Didn’t I often tell you to ask what you’re to do when you don’t know?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why don’t you?”

“I don’t like to be throublesome, sir.”

“Confound you!” said the Squire, though he could not help laughing at
Andy’s excuse for remaining in ignorance.

“Well,” continued he, “go to the post-office. You know the post-office,
I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, where they sell gunpowder.”

“You’re right for once,” said the Squire; for his Majesty’s postmaster
was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid
combustible. “Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for
me. Remember,--not gunpowder, but a letter.”

“Yes, sir,” said Andy, who got astride of his hack and trotted away to
the post-office. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that
person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and
linen drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said--

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“Who do you want it for?” said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy
considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life; so
Andy thought the coollest contempt he could throw upon the prying
impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“And who do you want it for?” repeated the postmaster.

“What’s that to you?” said Andy.

The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell
what letter to give unless he told him the direction.

“The directions I got was to get a letther here--that’s the directions.”

“Who gave you those directions?”

“The masther.”

“And who’s your master?”

“What consarn is that o’ yours?”

“Why, you stupid rascal! if you don’t tell me his name, how can I give
you a letter?”

“You could give it if you liked; but you’re fond of axin’ impident
questions, bekase you think I’m simple.”

“Go along out o’ this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself
to send such a messenger.”

“Bad luck to your impidence,” said Andy; “is it Squire Egan you dar’ to
say goose to?”

“Oh, Squire Egan’s your master, then?”

“Yes; have you anything to say agin it?”

“Only that I never saw you before.”

“Faith, then, you’ll never see me agin if I have my own consint.”

“I won’t give you any letter for the Squire unless I know you’re his
servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?”

“Plenty,” said Andy; “it’s not every one is as ignorant as you.”

Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house,
who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the Squire’s
letter. “Have you one for me?”

“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one--“four pence.”

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop with his
letter.

“Here’s a letter for the Squire,” said the postmaster; “you’ve to pay
me elevenpence postage.”

“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?”

“For postage.”

“To the divil wid you! Didn’t I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for
fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? and now you want
me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing. Do you think I’m a
fool?”

“No, but I’m sure of it,” said the postmaster.

“Well, you’re welkim to be sure, sure;--but don’t be delayin’ me now;
here’s fourpence for you, and gi’ me the letther.”

“Go along, you stupid thief!” said the postmaster, taking up the
letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.

While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down
the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the
customers, and saying, “Will you gi’ me the letther?”

He waited for above half-an-hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the
postmaster, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common
justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another
man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than
the fourpence.

The Squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and
when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.

“There is, sir,” said Andy.

“Then give it to me.”

“I haven’t it, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wouldn’t give it to me, sir.”

“Who wouldn’t give it to you?”

“That ould chate beyant in the town--wanting to charge double for it.”

“Maybe it’s a double letter. Why the devil didn’t you pay what he
asked, sir?”

“Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It’s not a double letther
at all; not above half the size o’ one Mr. Durfy got before my face for
fourpence.”

“You’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back
for your life, you _omadhaun_; and pay whatever he asks, and get
me the letter.”

“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my face for fourpence
apiece.”

“Go back, you scoundrel! or I’ll horsewhip you; and if you’re longer
than a hour, I’ll have you ducked in the horsepond!”

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he
arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was
selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him
on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be
served.

“I’m come for that letther,” said Andy.

“I’ll attend to you by-and-by.”

“The masther’s in a hurry.”

“Let him wait till his hurry’s over.”

“He’ll murther me if I’m not back soon.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these
appeals for despatch, Andy’s eye caught the heap of letters which lay
on the counter; so while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going
forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap,
and having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the great
man’s pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the
postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could
carry him. He came into the Squire’s presence, his face beaming with
delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite
unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had
been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding
three letters over his head, while he said, “Look at that!” he next
slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the Squire,
saying--

“Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour
the worth o’ your money, anyhow!”

                                                      _Samuel Lover._




                  _THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE._


There was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by
the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife,
and av coorse they had childhre, and plenty of them, and small blame to
them, so that the poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers
to the bone a’most to get them the bit and the sup, but he didn’t
begridge that, for he was an industherous craythur, as I said before,
and it was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’
still.

Well, it was one mornin’ that his wife called to him, “Come here,”
says she, “jewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it’s ready.” But he
never minded her, but wint an workin’. So in a minit or two more, says
she, callin’ out to him agin, “Arrah, lave off slavin’ yourself, my
darlin’, and ate your bit o’ brekquest while it is hot.”

“Lave me alone,” says he, and he dhruv the shuttle fasther nor before.
Well, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and
says she, coaxin’ him like, “Thady, dear,” says she, “the stirabout
will be stone cowld if you don’t give over that weary work and come and
ate it at wanst.”

“I’m busy with a patthern here that is brakin’ my heart,” says the
waiver; “and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won’t quit”

“Oh, think of the iligant stirabout that ’ill be spylte intirely.”

“To the divil with the stirabout,” says he.

“God forgive you,” says she, “for cursin’ your good brekquest.”

“Ay, and you too,” says he.

“Throth, you’re as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,”
says the poor wife; “and it’s a heavy handful I have of you when you
are cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your
stirabout grow cowld, and not a one o’ me ’ill ax you agin;” and with
that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed,
and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know,
is only nath’ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the
stirabout; and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as
black as a crow--for you see, it was in the hoighth o’ summer, and the
flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered
with them.

“Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,” says the waiver, “would no
place sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you
dirty bastes?” And with that, bein’ altogether cruked-tempered at the
time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o’
stirabout, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at the one
blow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he counted the carcases
one by one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them.

  [Illustration: “HE KEM HOME IN THE EVENIN’, AFTHER SPENDIN’ EVERY
  RAP HE HAD.”]

Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin’ in him, when he seen the
slaughther he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as
the very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he’d do that day, but out
he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was
squarin’ up into their faces and sayin’, “Look at that fist! that’s
the fist that killed threescore and tin at one blow--Whoo!”

With that all the neighbours thought he was crack’d, and faith, the
poor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin’,
afther spendin’ every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin’ about the
place, and lookin’ at his hand every minit.

“Indeed, an’ your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,” says
the poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin’
home. “You had betther wash it, darlin’.”

“How dar’ you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?” says he,
going to bate her.

“Well, it’s nat dirty,” says she.

“It is throwin’ away my time I have been all my life,” says he; “livin’
with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin’ but a poor waiver, when
it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two o’ the
siven champions o’ Christendom.”

“Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,” says the wife,
“sure, what’s that to uz?”

“Don’t put in your prate,” says he, “you ignorant sthrap,” says he.
“You’re vulgar, woman--you’re vulgar--mighty vulgar; but I’ll have
nothin’ more to say to any dirty snakin’ thrade again--divil a more
waivin’ I’ll do.”

“Oh, Thady, dear, and what’ll the children do then?”

“Let them go play marvels,” says he.

“That would be but poor feedin’ for them, Thady.”

“They shan’t want for feedin’,” says he, “for it’s a rich man I’ll be
soon, and a great man too.”

“Usha, but I’m glad to hear it, darlin’, though I dunna how it’s to be;
but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.”

“Don’t talk to me of any bed but the bed o’ glory, woman,” says he,
lookin’ mortial grand.

“Oh! God sind we’ll all be in glory yet,” says the wife, crossin’
herself; “but go to sleep, Thady, for this present.”

“I’ll sleep with the brave yit,” says he.

“Indeed, an’ a brave sleep will do you a power o’ good, my darlin’,”
says she.

“And it’s I that will be the knight!” says he.

“All night, if you plaze, Thady,” says she.

“None o’your coaxin’,” says he. “I’m detarmined on it, and I’ll set off
immediately and be a knight arriant.”

“A what?” says she.

“A knight arriant, woman.”

“Lord, be good to me! what’s that?” says she.

“A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,” says he; “goin’ round the world
for sport, with a swoord by his side, takin’ whatever he plazes for
himself; and that’s a knight arriant,” says he.

Well, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and
he got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he
took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o’ tin clothes
like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he
was very partic’lar about bekase it was his shield, and he went to a
frind o’ his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield
in big letthers:--

                       “I’M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,
                    THAT KILL’D THREESCORE AND TIN
                              AT A BLOW.”

“When the people sees _that_” says the waiver to himself, “the
sorra one will dar’ for to come near me.”

And with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for
him, “for,” says he, “it will make an illigant helmet;” and when it was
done, he put it on his head, and his wife said, “Oh, murther, Thady,
jewel; is it puttin’ a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by
way iv a hat?”

“Sartinly,” says he, “for a knight arriant should always have _a
weight an his brain_.”

“But, Thady, dear,” says the wife, “there’s a hole in it, and it can’t
keep out the weather.”

“It will be the cooler,” says he, puttin’ it an him; “besides, if I
don’t like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o’ sthraw, or the like
o’ that.”

“The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin’ up,” says she.

“Every helmet has a spike stickin’ out o’ the top of it,” says the
waiver, “and if mine has three, it’s only the grandher it is.”

“Well,” says the wife, getting bitther at last, “all I can say is, it
isn’t the first sheep’s head was dhress’d in it”

“_Your sarvint, ma’am_,” says he; and off he set.

Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by,
where the miller’s horse was grazin’, that used to carry the ground
corn round the counthry. “This is the idintical horse for me,” says the
waiver; “he is used to carryin’ flour and male, and what am I but the
_flower_ o’ shovelry in a coat o’ _mail_; so that the horse
won’t be put out iv his way in the laste.”

But as he was ridin’ him out o’ the field, who should see him but the
miller. “Is it stalin’ my horse you are, honest man?” says the miller.

“No,” says the waiver; “I’m only goin’ to exercise him,” says he, “in
the cool o’ the evenin’; it will be good for his health.”

“Thank you kindly,” says the miller; “but lave him where he is, and
you’ll obleege me.”

“I can’t afford it,” says the waiver, runnin’ the horse at the ditch.

“Bad luck to your impidince,” says the miller, “you’ve as much tin
about you as a thravellin’ tinker, but you’ve more brass. Come back
here, you vagabone,” says he. But he was too late; away galloped the
waiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing
he could do was to go to the King o’ Dublin (for Dublin was a grate
place thin, and had a king iv its own). Well, he was four days goin’
to Dublin, for the baste was not the best, and the roads worse, not
all as one as now; but there was no turnpikes then, glory be to God!
When he got to Dublin, he wint sthrait to the palace, and whin he got
into the coortyard he let his horse go and graze about the place,
for the grass was growin’ out betune the stones; everything was
flourishin’ thin in Dublin, you see. Well, the king was lookin’ out
of his dhrawin’-room windy for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but
the waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sate,
undher the windy--for, you see, there was stone sates all round about
the place, for the accommodation o’ the people--for the king was a
dacent obleeging man; well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay
down an one o’ the sates, just undher the king’s windy, and purtended
to go asleep; but he took care to turn out the front of his shield that
had the letthers an it. Well, my dear, with that, the king calls out to
one of the lords of his coort that was standin’ behind him, howldin’ up
the skirt of his coat, accordin’ to rayson, and says he: “Look here,”
says he, “what do you think of a vagabone like that, comin’ undher
my very nose to sleep? It is thrue I’m a good king,” says he, “and I
’commodate the people by havin’ sates for them to sit down and enjoy
the raycreation and contimplation of seein’ me here, lookin’ out o’ my
dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin; but that is no rayson they are to
_make a hotel_ o’ the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at
all?” says the king.

“Not a one o’ me knows, plaze your majesty.”

“I think he must be a furriner,” says the king, “bekase his dhress is
outlandish.”

“And doesn’t know manners, more betoken,” says the lord.

“I’ll go down and _circumspect_ him myself,” says the king; “folly
me,” says he to the lord, wavin’ his hand at the same time in the most
dignacious manner.

Down he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and when he wint over
to where the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his
shield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord,
“Bedad,” says he, “this is the very man I want.”

“For what, plaze your majesty?” says the lord.

“To kill the vagabone dhraggin, to be sure,” says the king.

“Sure, do you think he could kill him,” says the lord, “whin all the
stoutest knights in the land wasn’t aiquil to it, but never kem back,
and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver?”

“Sure, don’t you see there,” says the king, pointin’ at the shield,
“that he killed threescore and tin at one blow; and the man that done
_that_, I think, is a match for anything.”

So, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shoulder
for to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and
the king says to him, “God save you,” says he.

“God save you kindly,” says the waiver, _purtendin_’ he was quite
onknownst who he was spakin’ to.

“Do you know who I am,” says the king, “that you make so free, good
man?”

“No, indeed,” says the waiver, “you have the advantage o’ me.”

“To be sure I have,” says the king, _moighty high_; “sure ain’t I
the King o’ Dublin?” says he.

  [Illustration: “‘SURE, DON’T YOU SEE THERE,’ SAYS THE KING, ‘THAT
  HE KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT ONE BLOW.’”]

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.”]

_Conn._ Well, here’s a purty thing, for a horse to run away with
a man’s characther like this! Oh, wurra! may I never die in sin, but
this was the way of it. I was standing by ould Foley’s gate, when I
heard the cry of the hounds comin’ across the tail end of the bog, and
there they wor, my dear, spread out like the tail of a paycock, an’ the
finest dog fox you’d ever seen sailing ahead of them up the boreen, and
right across the churchyard. It was enough to raise the inhabitants.
Well, as I looked, who should come up and put his head over the gate
beside me but the Squire’s brown mare, small blame to her. Divil a
thing I said to her, nor she to me, for the hounds had lost their
scent, we knew by their yelp and whine as they hunted among the
grave-stones, when, whish! the fox went by us. I leapt on the gate,
an’ gave a shriek of a view holloo to the whip; in a minute the pack
caught the scent again, an’ the whole field came roarin’ past. The mare
lost her head, an’ tore at the gate. “Stop,” ses I, “ye divil!” and I
slipped the taste of a rope over her head an’ into her mouth. Now mind
the cunnin’ of the baste, she was quiet in a minute. “Come home now,”
ses I, “asy!” and I threw my leg across her. Be jabers! no sooner was
I on her bare back than whoo! holy rocket! she was over the gate, an’
tearin’ like mad afther the hounds. “Yoicks!” ses I; “come back, you
thief of the world, where are you takin’ me to?” as she went through
the huntin’ field an’ laid me beside the masther of the hounds, Squire
Foley himself. He turned the colour of his leather breeches. “Mother of
Moses!” ses he, “is that Conn the Shaughraun on my brown mare?” “Bad
luck to me!” ses I, “it’s no one else!” “You sthole my horse,” ses the
Squire. “That’s a lie!” ses I, “for it was your horse sthole me!”

_Moya._ An’ what did he say to that?

_Conn._ I couldn’t sthop to hear, for just then we took a stone
wall and a double ditch together, and he stopped behind to keep an
engagement he had in the ditch.

_Mrs. O’K._ You’ll get a month in gaol for this.

_Conn._ Well, it was worth it.

                                       _Dion Boucicault_ (1822–1890).




                      _RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP._

                      A REMARKABLE DEMONSTRATION.


The first public meeting held under the auspices of the newly-formed
Irish landlord organisation was held on Thursday last, in a field
close by the charming residence of W. L. Cromwellian Freebooter, Esq.,
J.P., and is considered by all who took part in it to have been a
great success. The Government gave the heartiest co-operation to the
project; they undertook to supply the audience; they sent an engineer
from the Royal Barracks, Dublin, to select a strategic site for the
meeting, and to superintend the erection of the platform; and they
offered any amount of artillery that might be considered requisite to
give an imposing appearance to the assembly, and to inspire a feeling
of confidence in the breasts of those who were to take part in it.
All the police stations within a radius of thirty miles were ordered
to send in contingents to form the body of the meeting, and a number
of military pensioners were also directed to proceed to the spot and
exert themselves in cheering the speakers. When the meeting was fully
constituted it was calculated that there could hardly have been less
than two hundred and fifty persons on the grounds.

At about one o’clock P.M. the carriages containing the noble
lords and gentlemen who were to occupy the platform began to arrive at
Freebooter Hall, where they set down the ladies of the party, who were
to figure in the grand ball which was to be held there that evening. At
1.30 the noblemen and gentlemen proceeded to the scene of the meeting,
and took their places on the platform, amidst the plaudits of the
constabulary, which were again renewed in obedience to signals given
by the sub-inspectors. The view from the platform, which was situated
on a rising ground, was particularly fine. Some years ago a number of
peasant homes and three considerable villages existed on the property;
but Mr. Freebooter, being of opinion that they spoiled the prospect
and tended to favour overpopulation in the country, had the people all
evicted and their houses levelled to the ground. The wisdom and the
good taste he had shown in this matter were highly praised by their
lordships as they made their way up the carpeted steps leading to the
platform, and took their seats on the chairs and sofas which had been
placed there for their accommodation. The meeting having presented
arms, it was moved by the Hon. Frederick Augustus Mightyswell, and
seconded by George Famous Grabber, Esq., that the most noble the
Marquis of Squanderall do take the chair.

The noble marquis said--My lords and gentlemen, I may say I thank
you for having called me--that is, for the honour you have done me
in having called me to have the honour of presiding over this, I may
say, important meeting. (Cheers.) I have come over from London--I may
say across the Channel--to have the honour of attending this meeting,
because we all know these tenant fellows have been allowed to have
this sort of thing too long to themselves. (Hear, hear, and cheers.)
There have been, I may say, hundreds of these meetings, at which the
fellows say they want to get their rents reduced, that their crops
were short, that they must keep their families from starving, and
all that sort of rot. How can we help it if their crops were short?
(Hear, hear.) How can we help it if they have families to support?
(Cheers.) The idiots talk about our rents being three or four times
more than Griffith’s valuation; if that be so, I may say, more shame
for the fellow Griffith, whoever he was. (Groans for Griffith.) Are
we to be robbed because Griffith was an ass? (Cheers.) My lords and
gentlemen, I shall not detain you longer--(cries of “Go on” from
several sub-inspectors)--but will call upon, I may say, my eloquent
friend, Lord Deliverus, who will propose the first resolution. (Loud
and long-continued cheering from the constabulary.)

  [Illustration: “MY ELOQUENT FRIEND, LORD DELIVERUS.”]

Lord Deliverus--My dear Squanderall, my good friends, and other
persons, you know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing, but I have
been asked to propose the following resolution:--

“That we regret to notice that the unbounded prosperity which is being
enjoyed by the small farmers and the labouring classes of Ireland
is having a very bad effect on them, leading them into all sorts of
extravagance, and producing among them an insolent and rebellious
spirit, and that in the interest of morality and public safety we
consider it absolutely necessary that the rents of the country shall be
increased by about 100 per cent.”

Now, my friends, this is a resolution which must waken a sympathetic
echo in the bosom of every rightly-constituted gentleman of property.
Do we not all know, have we not all seen, the lamentable changes
that have taken place in this country? Twenty years ago not half the
population indulged in the luxury of shoes and stockings, and the
labouring classes never thought of wearing waistcoats; now, most of
them take care to provide themselves with these things. Where do they
get the money to buy them but out of our rents? (True, true.) Twenty
years ago they were satisfied if they could get a few potatoes to live
upon each day, and a very good, wholesome, simple food they were for
such people. (Hear, hear.) But latterly some bad instructors have got
amongst them, and now the blackguards will not be contented unless they
have rashers two or three times a week. (Oh, oh.) Where do they get the
money for these rashers? (Voices--“Out of our rents.”) Yes, my friends,
out of our rents. They rob us to supply themselves with delicacies of
this kind. Eight or ten years ago we could bring up the fellows to
vote for us; now they do as they like. (Groans.) And now the fellows
say we must give them a reduction of their rents! (A voice--“Give them
an ounce of lead.”) The rascals say they won’t starve. (Oh, oh, and
groans.) They say they will feed themselves first, and then consider
if they have anything to spare for us. (Shrieks and groans on the
platform--Colonel Hardup faints.) They say the life of any one among
them is just as precious as the life of any one of us. (Expressions of
horror on all sides--Lord Tomnoddy looks unutterably disgusted, changes
colour, puts his hand on his stomach, and retires hastily to the back
of the platform.) My friends, I need not tell you that the Government
is bound to put them down at any cost. (Tremendous cheering.) Just
think what would result from any considerable reduction of our incomes;
why, most of us might have to remain in this wretched country, for
we would be ashamed to return in reduced circumstances to London and
Paris; we should have fewer horses, fewer yachts, fewer servants, less
champagne, less Italian opera, no _rouge et noir_--think, my
friends, of the number of charming establishments from London to Vienna
that would feel the shock. (Sobs and moans on the platform.) Would life
be worth living under such circumstances? (No, no.) No, my lords and
gentlemen, it would not; and therefore we are entitled to call upon the
Government to interfere promptly and with a strong hand to stop the
spread of those subversive theories that are now being taught to the
lower classes in this country. (Great applause.)

A. D. Shoneen, Esq., J.P., came forward to second the resolution.
He said--My lords and gentlemen, I feel that I need not add a word,
even if I were able to do so, to the beautiful, the eloquent, the
argumentative, the thrilling oration you have just heard from the
estimable Lord Deliverus. I will not attempt to describe that
magnificent performance in the language it deserves, for the task
would far transcend my humble capacity. But I do think that this
country should feel grateful--every country should feel grateful--the
human race should feel grateful--to his lordship for the invaluable
contribution he has made to the sum of our political philosophy in
that address. I own I am moved almost to tears when I consider that
the people whose conduct has excited such righteous indignation in
the breast of his lordship, and so affected the epigastric region of
that most amiable young nobleman, Viscount Tomnoddy--are my countrymen.
I blush to make the confession, I am so overcome by my feelings that
I am unable to do more than briefly second the resolution, which has
been proposed to you in words that deserve to live for ever, and
that mankind will not willingly let die. (The resolution was passed
unanimously.)

Major Bearhead came forward to propose the next resolution, which was
in the following terms:--“That, from the unlawful, rebellious, and
revolutionary spirit which is now abroad, we deem it essential that a
suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act shall at once be effected, that
martial law shall be proclaimed in all disturbed districts, that all
land agitators shall be at once arrested, and all tenant-right books,
pamphlets, and newspapers shall be confiscated and suppressed.”

The gallant Major said--My lords and gentlemen, ahem! you may talk
of resolutions, but this is the resolution that is wanted. Ahem! by
the soul of Julius Cæsar, it is only such spirited measures that will
ever settle this confounded Irish trouble. Ahem! the fellows want
reductions--by the boots of the immortal Wellington, I would reduce
them with grape and canister; that’s the reduction I would give them!
Thunder and lightning--ahem! thunder and lightning! to think that
these agitating fellows have been going about the country these twelve
months, and not one of them shot, sabred, or hanged yet! Two or three
fellows were put under a sort of sham arrest, and I am told they are
to be tried; trial be damned, I say. Ahem! a drum-head court-martial
is the sort of trial for them. No fear they would ever trouble the
country afterwards. Let the Horse-Guards only send me word, “Bearhead,
you settle with these people,” and see how soon I’d do it. (Cheers.)
By all the bombshells in Britain, I’d have the country as quiet as a
churchyard in two months. That is enough for me to say--ahem! (Great
cheering.)

The Hon. Charles Edward Algernon Featherhead, in seconding the
resolution, said--My lords, ladies, and gentlemen--oh, I really forgot
that the ladies are not present, which I take to be a dooced pity,
for, as the poet says, “Their smiles would make a summer”--oh, yes,
I have it--“where darkness else would be.” (Applause.) I can’t say I
know much about these blooming agricultural matters, for on my word
of honour I always looked on them as a low, vulgar sort of thing, and
all my set of fellows do just the same; but my old governor wished me
to come here and take part in the proceedings, and I have a little
reason for wishing to humour him just now. But, as I was saying, I
don’t see how any sort of fun can go on if we are not to get money from
these farming fellows. It may be very true that oats were not worth
digging this season, and that potatoes were very short in the straw
and very light in the ear; but then, on the other hand, was there not
a plentiful supply of cucumbers? (Cheers.) We hear a great deal about
American importations, but it seems to me that’s the jolliest part
of the whole thing, because surely the farming fellows can’t want to
eat the American food and the Irish food both together. Let them eat
the Yankee stuff, and then sell the Irish and give us the money, and
there’s the whole thing settled handsomely. It’s their confounded
stupidity that prevents them seeing this plain and simple way of
satisfying themselves and us. For, as the poet says, “Is there a heart
that never loved?”--no, that’s not it--“When the wine-cup is circling
before us”--no, I forget what the poet said, but no matter: I beg to
say that I highly approve of the toast which has just been proposed.
(The resolution was carried unanimously.)

Sir Nathaniel H. Castlehack wished to offer a few remarks before the
close of the meeting. It appeared to him that the tone of some of the
speakers had not shown quite as much confidence in the Government as
in his opinion they deserved. I do not think (said the speaker) that
the arrests which have been referred to were at all intended to be a
flash in the pan, for I have reason to know that at this moment the
jury panels are being carefully looked after by the authorities--(good,
good)--and I think I may say to the gallant major who has just preceded
me, and whose zeal for the public cause we all must recognise and
admire, that if he will only exercise to some extent the virtue of
patience, and allow things to take their regular course, he will
probably ere long have the opportunity which he desires for again
distinguishing himself and rendering the State some service.... Don’t
be afraid, my friends; rely with confidence on the Government; they
will give to this unreasonable and turbulent people everything but what
they want.

A scene of immense enthusiasm followed these remarks. The gentlemen
on the platform embraced each other; the band of the 33rd Dragoons
struck up “God save the Queen,” and the constabulary fired a _feu
de joie_. The meeting was then put through some evolutions, which
they performed in brilliant style, after which they broke into sections
and marched off to their different stations. Their lordships and the
gentry then proceeded to their carriages, and drove off to Freebooter
Hall. They expressed themselves highly pleased with the results of the
demonstration, and stated that similar meetings would soon be held in
various parts of the country.

                                             _T. D. Sullivan_ (1827).




                           _LANIGAN’S BALL._


    In the town of Athy one Jeremy Lanigan
      Battered away till he hadn’t a pound,
    His father he died and made him a man again,
      Left him a house and ten acres of ground!
    He gave a grand party to friends and relations
      Who wouldn’t forget him if he went to the wall;
    And if you’ll just listen, I’ll make your eyes glisten
      With the rows and the ructions of Lanigan’s ball.

    Myself, to be sure, got free invitations
      For all the nice boys and girls I’d ask,
    And in less than a minute the friends and relations
      Were dancing as merry as bees round a cask.
    Miss Kitty O’Hara, the nice little milliner,
      Tipped me the wink for to give her a call,
    And soon I arrived with Timothy Glenniher
      Just in time for Lanigan’s ball.

    There was lashins of punch and wine for the ladies,
      Potatoes and cakes and bacon and tay,
    The Nolans, the Dolans, and all the O’Gradys
      Were courting the girls and dancing away.
    Songs they sung as plenty as water,
      From “The Harp that once through Tara’s ould Hall,”
    To “Sweet Nelly Gray” and “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter,”
      All singing together at Lanigan’s ball.

    They were starting all sorts of nonsensical dances,
      Turning around in a nate whirligig;
    But Julia and I soon scatthered their fancies,
      And tipped them the twist of a rale Irish jig.
    Och mavrone! ’twas then she got glad o’ me:
      We danced till we thought the old ceilin’ would fall,
    (For I spent a whole fortnight in Doolan’s Academy
      Learning a step for Lanigan’s ball).

    The boys were all merry, the girls were all hearty,
      Dancin’ around in couples and groups,
    When an accident happened--young Terence McCarthy
      He dhruv his right foot through Miss Halloran’s hoops.
    The creature she fainted, and cried “_Millia murther!_”
      She called for her friends and gathered them all;
    Ned Carmody swore he’d not stir a step further,
      But have satisfaction at Lanigan’s ball.

    In the midst of the row Miss Kerrigan fainted--
      Her cheeks all the while were as red as the rose--
    And some of the ladies declared she was painted,
      She took a small drop too much, I suppose.
    Her lover, Ned Morgan, so pow’rful and able,
      When he saw his dear colleen stretched out by the wall,
    He tore the left leg from under the table,
      And smashed all the china at Lanigan’s ball.

    Oh, boys, but then was the ructions--
      Myself got a lick from big Phelim McHugh,
    But I soon replied to his kind introductions,
      And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo.
    Old Casey the piper was near being strangled,
      They squeezed up his pipes, his bellows, and all;
    The girls in their ribbons they all got entangled,
      And that put an end to Lanigan’s ball.

                                                         _Anonymous._




                         _THE WIDOW’S LAMENT._


    Ochone, _acushla mavourneen_! ah, why thus did ye die?
      (I won’t keep ye waitin’ a minit: just wait till I wipe my eye);
    And is it gone ye are, darlint,--the kindest, the fondest, the
      best?
      (Don’t forget the half-crown for the clerk--ye’ll find it below
        in the chest).

    And to leave me alone in the world--O _whirra, ochone, ochone_!
      (Is that Misther Moore in the car?--I thought I was goin’ alone);
    Why am I alive this minit? why don’t I die on the floore?
      (I’ll take your hand up the step, an’ thank ye, Misther Moore!)

    An’ are ye gone at last from your weepin’, desolate wife?
      (Not a dhrop, Misther Moore, I thank ye--well, the laste little
        dhrop in life!)
    ’Twas ye had the generous heart, an’ ’twas ye had the noble mind,
      (Good mornin’, Mrs. O’Flanagan! Is Tim in the car behind?)

    Oh, that I lived till this minit, such bitther sorrow to taste,
      (I’m not goin’ to fall, Misther Moore! take your arm from around
        my waist).
    ’Twas the like of you there wasn’t in Ballaghaslatthery town,
      (There’s Mary Mullaly, the hussy, an’ she wearin’ her laylock
        gown!)

    I’ll throw meself into the river; I’ll never come back no more;
      (’Twon’t be takin’ ye out of the way to lave me at home, Misther
        Moore?)
    It’s me should have gone that could bear it, now that I’m young and
      sthrong,
      (He was sixty-nine come Christmas: I wondhered he lasted so
        long!)

    Oh, what’s the world at all when him that I love isn’t in it?
      (If ’twas any one else but yourself, I’d lave the car this
        minit!)
    There’s nothin’ but sorrow foreninst me, wheresoever I roam,
      (Musha, why d’ye talk like that--can’t ye wait till we’re goin’
        home?)

                                                         _Anonymous._

  [Illustration: “I’M NOT GOIN’ TO FALL, MISTHER MOORE! TAKE YOUR
  ARM FROM AROUND MY WAIST.”]




                         _WHISKY AND WATHER._


    It’s all mighty fine what Taytotallers say,
      “That ye’re not to go dhrinking of sperits,
    But to keep to pump wather, and gruel, and tay”--
      Faith, ye’d soon have a face like a ferret’s.
    I don’t care one sthraw what such swaddlers may think,
      (Ye’ll find them in every quarther),
    The wholesomest liquor in life you can dhrink,
      I’ll be bail, now, is _Whisky and Wather_.

    Don’t go dhrinking of Brandy, or Hollands, or Shrub,
      Or Gin--thim’s all docthored, dipind an it--
    Or ye’ll soon have a nose that ye niver can rub,
      For the blossoms ye’ll grow at the ind iv it;
    But the “raal potheen” it’s a babby may take
      Before its long clothes are cut shorther;
    In as much as would swim ye there’s divil an ache,
      Av it’s not mixed with _too much_ could wather.

    Do ye like thim small dhrinks? Dhrink away by all manes--
      I wonst thried Ginger Beer to my sorrow--
    Ye’ll be tuck jist as I was, wid all sorts of pains,
      And ye’ll see what ye’re like on the morrow.
    Ye’ll find ye can’t ate--no, nor walk--for the wind;
      Ye’ll have cheeks jist the colour of morthar;
    Av ye call in the docthor he’ll jist recommind
      A hot tumbler of _Whisky and Wather_.

    Av the colic you get, or the cramp in your legs,
      Don’t go scalding yerself wid hot bottles:
    (Tho’ thim’s betther, they tell me, than hot flannel bags),
      And take no docthor’s stuff down your throttles;
    But just tell the misthress to hate the tin pot--
      (Maybe one for tay ye’ll have bought her)--
    And keep dosing yerself off and an, hot and hot,
      Till ye’re aisy--wid _Whisky and Wather_.

    Av ye go to a fair, as it maybe ye might,
      And ye meet with some thrilling disasther,
    Such as having the head iv ye broken outright,
      Av coorse ye’ll be wanting a plasther.
    Don’t sind for a surgeon, thim’s niver no use--
      Sure their thrade is to cut and to quarther--
    They’d be dealing wid you, as you’d dale wid a goose:
      Thry a poultice iv _Whisky and Wather_.

    Av ye can’t sleep at night, an ye rowl in yer bed
      (And that’s mighty disthressin’--no doubt iv it),
    Till ye don’t know the front from the back iv yer head,
      The best thing ye can do is--rowl out iv it.
    Av ye’ve let out the fire, and can’t get a light,
      Feel yer way to the crock, till ye’ve caught her
    (In the dark it’s ye are, so remimber, hould tight),
      Take a pull--an’ thin dhrink some could wather.

    Av ye meet wid misfortune, beyant your controwl,
      Av disease gets a hould iv the praties,
    Or the slip iv a pig gets the masles, poor sowl;
      No matther how sarious yer case is--
    Don’t go walking about wid yer hands crossed behind,
      And a face like a cow’s--only shorther,--
    Sure the best way to keep up yer sperits, ye’ll find
      Is to keep to hot _Whisky and Wather_.

    It’s in more ways than thim ye’ll find whisky yer frind,
      Sure it’s not only jist while ye dhrink it--
    It has vartues on which ye can always depind--
      And perhaps, too, when laste ye would think it.
    One fine summer’s day, it was coorting I wint,
      To make love to Dame Flanagan’s daughter--
    And I won her--and got the old woman’s consint:
      Sure I did it wid _Whisky and Wather_.

    In the Liffey I tumbled, one could winther’s day,
      And, bedad, it was coulder than plisint,
    Out they fished me, and stretched me full length on the quay,
      But the divil a docthor was prisint,
    When a blessed ould woman of eighty came by
      (There’s no doubt expariance had taught her),
    And--in jist a pig’s whisper--I tell ye no lie--
      Fetched me to, wid hot _Whisky and Wather_.

    It’s the loveliest liquor ye iver can take,
      And no matther how often ye take it;
    The great thing is never to mix it too wake:
      And see now--it’s this way ye make it:
    Take three lumps of sugar--it’s jist how ye feel--
      About whisky, not less than one quarther;
    No limon--the laste taste in life of the peel,
      And be sure you put screeching hot wather.

    It’ll make ye, all over, as warm as a toast,
      And yer heart jist as light as a feather;
    Sure it’s mate, dhrink, and washing, and lodging almost,
      And the great-coat itself, in could weather.
    Oh! long life to the man that invinted potheen--
      Sure the Pope ought to make him a marthyr--
    If myself was this moment Victoria, our queen,
      I’d dhrink nothing but _Whisky and Wather_!

                                                         _Anonymous._

  [Illustration: “IT’LL MAKE YE, ALL OVER, AS WARM AS TOAST, AND
  YER HEART JIST AS LIGHT AS A FEATHER.”]




                    _THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD._


A stranger meeting Sally Cavanagh as she tripped along the mountain
road would consider her a contented and happy young matron, and might
be inclined to set her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held
her head rather high, and occasionally elevated it still higher with
a toss which had something decidedly haughty about it. She turned up
a short boreen for the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith’s
wife, who had been very useful to her for some time before. The smith’s
habits were so irregular that his wife was often obliged to visit the
pawn office in the next town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself
of Nancy Ryan’s experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable she
possessed. The new cloak, of which even a rich farmer’s wife might feel
proud, was the last thing left. It was a present from Connor, and was
only worn on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.

  [Illustration: “NANCY FLEW AT HER LIKE A WILD CAT.”]

Loud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh start. She stopped
for a moment, and then ran forward and rushed breathless into the
smith’s house. The first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn
Gow choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came down with such
force upon the part of Shawn Gow’s person which happened to be most
elevated as he bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an
exclamation between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the air, and
striking his shins against a chair, tumbled head over heels into the
corner. When Shawn found that he was more frightened than hurt, and
saw Sally with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the
ludicrous overcame him, and turning his face to the wall, he relieved
his feelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. It was of the silent,
inward sort, however, and neither his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any
notion of the pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending to
be “kilt” occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, and with a fearful
groan he stretched out his huge limbs and remained motionless on the
broad of his back. Sally’s sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented
her from giving a thought to her husband. Great was her astonishment
then when Nancy flew at her like a wild cat. “You kilt my husband,”
she screamed. Sally retreated backwards, defending herself as best she
could with the stool. “For God’s sake, Nancy, be quiet. Wouldn’t he
have destroyed you on’y for me?” But Nancy followed up the attack like
a fury. “There’s nothing the matter with him,” Sally cried out, on
finding herself literally driven to the wall. “What harm could a little
touch of a stool on the back do the big brute?”

Nancy’s feelings appeared to rush suddenly into another channel, for
she turned round quickly, and kneeling down by her husband, lifted up
his head. “Och! Shawn, _avourneen machree_,”[20] she exclaimed,
“won’t you spake to me?” Shawn condescended to open his eyes. “Sally,”
she continued, “he’s comin’ to--glory be to God! Hurry over and hould
up his head while I’m runnin’ for somethin’ to rewive him. Or stay,
bring me the boulster.”

The bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the patient’s head;
then snatching her shawl from the peg where it hung, she disappeared.
She was back again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with a half
pint of whisky in a bottle.

“Take a taste av this, Shawn, an’ ’twill warm your heart.”

Shawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.

“Nancy,” says he, “I believe afther all you’re fond o’ me.”

“Wisha, Shawn, _achora_,[21] what else ’d I be but fond av you?”

“I thought, Nancy, you couldn’t care for a divil that thrated you so
bad.”

“Och, Shawn, Shawn, don’t talk that way to me. Sure I thought my heart
was broke when I see you sthretched there ’idout a stir in you.”

“An’ you left your shawl in pledge agin to get this for me?”

“To be sure I did; an’ a good right I had; an’ sorry I’d be to see you
in want of a dhrop of nourishment.”

“I was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what made a baste av me.”

And Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with a look in which
hatred and fascination were strangely blended. He turned quickly to his
wife.

“Will you give in it was a blackbird?” he asked.

“A blackbird,” she repeated, irresolutely.

“Yes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?”

Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.

“Well,” said his wife, after some hesitation, “’twas a blackbird. Will
that plase you?”

“An’ you’ll never say ’twas a thrish agin?”

“Never. An’ sure on’y for the speckles on the breast, I’d never
say ’twas a thrish; but sure you ought to know betther than
me--an’--an’--’twas a blackbird,” she exclaimed, with a desperate
effort.

Shawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his
strength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one
blaze of light.

“The Divil was in id,” says the smith, smiling grimly; “an’ there he’s
off in a flash of fire. I’m done wid him, any way.”

“Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy,” said Sally.

“I wish you the same, Sally, an’ a great many av ’em. I suppose you’re
goin’ to first Mass? Shawn and me’ll wait for second.”

Sally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her
way to the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were
also going to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty
surveyed Sally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.

“Look at her, Tim,” she exclaimed, “an’ isn’t she as young an’ as
hearty as ever? Bad ’cess to me but you’re the same Sally that danced
wid the master at my weddin’, next Thursday fortnight ’ll be eleven
years.”

“Begob, you’re a great woman,” says Tim.

Sally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had
witnessed at the blacksmith’s.

“But, Tim,” said she, after finishing the story, “how did the dispute
about the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I
forget it.”

“I’ll tell you that, then,” said Tim. “Begob, ay,” he exclaimed
abruptly, after thinking for a moment; “twas this day seven years, for
all the world--the year o’ the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his
haggart the evenin’ afore, and when he went out in the mornin’ he had a
hen blackbird. He put the _goulogue_[22] on her nick, and tuck her
in his hand; an’ wud one _smulluck_ av his finger knocked the life
out av her; he walked in an’ threw the blackbird on the table.

“‘Oh, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘you’re afther ketchin’ a fine thrish.’ Nancy
tuck the bird in her hand an’ began rubbin’ the feathers on her breast.
‘A fine thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘’Tisn’t a thrish, but a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Wisha, in throth, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘’tis a thrish; do you want to
take the sight o’ my eyes from me?’

“‘I tell you ’tis a blackbird,’ siz he.

“‘Indeed, then, it isn’t, but a thrish,’ siz she.

“Anyway one word borrowed another, an’ the end av it was, Shawn flailed
at her an’ gev her the father av a batin’.

“The Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the door an’ looked out.

“‘God be wud this day twelve months,’ siz she, ‘do you remimber the
fine thrish you caught in the crib?’

“’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Whisht, now, Shawn, ’twas a thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘I tell you again ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Och,’ siz Nancy, beginnen to laugh, ‘that was the quare blackbird.’

“Wud that, one word borrowed another, an’ Shawn stood up an’ gev her
the father av a batin’.

“The third Christmas Day kem, an’ they wor in the best o’ good humour
afther the tay, an’ Shawn puttin’ on his ridin’-coat to go to Mass.

“‘Well, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘I’m thinkin’ av what an unhappy Christmas
mornin’ we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you
caught in the crib, bad ’cess to her.’

“‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘Wisha, good luck to you, an’ don’t be talkin’ foolish,’ siz Nancy;
‘an’ you’re betther not get into a passion agin, account av an ould
thrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“‘I tell you ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.

“‘An’ I tell you ’twas a thrish,’ siz Nancy.

“Wud that, Shawn took a _bunnaun_[23] he had seasonin’ in the
chimley, and whaled at Nancy, an’ gev her the father av a batin’. An’
every Christmas morning from that day to this ’twas the same story, for
as sure as the sun Nancy ’d draw down the thrish. But do you tell me,
Sally, she’s afther givin’ in it was a blackbird?”

“She is,” replied Sally.

“Begob,” said Tim Croak, after a minute’s serious reflection, “it ought
to be put in the papers. I never h’ard afore av a wrong notion bein’
got out av a woman’s head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it
took him seven years to do id.”

                                _Charles Joseph Kickham_ (1828–1882).




                          _IRISH ASTRONOMY._

   A veritable myth, touching the constellation of O’Ryan,
   ignorantly and falsely spelled Orion.


    O’Ryan was a man of might
      Whin Ireland was a nation,
    But poachin’ was his chief delight
      And constant occupation.
    He had an ould militia gun,
      And sartin sure his aim was;
    He gave the keepers many a run,
      And didn’t mind the game laws.

    St. Pathrick wanst was passin’ by
      O’Ryan’s little houldin’,
    And as the saint felt wake and dhry,
      He thought he’d enther bould in;
    “O’Ryan,” says the saint, “avick!
      To praich at Thurles I’m goin’;
    So let me have a rasher, quick,
      And a dhrop of Innishowen.”

    “No rasher will I cook for you
      While betther is to spare, sir;
    But here’s a jug of mountain dew,
      And there’s a rattlin’ hare, sir.”
    St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,
      And says he, “Good luck attind you,
    And whin you’re in your windin’ sheet
      It’s up to heaven I’ll sind you.”

    O’Ryan gave his pipe a whiff--
      “Thim tidin’s is transportin’,
    But may I ax your saintship if
      There’s any kind of sportin’?”
    St. Pathrick said, “A Lion’s there,
      Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer”--
    “Bedad,” says Mick, “the huntin’s rare,
      St. Pathrick, I’m your man, sir!”

    So, to conclude my song aright,
      For fear I’d tire your patience,
    You’ll see O’Ryan any night
      Amid the constellations.
    And Venus follows in his thrack,
      Till Mars grows jealous raally,
    But, faith, he fears the Irish knack
      Of handling the--shillaly.

                                _Charles Graham Halpine_ (1829–1868).




                    _PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST’S BOY._


“Sorra a one of me’ll get married,” remarked Paddy Fret, as he was
furbishing up the priest’s stirrups one beautiful Saturday morning, in
the little kitchen at the rear of the chapel-house. “Sure, if I don’t,
you will; and there’ll be a great palin’ of bells at the weddin’. We’ll
all turn out to see you--the whole of the foolish vargins rowled into
wan.”

Mrs. Galvin, who was at the moment occupied in turning the white side
of a slab of toast to the fire, turned round to her tormentor, no small
degree of acerbity wrinkling up her face.

“Mind your work, and keep a civil tongue in your impty head,”
she exclaimed petulantly. “There was many a fine lump of a boy
would marry me in my time, if I only took the throuble to wink
a _comether_[24] at him. There was min in them times, not
_sprahauns_[25] like you.”

“You’re burnin’ the toast, an’ goin’ to make snuff of Father Maher’s
break’ast,” interrupted Paddy. “At the rate you’re goin’ on, you’ll
bile the eggs that hard that you’ll kill his riverence, and be thried
for murdher. And, upon my _soukins_, the hangman will have a nate
job with you.”

“You’d slip thro’ the rope, you flax-hank,” was the answer. “Wait till
I put my two eyes on Katty Tyrrell, and, troth, I’ll put your nose out
o’ joint, or my name isn’t Mary Galvin. You goin’ coortin’! The Lord
save and guide us! As if any wan would dhrame of taking a switch for a
husband--a crathur like you, only fit to beat an ould coat with!”

“Don’t lose your timper, Mrs. Galvin,” said Paddy, whose
inextinguishable love of fun gleamed out of his black eyes, and
flashed from his dazzlingly white and regular teeth. “God is good; all
the ould fools isn’t dead yet, and there’s a chance of your not dying
without some unforchinate gandher saying the Rosary in thanks for his
redimption.”

Mrs. Galvin made no reply. She placed the toast in the rack in silence;
but that silence was ominous. Next, she removed the teapot, cosy and
all, from the fireside, and placed all on a tray, which she bore off
with a sort of conscious yet sullen dignity, to the pretty parlour,
where Father Maher, after his hard mountain ride, waited breakfast.

“I’ll never spake to Paddy Fret again, your riverence,” she said, when
everything had been arranged, and it was her turn to quit the room.

The priest, like the majority of his Irish brethren--God bless
them!--had a ready appreciation of a joke. He paused in the task of
shelling an egg, and inquired with all possible gravity, “What is the
matter now, Mrs. Galvin?”

“Sure, your riverence, my heart is bruk with the goin’s on of Paddy
Fret. From mornin’ till night he’s never done makin’ faces at me, an’
sayin’ as how no wan in Croagh would think of throwin’ a stick at me.
Ah! then, I can tell you, Father Michael, I squez the heart’s blood out
of many as fine a man, in my time, as iver bid the divil good night,
savin’ your riverence.”

“You are in the autumn of your beauty yet, Mary,” said the priest,
“handsome is that handsome does, you know.”

“Thank you kindly, Father Maher. But that boy’ll be the death o’ me.
And then,” putting her sharp knuckles on the table’s edge, and bending
over to her master, in deep confidence, “I know for sartin that he’s
runnin’ after half the girls in the parish.”

Father Maher looked grave at this disclosure.

“Of course they keep running away from him--don’t they, Mary? Why,
we’ve got an Adonis in the house.”

“The Lord forbid I’d say that of him, sir,” remarked Mrs. Galvin,
whose acquaintance with Hellenic myths was rather hazy. “Bad as he is,
he hasn’t come to that yet.”

“I am glad to hear you say as much,” said the priest, as he poured out
a cup of tea, and proceeded to butter the toast. “Never fear, Mary,
I’ll have an eye on that fellow.”

The door closed, shutting out the housekeeper, and Father Maher’s face
relaxed into a broad smile. He rested the local paper against the
toast-rack, and laughed cautiously from time to time, as he ran down
its columns of barren contents. Neither Paddy nor Mrs. Galvin had the
faintest idea of the amusement their daily quarrels afforded him, or of
the gusto with which he used to describe them at the dinner-tables to
which he was occasionally invited.

Having burnished the irons and cleansed the leathers until they
shone again, Paddy Fret mounted to his bedroom, over the stable, and
proceeded to array himself with unusual care. His toilet completed,
he surveyed himself in the cracked triangle of looking-glass imbedded
in the mortar of the wall, and the result of the scrutiny satisfied
him that there was not a gayer or handsomer young fellow in the whole
parish of Croagh. So, in love with himself and part of the world, he
stole cautiously down the rickety step-ladder, and gliding like a snake
between the over-bowering laurels which flanked the chapel-house,
emerged on the high road.

“I’m afeerd, Paddy, that my father will never listen to a good word
for you,” said pretty Katty Tyrrell, as the priest’s boy took a stool
beside her before the blazing peat fire, burning on the stoveless
hearth. “He’s a grave man, wanst he takes a notion into his head.”

“All ould min has got notions,” said Paddy, “but they dhrop off with
their hairs. Lave him to me, and if I don’t convart him, call me a
souper. Sure, if he wants a son-in-law to be a comfort in his ould age
he couldn’t meet with a finer boy than meself.”

“Mrs. Galvin says,” continued Katty, “that it would be a morchial
sin to throw me and my two hundherd pounds away on the likes o’ you.
‘A good-for-nothin’ _bosthoon_,’[26] says she, ‘that I wouldn’t
graize the wheel of a barrow with.’”

“She wouldn’t graize a great many wheels, at any rate,” replied Paddy.
“The truth is, Katty dear, the poor woman is out of her sivin sinses,
and all for the want of a gintleman to make a lady of her, as I’m goin’
to make wan o’ you.”

The splendour of the promise bewildered Miss Tyrrell. She could only
rest her elbows on her knees, hide her face in her hands, and cry, “Oh,
Paddy!”

“Yes, me jewel,” continued the subtle suitor, “I’m poor to-day,
perhaps, but there’s noble blood coursin’ thro’ my veins. Go up to the
top of Knock-meil-Down some fine mornin’, and look down all around
you. There isn’t a square fut o’ grass in all you see that didn’t
wanst belong to my ancisthors. In the time of Cahul Mohr wan o’ my
grandfathers had tin thousand min and a hundherd thousand sheep at his
command, not to spake of ships at say and forthresses and palaces on
land.”

“Arrah, how did you get robbed, Paddy?” said Katty.

“Well, you see, my dear, they were a hard-dhrinkin’ lot at the time I’m
spakin’ of. The landed property wint into the Incumbered Estates Coort,
and was sould for a song; the forthresses were changed into Martello
towers, and the army took shippin’ for France, but they were wracked
somewhere in the South Says, where they all swam ashore and turned New
Zealandhers.”

Katty was profoundly interested by this historical sketch of the Fret
family, which Paddy rolled out without hitch or pause--indispensable
elements of veracity in a spoken narrative. She allowed her lover to
hold her hand, and fancied she was a princess.

As they sat in this delightful abstraction--the ecstasy known to the
moderns as “spooning”--they were startled by the sound of wheels in the
farmyard, and Katty, with one swift glance at the window, exclaimed in
the wildest anguish, “Oh, Paddy, Paddy, what’ll become o’ me? Here’s my
father and mother come back from market already.”

“Take it aisy, darlint,” replied Mr. Fret. “Can’t I hide in the bedroom
beyant?”

“Not for all the world!” said Katty, in terror. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“Thin stick me in the pot and put the lid over me,” was Mr. Fret’s next
happy suggestion.

Katty glanced in agony round the kitchen, and suddenly a great hope
filled her to the lips. Over the fireplace was a rude platform--common
to Irish farmhouses--on which saddles, harness, empty sacks, old ropes,
boots, and sometimes wool, were stored away indiscriminately.

“Up there--up with you,” she cried, placing a chair for him to ascend.

Paddy lost no time in mounting, and having stretched himself at full
length, his terrified sweetheart piled the litter over him until he was
completely hidden from view.

The hiding was scarce effected when Andy Tyrrell, old Mrs. Tyrrell,
and Mrs. Galvin made their appearance. They each drew stools round the
fire, in order to enjoy the blaze, which was most welcome after their
inclement ride.

“Are you yit mopin’ over that blackguard, Paddy Fret, _ma
colleen_?” asked the priest’s housekeeper. “’Tis a bad bargain you’d
make o’ the same _daltheen_,[27] honey.”

Katty, profoundly concerned in the mending of a stocking, pretended not
to hear the inquiry.

“She’s gettin’ sense, Mary,” said Mrs. Tyrrell. “Boys’ll be boys, and
girls’ll be girls, till the geese crows like cocks.”

“I tould the vagabone at the last fair,” remarked the old man, “that
if ever I caught him within an ass’s roar o’ this doore I’d put him
into the thrashin’ machine, and make chaff of his ugly bones. Bad luck
to his impidence, the _aulaun_,[28] to come lookin’ afther my
daughter.”

A bottle of whisky was now produced, and Katty busied herself in
providing glasses for the party. Mrs. Galvin at first declined to
“touch a dhrop, it bein’ too airly,” but once persuaded to hallow the
seductive fluid with her chaste lips, it was wonderful how soon she got
reconciled to potation after potation, till her inquisitive eyes began
to twinkle oddly in the firelight.

“What the divil is the matther with the creel?” (the platform above
alluded to) asked old Tyrrell. “’Tis groanin’ as if it had the lumbago.”

“The wind, my dear man, ’tis the wind,” replied Mrs. Galvin.

“Faith, I think ’tis enchanted it is,” observed the lady of the house.
“Look how it keeps rockin’ and shakin’, as if there was a throubled
sowl in it.”

“The wind, ma’am--’tis I know what it is, _alanna_,[29] to my
cost,” said the housekeeper; “’tis only the wind.”

Katty’s heart went pit-a-pat during this conference. She knew that the
“creel” was not the firmest of structures, and she shivered at the bare
idea of Paddy making a turn which might send it to pieces.

Again the whisky went round, mollifying the hard lines of Mrs. Galvin’s
unromantic countenance. Old Tyrrell, meanwhile, kept a steady eye on
the “creel,” which had relapsed by this time into its normal immobility.

“Have a dhrop, Katty,” he said, handing his daughter his glass.

The girl, who knew the consequence of disobeying his slightest command,
touched the rim of the vessel with her lips, and returned it with a
grateful “Thank you, father.” At the same time on lifting her eyes to
the “creel” she saw Paddy’s face peering out at her, and was honoured
with one of the finest winks that gentleman was capable of.

“Well, here’s long life to all of us, and may we be no worse off this
day twelvemonth,” said the old man, as he replenished the ladies’
glasses, and then set about draining his own. “Give me your hand, Mrs.
Galvin. There isn’t a finer nor a better woman in----”

The sentence was never finished, for whilst he was speaking the “creel”
gave way, and Paddy Fret, followed by the miscellaneous lumber which
had concealed him, tumbled into the middle of the astonished party. The
women shrieked and ran, whilst poor Katty, overcome by the terror of
the situation, fainted into a chair.

Paddy rose to his feet, unabashed and confident. “Wasn’t that a grand
fright I gave ye all?” he asked, with superb indifference.

Tyrrell, pale as death, and trembling in every limb, went to a corner,
took up a gun, and pointed the muzzle at the intruder’s head. “Swear,”
he hoarsely exclaimed, “you’ll make an honest woman of my daughter
before another week, or I’ll blow the roof off your skull.”

“I’ll spare you all the throuble,” said Paddy; “send for Father Maher
and I’ll marry her this minit, if you like. Will you have Paddy Fret
for your husband, Katty?” he asked, taking the hands of the now
conscious girl.

The whisky was finished, and on the following Sunday Father Maher
united Paddy Fret and Katty Tyrrell, in the little chapel of Croagh.
Mrs. Galvin danced bravely at the wedding, and was heard, more than
once, to whisper that “only for her ’twould never be a match.”

                                _John Francis O’Donnell_ (1837–1874).

  [Illustration: “‘THAT’S THE TRUTH,’ SAYS O’SHANAHAN DHU.”]




                           _O’SHANAHAN DHU._


    O’Shanahan Dhu, you’re a rover, and you’ll never be better, I fear,
    A rogue, a deludherin’ lover, with a girl for each day in the year;
    Don’t you know how the mothers go frowning, when a village you
      wander athrough,
    For the priest you’d not seek were you drowning--
          “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
            “For I’m aisy in love and divarsion,” says the ranting
              O’Shanahan Dhu.

    O’Shanahan, don’t think you’re welcome, for I was but this moment,
      I’m sure,
    Saying--“Speak of the dhioul[30] and he’ll come,” and that moment
      you stood on the floor;
    Now you’ll blarney, and flatter, and swear it, while you know I’ve
      my spinning to do,
    It would take a bright angel to bear it--
          “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;
            “For, darling, all know you’re an angel,” says the ranting
              O’Shanahan Dhu.

    O’Shanahan Dhu, there’s Jack Morrow, the smith in the hill-forge
      above,
    Who says marriage is nothing but sorrow, and a wedding the end of
      all love;
    I myself don’t care much for believing that it’s gospel, yet what
      can one do,
    When you men are so given to deceiving--
          “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;
            “We’re the thieves of the world, still you like us,” says
              the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

    O’Shanahan Dhu, why come scheming, when there’s nobody in but poor
      me,
    Can you fancy I’m foolish or draming, to believe that our hearts
      could agree?
    Don’t you know, sir, all round they’re reporting, with good reason,
      perhaps, for it too,
    That Jack Shea’s dainty daughter you’re courting?--
          “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
            “But there’s no one believes it, my darling,” with a wink,
              says O’Shanahan Dhu.

    O’Shanahan Dhu, now you’ll vex me, let me go, sir, this moment, I
      say,
    I’m in airnest, and why so perplex me, see I’m losing the work of
      the day.
    There’s my spinning all gone to a tangle, my bleached clothes all
      boiled to a blue,
    While for kisses you wrestle and wrangle--
          “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
            “I own I’ve a weakness for kisses,” says the ranting
              O’Shanahan Dhu.

    O’Shanahan Dhu, here’s my mother, if you don’t let me go, faith,
      I’ll cry,
    Why, she’ll tell both my father and brother, and with shame maybe
      cause me to die,
    And then at your bedside I’ll haunt you, with a light in my hand
      burning blue,
    From my shroud moaning, “Shemus, I want you,”--
          “That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
            “But, ah, darling, say that while you’re living,” says the
              ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

                                       _James J. Bourke_ (1837–1894).




                             _SHANE GLAS._


    If you saw Shane Glas as he tramped to the fair,
    With his fresh white shirt and his neat combed hair,
      You’d never believe what a rake went by;
    Why the girls--however he’s won them--the rogue--
    Love the ground that is touched by the sole of his brogue,
      And they follow him, ’spite of the old people’s cry--

        “Sludhering Shawn, deludhering Shawn,
          Whose blarneying lies might a warship float,
        Let the girls alone, you big vagabone,
        Or soon they’ll have reason to cry, ‘Ochone,’
          Go home I say, there’s a rogue in your coat.”

    He met Sally one day at the market town,
    With her neat blacked shoes and her dimity gown,
      And never dreamt she what a rake was nigh;
    He whispered soft nothings, he pleaded with sighs,
    Praised her red glowing cheek, her round breasts, her blue eyes,
      And, O maid of the mountain, he left her to cry--

        “Sludhering Shawn, soothering Shawn,
          Traitor, on whom all the girls still doat,
        Sal, Peggy, and Sue have reason to rue
        The day they beheld your bright eyes of blue,
          And your swaggering gait, and the rogue in your coat.”

                         _Translated from the Irish by J. J. Bourke._




                       _AN IRISH STORY-TELLER._


Meehawl Theige Oge (Murphy) was the name of the man of whom I speak.
Though small in stature, he himself deemed that there never lived a
more powerful man. He was not fond of speaking truth, as may be easily
learnt from the following story.

He lived near Miskish, and reclaimed as much land at the base of this
hill as afforded pasture to a cow or two. This, he often swore, he made
so fertile that it would grow potatoes without sowing them at all.
Somebody once asked him how were the new potatoes. “I’ll tell you,
then,” says he. “I was setting down yesterday west there near the end
of wan of the ridges, and I heard the sweetest music that ever a singer
made. Wid the hate (heat) of the sun, ’tis how the _knapawns_[31]
were fighting wid aich other, and they making noise and they saying
like this:--

    “‘Move out from me and don’t crush me so,
    But you won’t, you won’t, O bitter woe!’

West wid me to the house for a spade and a skive. I hadn’t the spade
in the ground right, when up popped every _knasster_[32] as big
as your head. I went home in high glee,--sure, a wran’s egg wouldn’t
break under me, my heart was so light,--I washed the praties for myself
and hung them over the fire. Then I sat on the _seestheen_,[33]
and reddened (lit) my pipe. I hadn’t a _shoch_ (whiff) and a half
pulled when here are the praties fubbling. I tuk ’em off the fire at
my dead aise and put ’em on the table after a spell. Glory be to God
that gave ’em to me; ’tis they wor the fine ating; I never ate the like
of ’em, and I won’t again too till the _Day of Flags_ (day of his
burial). ’Tisn’t that itself, but they wor laffing with me, widout they
knowing I was going to lie my back-teeth on ’em.”

Meehawl was often obliged to go to England. Once, after returning home,
a contemptible little fellow asked him would himself find any kind of
suitable employment there. Meehawl looked at him from head to foot, as
he stood by the fire warming himself, though the sun was splitting the
trees, the heat was so great. A fly alighted on his nose; but he gave
him a slap which put an end to his pricking. “The divel,” says Meehawl,
“if you had a whip I am sure you would keep the flies from the hams of
bacon which I used see hanging in the houses in England!”

He was very fond of liquor, but alas! he had not the means whereby
to indulge his desires. At times, however, he used to have a few
shillings; then he would go to the fair,--not without bringing his
blackthorn stick,--and finding some neighbour whom he made much of,
they would both go and have a “drop” together, till his money was
spent; after which he would make his exit from the tavern like a mad
thunderbolt. And if anybody came near him he was sure to get a taste of
his blackthorn. To do him justice, there were few men who could beat
him fighting with a stick.

One day he came home drunk; “he had a blow on the cat and a blow
on the dog.” His wife was sitting in the corner as mute as a cat,
but she uttered not a word till he had slept off the effects of the
drunkenness; then she asked him why he had come home as he did the
night before. It did not take him long to find his answer:--“Sure,”
said he, “I had to drink something to clane the cobwebs out of my
throat!” The poor fellow had no stripper that winter, so that he had to
eat his food dry.

I have stated before that Meehawl often had to go to England. Here is
one of the stories which he used to relate after coming back:--“After
going to England I was a spell widout any work, and sure it did not
take me long to spind the little penny of money that I brought wid me,
and I wouldn’t get a lodging anywhere, since my pocket wasn’t stiff.
I put my hand in my pocket, trying for my pipe, and what should I
get there but tuppence (2d.) by the height of luck. I bought a loaf
of bread for myself; I ate a bit of it, and put the rest of it in
the pocket of my _casoge_.[34] When it was going of me to get a
lodging anywhere, what should I see a couple of steps from me but a
big gun. It was a short delay for me to get into its mouth, and while
you’d be closing your eye I wasn’t inside when I fell asleep. In the
morning, when I was waking myself up, I didn’t feel a bit till I got a
bullet that put so much hurry on me that I couldn’t ever or ever stop
till I fell in a fine brickle (brittle) _moantawn_[35] in France.
‘Well, Meehawl,’ says I to myself, ‘maybe you oughtn’t complain since
you didn’t fall into the say where you’d get swallowing without chawing
(chewing).’ Then I thanked God who brought me safe and sound so far. I
put my hand in the pocket of my _casoge_ and what should be there
before me but the small little bit of bread I put into it the night
before that. ‘_Food is the work-horse_, wherever you’ll be,’ says
I to myself, ating up the bread dry as fast as I could. When I had it
ate, I looked around me just as cute as Norry-the-bogs[36] when she’d
be trying for fish in a river, but sure if I stopped looking till the
_Day of Flags_, I wouldn’t get as much as the full of my eye of
wan Frenchman.

“‘Well, that’s best,’ says I, going to a fine cock of hay, as high as
Miskish, but high as it was, I went on top of it. I made a hole through
it, and left myself into it, widout a bit of me out but the top of my
nose, to draw my breath. I wasn’t there long till I fell asleep, and
I didn’t feel anything till morning. When I woke up I looked round
me--where was I? God for ever wid me! where was I only in the middle of
the say, and my heart ruz as I thought of it right. I suppose ’tis how
a cloud fell near the cock, and that ruz the flood in the river so much
that it swept myself and the cock all together away--widout letting
_me_ know of it. I gave myself up to God, but if I did ’tis likely
I didn’t deserve much of the good from Him, for again a spell here’s a
whale to me (there’s a creeping could running through me when I think
of him!), and he opened his dirty mouth and he swallowed myself and the
cock holus bolus.

“I wasn’t gone right till that happened me. People say that Hell is
dark, but if it is as dark as the stomach of that baste, the divil
entirely is in it. But that isn’t here nor there; you’d see the fish
running hither and over about his stomach, some of ’em swimming fine
and aisy for theirself, more of ’em lepping as light as flays (fleas),
and some more of ’em bawling like young childer. ‘Ye haven’t any more
right to do that nor me,’ says I, and I tuk out and opened a big knife;
widout a lie it was sharp--wan blow of it would cut off the leg of the
biggest horse that ever trod or walked on grass. Here am I cutting,
and ’tis short till the pain pinched the whale, and begor I saw that
he would like to turn off. ‘Squeeze out,’ says I, and wid that I saw
the fish running out. ‘That your road may rise wid ye,’ says I; but I
wasn’t going to stop till he would give the same tratement or better
to myself. Here’s he blowing; ‘Blow on wid you,’ says I, and I was
cutting always at such a rate that it wasn’t long till I put my knife
out through his side, and I fell on the top of my head. ‘_Fooisg!
fooisg!_’ says the stomach of the whale, and praise and thanks be to
God, he blew me out through his mouth. He was tired of me and I was no
less tired of him too. He blew me so high in the sky that I couldn’t be
far from the sun, there was so much hate (heat) there. But any way I
fell down safe and sound on a fine soft bog of turf that was cut only
a few days before that. Nothing happened to me, only that the nail was
taken off the _loodeen_[37] of my left leg!”

                                                   _Patrick O’Leary._




                        _THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN._


    A very queer story I heard
        Long ago,
    In Kerry. ’Tis gruesome and weird:
        Stage went slow
    As we passed a ruined shebeen
    On our way to Cahirciveen.

    “They drank and they feasted _galore_,
        With each breath
    Loud calling for one bottle more!
        Father Death
    Came in in the midst of the cheer,
    With ‘Long life to all of yez here!’

    “By Crom’ell! his eyes they were bright;
        Loud he laughed,
    Saying, ‘Boys, we will make it a night.’
        Then he quaffed
    A dandy of punch in a trice,
    Remarking, ‘_Da di!_ it is nice!’

    “’Tis whisky that loosens the tongue!
        Beard o’ Crom’!
    And that same has been often sung;
        Not a _gom_[38]
    Was _filea_[39] that _clairsech’d_[40] the line:
    O whisky’s a nectar divine!

    “One welcomed the pale king with cheers;
        All his life
    Was channelled with woe’s soulful tears;
        He had wife
    That came, a black fate, in his way,
    When his years were just clasping the May.

    “Another--he gave furtive glance,
         And grew pale--
    ‘This coming,’ mused he, ‘won’t entrance,
         I’ll go bail,
    This meeting of ours!’--week ere this,
    God Hymen had made for him bliss.

    “And another?--Rises the din
        Loud and strong;
    The whisky a-firing, Neill Finn
        Said, ‘A song
    We’ll have from our guest ere we’ll go!’
    The guest said, ‘Well, Neill, be it so!’

    “He sang them a _spirited_ stave,
         Written where
    The poet for bread is no slave
        To black care--
    ‘Long life to yez!’ shouted Neill Finn;
    Death smiled, and said, ‘Neill, boy, amin!’

    “They called for the cards and they played,
        Sure the same
    ‘Forty-fives’ it was named--Mike Quade
        In the game
    So cheated that Death said: ‘’Tis like
    The wind from your sails I’ll take, Mike.’

    “What time with a blow from his stick,
        To the earth
    He struck Mick. Then _kippeens_[41] took quick
        Striking birth;
    The Quade boys were there to the fore,
    All longing, my dear, for red gore!

    “They went for the old man, but he
        Used to fight,
    His glass drained, and quick as a bee
        Left and right
    Blows laid--when they woke from their fix,
    They waited for Charon by Styx.

    “The old one he stuck to the drink,
        (So they tell),
    Till being o’ercome (as they think),
        That he fell
    Down under the table--nor woke
    Till day o’er the Atlantic broke.

    “Forgetful of all that had passed,
        He looked round,
    And seeing his subjects all massed
        On the ground,
    He said, ‘Oh, get up from the floor,
    And help me with one bottle more!’

    “Since that time, the peasantry say,
        Every night
    Sure there is the devil to pay!
        And the sight
    They see--‘Sirs, no lie! ’pon my soul!’
    Death drunk, _singing Beimedh a gole_!”[42]

                                        _Charles P. O’Conor_ (1837?).

  [Illustration: “HE SAID, ‘OH, GET UP FROM THE FLOOR, AND HELP ME
  WITH ONE BOTTLE MORE!’”]




                            _FAN FITZGERL._


              Wirra, wirra! _ologone!_
              Can’t ye lave a lad alone,
    Till he’s proved there’s no tradition left of any other girl--
              Not even Trojan Helen,
              In beauty all excellin’--
    Who’s been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl?

              Wid her brows of silky black
              Arched above for the attack,
    Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man;
              Masther Cupid, point your arrows,
              From this out, agin the sparrows,
    For you’re bested at Love’s archery by young Miss Fan.

              See what showers of goolden thread
              Lift and fall upon her head,
    The likes of such a trammel-net at say was never spread;
              For, whin accurately reckoned,
              ’Twas computed that each second
    Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead.

              Now mintion, if you will,
              Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill,
    Or Mag’llicuddy’s Reeks, renowned for cripplin’ all they can;
              Still the country-side confisses
              None of all its precipices
    Cause a quarther of the carnage of the nose of Fan.

              But your shatthered hearts suppose,
              Safely steered apast her nose,
    She’s a current and a reef beyand to wreck them roving ships.
              My meaning it is simple,
              For that current is her dimple,
    And the cruel reef ’twill coax ye to’s her coral lips.

              I might inform ye further
              Of her bosom’s snowy murther,
    And ah ankle ambuscadin’ through her gown’s delightful whirl;
              But what need when all the village
              Has forsook its peaceful tillage,
    And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl!

                                     _Alfred Perceval Graves_ (1846).




                           _FATHER O’FLYNN._


    Of priests we can offer a charmin’ variety,
    Far renown’d for larnin’ and piety;
    Still, I’d advance ye without impropriety,
      Father O’Flynn is the flow’r of them all.
        Here’s a health to you, Father O’Flynn,
        _Slainthe_, and _slainthe_, and _slainthe_ agin;
        Powerfullest preacher, and tenderest teacher,
          And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

    Don’t talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
    Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,
    Faix, and the divil and all at Divinity,
      Father O’Flynn ’d make hares of them all!
    Come, I venture to give ye my word,
    Never the likes of his logic was heard,
    Down from Mythology into Thayology,
      Troth! and Conchology, if he’d the call.

    Och! Father O’Flynn, you’ve a wonderful way wid you,
    All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
    All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
      You’ve such a way wid you, Father _avick_!
    Still for all you’ve so gentle a soul,
    Gad, you’ve your flock in the grandest control;
    Checking the crazy ones, coaxing onaisy ones,
      Lifting the lazy ones on with a stick.

    And though quite avoidin’ all foolish frivolity,
    Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity,
    Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
      At comicality, Father, wid you?
    Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
    Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
    “Is it lave gaiety all to the laity?
      Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too!”

                                            _Alfred Perceval Graves._




                            _PHILANDERING._


    Maureen, _acushla_, ah! why such a frown on you!
      Sure, ’tis your own purty smiles should be there,
    Under those ringlets that make such a crown on you,
      As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear,
    When from the picthers in church they look down on you,
                    Kneeling in prayer.

    Troth, no, you needn’t, there isn’t a drop on me,
      Barrin’ one half-one to keep out the cowld;
    And, Maureen, if you’ll throw a smile on the top o’ me,
      Half-one was never so sweet, I’ll make bowld.
    But, if you like, dear, at once put a stop on me
                    Life with a scowld.

    Red-haired Kate Ryan?--Don’t mention her name to me!
      I’ve a taste, Maureen darlin’, whatever I do.
    But I kissed her?--Ah, now, would you even that same to me?--
      Ye saw me! Well, well, if ye did, sure it’s true,
    But I don’t want herself or her cows, and small blame to me
                    When I know you.

    There now, _aroon_, put an ind to this strife o’ me
      Poor frightened heart, my own Maureen, my duck;
    Troth, till the day comes when you’ll be made wife o’ me,
      Night, noon, and mornin’, my heart’ll be brack.
    Kiss me, _acushla_! My darlin’! The life o’ me!
                    One more for luck!

                                              _William Boyle_ (1853).




                         _HONIED PERSUASION._


    “Terry O’Rourke, ’tis your presence that tazes me;
      Haven’t I towld you so often before?
    If you’ve the smallest regard for what plazes me,
      Never come prowlin’ round here any more.
    Why you persist in this game’s what amazes me;
      Didn’t I tell you I’d beaus be the score?
    There’s Rody Kearney would give twenty cows to me
    Any fine day that I’d let him be spouse to me.”

    “Biddy, _asthore_, an’ ’tis you that is hard on me,
      Whin ’tis me two wicked legs are to blame;
    Troth, I believe if you placed a strong guard on me,
      They’d wandher back to this spot all the same.
    Saving the gates of the prison are barr’d on me,
      You might as well try to keep moths from the flame,
    Ducks from the water, or bees from the flowers,
    As thim same legs from your door, be the powers!

    “Come now, me darlin’, ’tis no use to frown on me;
      Tho’ I’ve no cows, but two mules an’ a car,
    You wouldn’t know but I’d yet have the gown on me,
      Ringing the tunes of me tongue at the Bar.
    Whin I’ve won you, who despised and looked down on me,
      Shure ’tis meself that might come to be Czar.
    What are you smilin’ at? Give me the hand of you,
    I’ll make the purtiest bride in the land of you.”

                                              _J. De Quincey_ (185-).

  [Illustration: “I’LL MAKE THE PURTIEST BRIDE IN THE LAND OF YOU.”]




                      _THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT._

              (AS RELATED BY ANDREW GERAGHTY, PHILOMATH.)


“Essex,” said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in
the back parlour of Buckingham Palace, “Essex, me haro, I’ve got a job
that I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?”

“I’m no great fist at jografy,” says his lordship, “but I know the
place you mane. Population, three million; exports, emigrants.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ve been reading the _Dublin Evening
Mail_ and the _Telegraft_ for some time back, and sorra one
o’ me can get at the trooth o’ how things is goin’, for the leadin’
articles is as conthradictory as if they wor husband and wife.”

“That’s the way wid papers all the world over,” says Essex; “Columbus
told me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin’ and
conthradictin’ each other at every turn--it’s the way they make their
livin’. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon.”

“It’s addled they have me betune them,” says the Queen. “Not a know I
know what’s goin’ on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to
Ireland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand.”

“Is it me?” says Essex, leppin’ up off his chair. “It’s not in airnest
ye are, ould lady. Sure it’s the hoight of the London saison. Every
one’s in town, and Shake’s new fairy piece, ‘The Midsummer’s Night
Mare,’ billed for next week.”

“You’ll go when ye’re tould,” says the Queen, fixin’ him with her eye,
“if you know which side yer bread’s buttered on. See here, now,” says
she, seein’ him chokin’ wid vexation and a slice o’ corned beef, “you
ought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you’ll be at the top o’
the walk over there as vice-regent representin’ me.”

“I ought to have a title or two,” says Essex, pluckin’ up a bit. “His
Gloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o’ that.”

“How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?”
says Elizabeth.

“First class,” cries Essex. “Couldn’t be betther; it doesn’t mean much,
but it’s allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall
door.”

Well, boys, it didn’t take him long to pack his clothes and start
away for the Island o’ Saints. It took him a good while to get there,
though, through not knowin’ the road; but by means of a pocket compass
and a tip to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey
Island. Going up to an ould man who was sittin’ on a rock, he took off
his hat, and says he--

“That’s great weather we’re havin’?”

“Good enough for the times that’s in it,” says the ould man, cockin’
one eye at him.

“Any divarshun goin’ on?” says Essex.

“You’re a sthranger in these parts, I’m thinkin’,” says the ould man,
“or you’d know this was a ‘band night’ in Dalkey.”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” says Essex; “the fact is,” says he, “I only
landed from England just this minute.”

“Ay,” says the ould man bitterly, “it’s little they know about us over
there. I’ll hould you,” says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice,
“that the Queen herself doesn’t know there is to be fireworks in the
Sorrento Gardens this night.”

Well, when Essex heard that, he disremembered entirely he was sent
over to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see
the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found
plenty of them--thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as
the day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day--one to Queen
Elizabeth and the other to Lord Montaigle, a play-boy like himself.
I’ll read you the one to the Queen first:--

                                   “DAME STHREET, _April 16th, 1599_.

   “FAIR ENCHANTRESS,--I wish I was back in London,
   baskin’ in your sweet smiles and listenin’ to your melodious
   voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the
   post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin’ lookin’
   for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O’Neil or his men can
   I find. A policemin at the corner o’ Nassau Street told me they
   wor hidin’ in Wicklow. So I am makin’ up a party to explore the
   Dargle on Easter Monda’. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and
   every minute o’ the day I do be wishin’ it was your good-lookin’
   self I was gazin’ at instead o’ these ignorant scarecrows.
   Hopin’ soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin’
   subjec’,

                                                              “ESSEX.

   “P.S.--I hear Hugh O’Neil was seen on the top o’ the Donnybrook
   tram yesterday mornin’. If I have any luck the head ’ll be off
   him before you get this.

                                                               “E.”


The other letter read this way--

   “DEAR MONTY--This is a great place all out. Come over
   here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and
   the girls--oh! don’t be talkin’--’pon me secret honour you’ll
   see more loveliness at a tay and supper ball in Rathmines than
   there is in the whole of England. Tell Ned Spenser to send me
   a love-song to sing to a young girl who seems taken wid my
   appearance. Her name’s Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, so he
   oughtent to find it hard. I hear Hugh O’Neil’s a terror, and
   hits a powerful welt, especially when you’re not lookin’. If he
   tries any of his games on wid me, I’ll give him in charge. No
   brawlin’ for yours truly,

                                                             “ESSEX.”

Well, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months in Dublin,
purtendin’ to be very busy subjugatin’ the country, but all the time
only losin’ his time and money widout doin’ a hand’s turn, and doin’
his best to avoid a ruction with “Fighting Hugh.” If a messenger came
to tell him that O’Neil was campin’ out on the North Bull, Essex would
up stick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin’ the forty-foot
hole, he’d write off to Elizabeth, saying that “owing to their suparior
knowledge of the country, the dastard foe had once more eluded him.”

The Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always
ended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Essex to finish
up his business and not be makin’ a fool of himself.

“Oh, that’s the talk, is it,” says Essex; “very well, me ould
sauce-box” (that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him
the clip on the ear for turnin’ his back on her), “very well, me ould
sauce-box,” says he, “I’ll write off to O’Neil this very minute, and
tell him to send in his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.”

Well, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one--the terms being--

1. Hugh O’Neil to be King of Great Britain.

2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of
England.

3. The O’Neil family to be supported by Government, with free passes to
all theatres and places of entertainment.

4. The London markets to buy only from Irish dealers.

5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelope, directed to H. O’Neil, and
marked “private.” Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O’Neil. Terms
cash.

Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he’d
have seen it was of too graspin’ a nature to pass with any sort of a
respectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document
in the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for
England.

“Is the Queen widin?” says he to the butler, when he opened the
door o’ the palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid
travellin’ all night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was
for not littin’ him in at the first go off, so says he very grand:
“Her Meejesty is abow stairs and can’t be seen till she’s had her
breakwhist.”

“Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an enterview,” says
Essex.

“Oh, beg pardon, me lord,” says the butler, steppin’ to one side, “I
didn’t know ’twas yourself was in it; come inside, sir; the Queen’s in
the dhrawin’-room.”

  [Illustration: “‘YER MAJESTY, YOU HAVE A FACE ON YOU THAT WOULD
  CHARM A BIRD OFF A BUSH.’”]

Well, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin’-room wid him,
muddy boots and all; but not a sight of Elizabeth was to be seen.

“Where’s your missis?” says he to one of the maids-of-honour that was
dustin’ the chimbley-piece.

“She’s not out of her bed yet,” says the maid with a toss of her head;
“but if you write your message on the slate beyant, I’ll see”--but
before she had finished, Essex was up the second flight and knockin’ at
the Queen’s bedroom door.

“Is that the hot wather?” says the Queen.

“No, it’s me,--Essex. Can you see me?”

“Faith, I can’t,” says the Queen. “Hould on till I draw the
bed-curtains. Come in now,” says she, “and say your say, for I can’t
have you stoppin’ long--you young Lutharian.”

“Bedad, yer Majesty,” says Essex, droppin’ on his knees before her (the
delutherer he was), “small blame to me if I am a Lutharian, for you
have a face on you that would charm a bird off a bush.”

“Hould your tongue, you young reprobate,” says the Queen, blushin’ up
to her curl-papers wid delight, “and tell me what improvements you med
in Ireland.”

“Faith, I taught manners to O’Neil,” cries Essex.

“He had a bad masther then,” says Elizabeth, lookin’ at his dirty
boots; “couldn’t you wipe yer feet before ye desthroyed me carpets,
young man?”

“Oh, now,” says Essex, “is it wastin’ me time shufflin’ about on a mat
you’d have me, when I might be gazin’ on the loveliest faymale the
world ever saw.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ll forgive you this time, as you’ve been so
long away, but remimber in future that Kidderminster isn’t oilcloth.
Tell me,” says she, “is Westland Row Station finished yet?”

“There’s a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,” says Essex.

“What about the Loop Line?” says she.

“Oh, they’re gettin’ on with that,” says he, “only some people think
the girders a disfigurement to the city.”

“Is there any talk about that esplanade from Sandycove to Dunlary?”

“There’s talk about it, but that’s all,” says Essex; “’twould be an
odious fine improvement to house property, and I hope they’ll see to it
soon.”

“Sorra much you seem to have done, beyant spendin me men and me money.
Let’s have a look at that threaty I see stickin’ out o’ your pocket.”

  [Illustration: “‘ARREST THAT THRATER.’”]

Well, when the Queen read the terms of Hugh O’Neil she just gev him one
look, an’ jumpin’ from off the bed, put her head out of the window, and
called out to the policeman on duty--

“Is the Head below?”

“I’ll tell him you want him, ma’am,” says the policeman.

“Do,” says the Queen. “Hello,” says she, as a slip o’ paper dhropped
out o’ the dispatches. “What’s this? ‘Lines to Mary.’ Ho! ho! me gay
fella, that’s what you’ve been up to, is it?”

                “Mrs. Brady’s
                A widow lady,
    And she has a charmin’ daughter I adore;
                I went to court her
                Across the water,
    And her mother keeps a little candy-store.
                She’s such a darlin’,
                She’s like a starlin’,
    And in love with her I’m gettin’ more and more,
                Her name is Mary,
                She’s from Dunlary;
    And her mother keeps a little candy-store.”

“That settles it,” says the Queen. “It’s the gaoler you’ll serenade
next.”

When Essex heard that, he thrimbled so much that the button of his
cuirass shook off and rowled under the dhressin’-table.

“Arrest that man,” says the Queen, when the Head-Constable came to the
door; “arrest that thrater,” says she, “and never let me set eyes on
him again.”

And indeed she never did, and soon after that he met with his death
from the skelp of an axe he got when he was standin’ on Tower Hill.

                                       _William Percy French_ (1854).




                       _THE AMERICAN WAKE._[43]


    ’Twas down at the Doherty’s “wake,”
      (They were off to New York in the morning),
    So we thought we’d a night of it make,
      And gave all the countryside warning.
    The girls came drest in their best,
      The boys gathered too, every soul of them,
    And Mary along with the rest----
      ’Tis she took the sway of the whole of them.

    We’d a fiddler, the pipes, and a flute----
      The three were enough sure to bother you,
    But you danced to whichever might suit,
      And tried not to think of the other two.
    The frolic was soon at its height,
      The small drop went round never chary,
    The girls would dazzle your sight,
      But all I could think of was Mary.

    The first jig, faith, out she’d to go,
      The piper played “Haste to the Wedding,”
    And while I set to heel and toe,
      You’d think ’twas on eggs she was treading.
    So bright was her smile and her glance,
      So dainty the modest head bowed of her,
    ’Tis she was the Queen of the Dance,
      And wasn’t it I that was proud of her!

    At last I looked out for a chair,
      And off I led Mary in state to it;
    But think of us when we got there,
      The sorra the sign of a _sate_ to it!
    Still, as there was no other free,
      We thought we’d put up for a start with it--
    Och, when she sat down on my knee
      For an emperor’s throne I’d not part with it.

    When Mary sat down on my lap
      A tremor ran through every bit of me,
    My heart ’gin my ribs gave a rap
      As if it was going to be quit of me.
    I tried just a few words to say
      To show the delight and the pride of me,
    But my tongue was as dry in a way
      As if I’d a bonfire inside of me.

    And there sat the _cailin_ as mild
      As if nothing at all was gone wrong with me,
    And I just as wake as a child,
      To have her so cosy along with me.
    My arm around her I passed
      When I saw there was no one persaiving us--
    “Don’t you wish, dear,” says I, at long last,
      “The Dohertys always were laving us?”

    The words weren’t out of my mouth
      When the thieves of musicians stopped playing,
    And the boys ruz a laugh and a shout,
      When they listened to what I was saying.
    Poor Mary as swift as a hare
      Ran off ’mong the girls and hid herself,
    And, except that I fell through the chair,
      I fairly forget what I did myself.

    The Dohertys scarce in New York
      Were landed, I’m thinking, a week or more,
    When a wedding took place in West Cork,
      The like of it vainly you’d seek before.
    Some day if my way you should pass,
      Step in--I’ve a drop of the best of it;
    And while Mary is mixing a glass,
      I’ll try and I’ll tell you the rest of it.

                                            _Francis A. Fahy_ (1854).

  [Illustration: “MY ARM AROUND HER I PASSED.”]




                        _HOW TO BECOME A POET._


Of all the sayings which have misled mankind from the days of Adam to
Churchill, not one has been more harmful than the old Latin one, “A
poet is born, not made.”

The human intellect, it is said, may, by patient toil and study,
gather laurels in all fields of knowledge save one--that of poesy. You
may, by dint of hard work, become a captain in the Salvation Army, a
corporation crossing-sweeper--ay, even an unsuccessful Chief Secretary
for Ireland; but no amount of labour or perseverance will win you the
favour of the Muses unless those fickle-minded ladies have presided
at your birth, wrapped you, so to speak, in the swaddling clothes of
metre, and fashioned your first yells according to the laws of rhythm
and rhyme.

Foolish, fatal fallacy! How many geniuses has it not nipped in the
bud--how many vaulting ambitions has it not brought to grief, what
treasures of melody has it not shut up for ever to mankind!

Hence the paucity of poetical contributions to the press, the eagerness
of publishers to secure the slightest scrap of verse, the bashfulness
and timidity of authors, who yet in their hearts are quite confident
of their ability to transcend the best efforts of the “stars” of
ancient or modern song.

Now the first thing that will strike you in reading poetical pieces is
the fact that nearly all the lines end in rhymed words, or words ending
in similar sounds, such as “kick, lick, stick,” “drink, ink, wink,” etc.

This constitutes the _real_ difference between prose and poetry.
For instance, the phrase, “The dread monarch stood on his head,” is
prose, but

    “The monarch dread
    Stood on his head”

is undeniable poetry.

Rhyme is, in fact, the chief or only feature in modern poetry. Get your
endings to rhyme and you need trouble your head about little else.
A certain amount of common sense is demanded by severe critics; the
general public, however, never look for it, would be astonished to find
it, and, as a matter of fact, seldom or never do find it.

By careful study of the best authors you will soon discover what words
rhyme with each other, and these you should diligently record in a
small note-book, procurable at any respectable stationers for the
ridiculously small sum of one penny.

Few researches afford keener intellectual pleasure than the discovery
of rhymes, in such words, say, as “cat, rat, Pat, scat”; “shed, head,
said, dead,” and it is excellent elementary training for the young poet
to combine such words into versed sentences, and even sing them to a
popular operatic air.

For example----

    “With that the cat
    Sprang at the rat,
    Whereat poor Pat
    Yelled out ‘Iss-cat.’

    The roof of the shed
    Fell plop on his head,
    No more he said,
    But fell down dead.”

These first efforts of your muse are of high interest, and, although
it would not be advisable to rush to press with them, they should be
sedulously preserved for the use of future biographers, when fame,
honours, and emoluments shall have showered in upon you.

A little caution is needed in the use of such rhymes as “fire, higher,
Maria,” “Hannah, manner, dinner,” “fight, riot, quiet.” There is
excellent authority for these, but it is well to recognise that an
absurd prejudice does exist against them.

You will soon make the profitable discovery that there is a host of
words, the members of which run, like beagles, in couples, the one
invariably suggesting the other, such as “peeler, squealer”; “lick,
stick”; “Ireland, sireland”; “ocean, commotion,” and so on.

    “’Twas then my bold peeler
    Made after the squealer;”
    “He fetched him a lick
    Of a murdering stick;”
    “His shriek spread from Ireland,
    My own beloved sireland;”
    “And raised a commotion
    Beyond the wide ocean.”

Were it not for such handy couplets as these, most of our modern bards
would be forced to earn their bread honestly.

Of equal importance is “alliteration’s artful aid.” It consists in
stringing together a number of words beginning with the same letter.
A large school of our bards owe their fame to this figure. You should
make a free use of it. How effective are such phrases as, “For Freedom,
Faith, and Fatherland we fight or fall”; “Dear Dirty Dublin’s damp and
dreary dungeons”; “Softly shone the setting sun in Summer splendour”;
“Blow the blooming heather”; “Winter winds are wailing wildly.”

Of great effect at this stage of your progress will be the adroit and
unstinted employment of such phrases as “I wis,” “I wot,” “I trow,”
“In sooth,” “Methinks,” “Of yore,” “Erstwhile,” “Alack,” a plentiful
sprinkling of which, like currants in a cake, will impart a quaint
poetical flavour to your verses, making up for a total want of sense
and sentiment. Observe their effect in the following admirable lines
from Skott:--

    “It were, I ween, a bootless task to tell
    How here, of yore, in sooth, the foeman fell,
    Erstwhile the Paynim sank with eerie yell,
    Alack, in goodly guise, forsooth, to----.”

Of like value are words melodious in sound or poetical in suggestion,
like “nightingale,” “moonlight,” “roundelay,” “trill,” “dreamy,” and so
on, which, freely used, throw a glamour over the imagination and lull
thought, the chiefest value of verse nowadays.

    “There trills the nightingale his roundelay
    In dreamy moonlight till the dawn of day.”

Note that in poetic diction you must by no means “call a spade a
spade.” The statement of a plain fact is highly objectionable, and a
roundabout expression has to be resorted to. For example, if a girl
have red hair, describe it as

    “Glowing with the glory of the golden God of Day,”

or, if Nature has blest her with a “pug-nose,” you should, like
Tennyson, describe it as

    “Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower”

For similar reasons words of mean significance have to be avoided. For
instance, for “dead drunk,” use “spirituously disguised”; for “thirty
days in quad,” “one moon in durance vile.” You may now be said to have
mastered the rudiments of modern poetry, and your future course is easy.

You may now choose, although it is not at all essential, to write on a
subject conveying some meaning to your reader’s mind. You would do well
to try one of a familiar kind, or of personal or everyday interest,
of which the following are specimens:--“Lines on beholding a dead rat
in the street”; “Impromptu on being asked to have a drink”; “Reverie
on being asked to stand one”; “Epitaph on my mother-in-law”; “Ode to
my creditors”; “Morning soliloquy in a police cell”; “Acrostic on a
shillelah.” Through pieces of this character the soul of the writer
permeates. Hence their abiding value and permanency on second-hand
bookstalls; Then you may seek “fresh woods and pastures new,” and
weave garlands in fields untrod by the ordinary bard. One of these
is “Spring.” Conceive the idea of that season in your mind. Winter
gone, Summer coming, coughs being cured, overcoats put up the spout,
streets dryer, coals cheaper, or--if you love nature--the strange facts
of the leaves budding, winds surging, etc. Then probably the spirit
(waterproof) of poesy will take possession of you, and you will blossom
into song as follows:--

    “’Tis the Spring! ’Tis the Spring!
    Little birds begin to sing.
    See! the lark is on the wing,
    The sun shines out like anything;
    And the sweet and tender lamb
    Skips beside his great big dam,
    While the rough and horny ram
    Thinketh single life a sham.
    Now the East is in the breeze,
    Now old maids begin to sneeze,
    Now the leaves are on the trees,
    Now I cannot choose but sing:
    Oh, ’tis Spring! ’tis Spring! ’tis Spring!”

Verses like the above have an intrinsic charm, but if you should think
them too trivial, you may soar into the higher regions of thought, and
expand your soul in epics on, say, “The Creation,” “The Deluge,” “The
Fall of Rome,” “The Future of Man.” You possibly know nothing whatever
of those subjects, but that is an advantage, as you will bring a fresh
unhackneyed mind to bear upon them.

I need hardly tell you that there is one subject above all others
whose most fitting garb is poetry, and that is--Love. Fall in love if
you can. It is easy--nothing easier to a poet. He is mostly always
in love, and with ten at a time. But if you cannot, or (hapless
wretch!) if you find it an entirely one-sided affair--very little
free trade, and no reciprocity--ay, even if you be a married man who
walketh the floor of nights, and vainly seeketh to soothe the seventh
olive-branch--despair not. To write of Love, needeth not to feel it.
If not in love, imagine you are. Extol in unmeasured terms the beauty
of your adored one--matchless, as the pipe-bearing stranger in the
street--peerless, as the American House of Representatives. Safely call
on mankind to produce her equal, and inform the world that you would
give up all its honours and riches (of which you own none) for the sake
of your Dulcinea; but tell them not the fact that you would not forego
your nightly pipe and glass of rum punch for the best woman that ever
breathed. Cultivate a melancholy mood. Call the fair one all sorts of
names, heartless, cold, exacting--yourself, a miserable wight, hurrying
hot haste to an early grave, and bid her come and shed unavailing
tears there. At the same time keep your strength up, and don’t forget
your four meals a day and a collation.

I need not touch on the number of feet required in the various kinds of
verse, as if a verse lacks a foot anywhere you are almost sure to put
yours in it.

And now to “cast your lines in pleasant places.”

Having fairly mastered the gamut of poetical composition, you will
be open to a few hints as to the publication of your effusions. It
is often suggested that the opinion of a friend should be consulted
at the outset as to their value. Of course you may do so, but, as
friends go nowadays, you must be prepared to ignore his verdict. It
is now you will discover that even the judgment of your dearest and
most intellectual friend is not alone untrustworthy, but really below
contempt, and that what he styles his candour is nothing less than
brutality. I have known the greatest coolnesses ascribable to this
cause, and the noblest offspring of the muse consigned to oblivion in
weak deference to a friendly opinion. On the other hand, it is often of
great value to read aloud your longest epics to some one who is in any
way indebted to you and cannot well resent it.

Where the poet’s corners of so many papers await you, the choice of
a medium to convey your burning thoughts to the world will be easily
made. You will scarcely be liable, I hope, to the confusion of mind of
a friend of mine who, in mistake, sent his “Ode to Death” to the editor
of a comic paper, and found it accepted as eminently suitable.

You should write your poem carefully on superfine paper with as little
blotting, scratching, and bad spelling as you can manage.

To smooth the way to insertion, you might also write a conciliatory
note to the editor, somewhat in this vein:--

   “RESPECTED SIR,--It is with much diffidence that a
   young poet of seventeen (_no mention of the wife and five
   children_) begs to send you his first attempt to woo the
   Muses (_it may be your eighty-first, but no matter_).
   Hoping the same may be deemed worthy of insertion in the
   widely-read columns of your admirable journal, with whose
   opinions I have the great pleasure of being in thorough accord
   (_you may have never read a line of it before_), I have the
   honour to be, respected sir, your obedient, humble servant,

                                                              “HOMER.

   “P.S.--If inserted, kindly affix my full name as A. B.; if not,
   my _nom-de-plume_, ‘Homer.’

   “N.B.--If inserted send me twenty copies of your valuable
   paper.--HOMER.”

It will be vain to attempt to describe your feelings from the time you
post that letter until you know the result of your venture. Your reason
is unhinged; you cannot rest or sleep. You hang about that newspaper
office for hours before the expected edition is out of the press. At
last it appears. Trembling with eagerness you seize the coveted issue,
and disregarding the “Double Murder and Suicide in----,” the “Collapse
of the Bank of----,” the “Outbreak of War between France and Germany,”
you dash to the poet’s corner and search with dazed eyes for your fate.

You may have vaguely heard, at some period of your life, of the mean,
petty jealousies that befoul the clear current of journalism, and frown
down new and aspiring talent, however promising, and you may have
indignantly refused to believe such statements. Alas! now shall you
feel the full force of their truth in your own person.

You look for your poem blindly, confusedly--amazed, bewildered,
disgusted! You turn that paper inside out, upside down; you search in
the Parliamentary debates, in the Money Market, in the Births, Deaths,
and Marriages, in the advertisements--everywhere. No sign of it!

With your heart in your boots you turn to the “Answers to
Correspondents,” there to find your _nom-de-plume_ heading some
scurrilous inanity from the editorial chair, of one or other of the
following patterns:--

   “Homer--_Don’t_ try again!”

   “Homer--Sweet seventeen. So young, so innocent. Hence we spare
   you.”

   “Homer--Have you no friends to look after you?”

   “Homer--Do you really expect us to ruin this paper?”

   “Homer--Send it to the _Telegraph_ man. We have a grudge
   against him?”

   “Homer--The 71st _Ode to Spring_ this year! And yet we
   live.”

While it would be quite natural to indulge in any number of “cuss”
words, your best plan will be to veil your wrath, and, refraining from
smashing the editorial windows, write the editor a studiously polite
letter, asking him to be good enough to point out for your benefit any
errors or defects in the poem submitted to him. This will fairly corner
him, and he will probably be driven to disclose his meanness in the
next issue:--

   “Homer--If you will engage to pay for the working of this
   journal during the twelve months it would take us to explain the
   defects in your poem, we are quite willing to undertake the job.”

Insults and disappointments like these are the ordinary lot of rising
genius, and should only nerve you to greater efforts. Perseverance will
ultimately win, though it may not deserve, success.

And who shall paint the joy that will irradiate life when you find
yourself in print for the first time? who shall describe the delirium
of reading your own verses? a delight leading you almost to forgive the
printer’s error which turns your “blessed rule” into “blasted fool,”
and your “Spring quickens” into “Spring Chickens”; who will count the
copies of that paper you will send to all your friends?

By-and-by your fame spreads and you rank of the _élite_; you
assume the air and manners of a poet. You wear your hair long (it
saves barber’s charges). You are fond of solitary walks, communing
with yourself (or somebody else). You assume a rapt and abstracted air
in society (when asked to stand a drink). You despise mere mundane
matters (debts, engagements, and the like). Your eyes have a far-away
look (when you meet a poor relation). When people talk of Tennyson,
Browning, Swinburne, etc., you smile pityingly, and say: “Ah, yes! Poor
Alfred (or Robert or Algernon, as the case may be); he means well--he
means well;” and you ask your friends if they have read your “Spirit
Reveries,” and if not, you immediately produce it from your pocket,
and read it (never be without copies of your latest pieces for this
purpose).

And now farewell and God-speed. You are on the high road to renown.

    “Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour,
    They crown you with laurels and throne you in power,
    Oh, think of the friend who first guided your way,
    And set you such rules you could not go astray,
    And who, as reward, doth but one favour claim,
    That you _won’t_ dedicate your first vol. to his name.”

                                                   _Francis A. Fahy._




                            _THE DONOVANS._


    If you would like to see the height of hospitality,
    The cream of kindly welcome and the core of cordiality;
    Joys of old times are you wishing to recall again?--
    Oh! come down to Donovan’s, and there you’ll meet them all again!


                               _Chorus._

    _Cead mille failte_[44] they’ll give you down at Donovan’s,
    As cheery as the spring-time, and Irish as the _ceanabhan_;[45]
    The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one--
    That every luck in life may linger with the Donovans.

    Soon as you lift the latch, little ones are meeting you;
    Soon as you’re ’neath the thatch, kindly looks are greeting you;
    Scarce have you time to be holding out the fist to them--
    Down by the fireside you’re sitting in the midst of them!

    There sits the grey old man, so _flaitheamhail_[46] and so handsome,
    There sit his sturdy sons, well worth a monarch’s ransom;
    Songs the night long, you may hear your heart’s desire of them,
    Tales of old times they will tell you till you tire of them.

    There bustles round the room the _lawhee_-est[47] of
      _vanithees_,[48]
    Fresh as in her young bloom, and trying all she can to please;
    In vain to maintain you won’t have a _deorin_[49] more again--
    She’ll never let you rest till your glass is brimming o’er again.

    There smiles the _cailin deas_[50]--oh! where on earth’s the peer
      of her?
    The modest grace, the sweet face, the humour and the cheer of her?
    Eyes like the skies, when but twin stars beam above in them--
    Oh! proud may be the boy that’s to light the lamp of love in them.

    Then when you rise to go, ’tis “Ah, then, now, sit down again!”
    “Isn’t it the haste you’re in,” and “Won’t you come round soon
      again?”
    Your _cothamor_[51] and hat you had better put astray from them--
    The hardest job in life is to tear yourself away from them!

                                                   _Francis A. Fahy._

  [Illustration: “SHE’LL NEVER LET YOU REST TILL YOUR GLASS IS
  BRIMMING O’ER AGAIN.”]




                    _PETTICOATS DOWN TO MY KNEES._


    When my first troubles in life I began to know,
      Spry as a chick newly out of the shell,
    Nothing I longed for so much as a man to grow,
      Sharing his joys and his sorrows as well.
    Now that the high tide of life’s on the slack again,
      Pleasure’s deep draught drained down to the lees,
    Dearly I wish I had the days back again,
      When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

    Well do I mind the day I donned trousereens,
      My proud mother cried “We’ll soon be a man!”
    Little we know what fate has in store for us--
      Troth, it was then that my troubles began.
    Cramped up in clothes, little comfort or ease I find,
      Crippled and crushed, almost frightened to sneeze!
    Oh to have back my old freedom and peace of mind,
      When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

    Now must I walk many miles for an appetite,
      And after all find my journey in vain--
    Oh for the days when howe’er you might wrap it tight
      My school lunch was ate at the end of the lane!
    Now scarce a wink of sleep on the best of nights,
      Worried in mind and ill at my ease,
    Headache or heartache ne’er troubled my rest of nights
      When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

    Once of my days I thought girls were nuisances,
      Petting and coaxing and ruffling your brow,
    Now Love the rogue runs away with my few senses,
      Vainly I wish they would fondle me now!
    Idols I worship with ardour unshakeable,
      But none of all half so fitted to please
    As the poor toys full of sawdust and breakable,
      When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

    Little I cared then for doings political,
      The ebb or the flow of the popular tides,
    Europe might quake in convulsions most critical--
      I had my bread buttered well on both sides.
    Now must I wander for themes for my puny verse
      Over earth’s continents, islands and seas;
    Small stock I took of affairs of the universe,
      When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

    Life is a puzzle and man is a mystery,
      He that would solve them a wizard need be;
    Precepts lie thick in the pathways of history,
      This is the lesson that life has taught me.
    Man ever longs for the dawn of a golden day,
      Visions of joy in futurity sees,
    Ah! he enjoyed Life’s cream in the olden day,
      When he wore petticoats down to his knees!

                                                    _Francis A. Fahy_




                _MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS._

   AT A GIRL’S SCHOOL--THE TONIC SOL-FA METHOD--PAYING AT THE
   DOOR--FLORAL OFFERINGS--DOROTHISIS.


Last Tuesday, when turning over my invitations, I found a card
addressed to me, not in my ancestral title of Di Bassetto, but in
the assumed name under which I conceal my identity in the vulgar
business of life. It invited me to repair to a High School for Girls
in a healthy south-western suburb, there to celebrate the annual
prize-giving with girlish song and recitation. Here was exactly the
thing for a critic. “Now is the time,” I exclaimed to my astonished
colleagues, “to escape from our stale iterations of how Mr. Santley
sang ‘The Erl King,’ and Mr. Sims Reeves ‘Tom Bowling’; of how the same
old orchestra played Beethoven in C minor or accompanied Mr. Henschel
in Pogner’s ‘Johannistag’ song, or Wotan’s ‘Farewell’ and ‘Fire Charm.’
Our business is to look with prophetic eye past these exhausted
contemporary subjects into the next generation--to find out how much
beauty and artistic feeling is growing up for the time when we shall be
obsolete fogies, mumbling anecdotes of the funerals of our favourites.”
Will it be credited that the sanity of my project and the good taste of
my remarks were called in question, and that I was absolutely the only
eminent critic who went to the school!

I found the school on the margin of a common, with which I have one
ineffaceable association. It is not my custom to confine my critical
opinions to the columns of the Press. In my public place I am ever
ready to address my fellow-citizens orally until the police interfere.
Now, it happens that once, on a fine Sunday afternoon, I addressed
a crowd on this very common for an hour, at the expiry of which a
friend took round a hat, and actually collected sixteen shillings and
ninepence. The opulence and liberality of the inhabitants were thus
very forcibly impressed on me; and when, last Tuesday, I made my way
through a long corridor into the crowded schoolroom, my first thought,
as I surveyed the row of parents, was whether any of them had been
among the contributors to that memorable hatful of coin. My second was
whether the principal of the school would have been pleased to see me
had she known of the sixteen and ninepence.

When the sensation caused by my entrance had subsided somewhat, we
settled down to a performance which consisted of music and recitation
by the rising generation, and speechification by the risen one. The
rising generation had the best of it. Whenever the girls did anything,
we were delighted; whenever an adult began, we were bored to the very
verge of possible endurance. The deplorable member of Parliament who
gave away the prizes may be eloquent in the House of Commons; but
before that eager, keen, bright, frank, unbedevilled, unsophisticated
audience he quailed, he maundered, he stumbled, wanted to go on and
couldn’t, wanted to stop and didn’t, and finally collapsed with a few
remarks to the effect that he felt proud of himself, which struck me as
being the most uncalled-for remark I ever heard, even from an M.P. The
chairman was self-possessed, not to say hardened. He quoted statistics
about Latin, arithmetic and other sordid absurdities, specially
extolling the aptitude of the female mind since 1868 for botany. I
incited a little girl near me to call out “Time” and “Question,” but
she shook her head shyly, and said “Miss---- would be angry;” so he
had his say out. Let him deliver that speech next Sunday on the common,
and he will not get 16s. 9d. He will get stoned.

But the rest of the programme was worth a dozen ordinary concerts.
It is but a few months since I heard Schubert’s setting of “The
Lord is my Shepherd” sung by the Crystal Palace Choir to Mr. Manns’
appropriate and beautiful orchestral transcript of the accompaniment;
but here a class of girls almost obliterated that memory by singing
the opening strain with a purity of tone quite angelic. If they could
only have kept their attention concentrated long enough, it might have
been equally delightful all through. But girlhood is discursive; and
those who were not immediately under the awful eye of the lady who
conducted, wandered considerably from Schubert’s inspiration after a
time, although they stuck to his notes most commendably. Yet for all
that I can safely say that if there is a little choir like that in
every High School the future is guaranteed. We were much entertained
by a composition of Jensen’s, full of octaves and chords, which was
assaulted and vanquished after an energetic bout of fisticuffs by an
infant pianist, who will not be able to reach the pedals for years to
come.

       *       *       *       *       *

I need hardly say that my remarks about the Tonic Sol-fa have brought
letters upon me insisting on the attractive simplicity of the notation,
and even inviting me to learn it at once. This reminds me of a sage
whom I consulted in my youth as to how I might achieve the formation of
a perfect character. “Young man,” he said, “are you a vegetarian?” I
promptly said “Yes,” which took him aback. (I subsequently discovered
that he had a weakness for oysters.) “Young man,” he resumed, “have
you mastered Pitman’s shorthand?” I told him that I could write it
very nearly as fast as longhand, but that I could not read it; and
he admitted that this was about the maximum of human attainment in
phonography. “Young man,” he went on, “do you understand phrenology?”
This was a facer, as I knew nothing about it, but I was determined not
to be beaten, so I declared that it was my favourite pursuit, and that
I had been attracted to him by the noble character of his bumps. “Young
man,” he continued, “you are indeed high on the Mount of Wisdom. There
remains but one accomplishment to the perfection of your character.
Are you an adept at the Tonic Sol-fa system?” This was too much. I got
up in a rage, and said, “Oh, d--the Tonic Sol-fa system!” Then we came
to high words, and our relations have been more or less strained ever
since. I have always resolutely refused to learn Tonic Sol-fa, as I am
determined to prove that it is possible to form a perfect character
without it.

       *       *       *       *       *

The other evening I went to the Wind Instrument Society’s concert at
the Royal Academy of Music in Tenterden Street. Having only just heard
of the affair from an acquaintance, I had no ticket. The concert, as
usual, had been kept dark from me; Bassetto the Incorruptible knows
too much to be welcome to any but the greatest artists. I therefore
presented myself at the doors for admission on payment as a casual
amateur. Apparently the wildest imaginings of the Wind Instrument
Society had not reached to such a contingency as a Londoner offering
money at the doors to hear classical chamber music played upon
bassoons, clarionets, and horns; for I was told that it was impossible
to entertain my application, as the building had no licence. I
suggested sending out for a licence; but this, for some technical
reason, could not be done. I offered to dispense with the licence; but
they said it would expose them to penal servitude. Perceiving by this
that it was a mere question of breaking the law, I insisted on the
secretary accompanying me to the residence of a distinguished Q.C. in
the neighbourhood, and ascertaining from him how to do it. The Q.C.
said that if I handed the secretary five shillings at the door in
consideration of being admitted to the concert, that would be illegal.
But if I bought a ticket from him in the street, that would be legal.
Or, if I presented him with five shillings in remembrance of his last
birthday, and he gave me a free admission in celebration of my silver
wedding, that would be legal. Or, if we broke the law without witnesses
and were prepared to perjure ourselves if questioned afterwards (which
seemed to me the most natural way), then nothing could happen to us. I
cannot without breach of faith explain which course we adopted; suffice
it that I was present at the concert.

       *       *       *       *       *

I went to the Prince of Wales’ Theatre on Wednesday afternoon to hear
the students of the Royal College of Music.... I am sorry to say that
the bad custom of bouquet-throwing was permitted; and need I add that
an American _prima donna_ was the offender? What do you mean,
Madame----, by teaching the young idea how to get bouquets shied? After
the manner of her countrymen this _prima donna_ travels with
enormous wreaths and baskets of flowers, which are handed to her at the
conclusion of her pieces. And no matter how often this happens, she is
never a whit the less astonished and delighted to see the flowers come
up. They say that the only artist who never gets accustomed to his part
is the performing flea who fires a cannon, and who is no less dismayed
and confounded by the three-hundredth report than by the first. Now,
it may be ungallant, coarse--brutal even; but whenever I see the fair
American thrown into raptures by her own flower-basket, I always think
of the flea thrown into convulsions by his own cannon. And so, dear
but silly American ladies, be persuaded, and drop it. Nobody except
the very greenest of greenhorns is taken in; and the injury you do
to your own artistic self-respect by condescending to take him in is
incalculable. Just consider for a moment how insanely impossible it is
that a wreath as big as a cart-wheel could be the spontaneous offering
of an admiring stranger. One consolation is, that if the critics cannot
control the stars, they can at least administer the stripes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Last Saturday evening, feeling the worse for want of change and country
air, I happened to voyage in the company of an eminent dramatic critic
as far as Greenwich. Hardly had we inhaled the refreshing ozone of
that place ninety seconds when, suddenly finding ourselves opposite
a palatial theatre, gorgeous with a million gaslights, we felt that
it was idiotic to have been to Wagner’s Theatre at Bayreuth and yet
be utterly ignorant concerning Morton’s Theatre at Greenwich. So we
rushed into the struggling crowd at the doors, only to be informed that
the theatre was full. Stalls full, dress circle full; pit, standing
room only. As the eminent dramatic critic habitually sleeps during
performances, and is subject to nightmare when he sleeps standing, the
pit was out of the question. Was there room anywhere? we asked. Yes, in
a private box or in the gallery. Which was the cheaper? The gallery,
decidedly. So up we went to the gallery, where we found two precarious
perches vacant at the side. It was rather like trying to see Trafalgar
Square from the knife-board of an omnibus half-way up St. Martin’s
Lane; but by hanging on to a stanchion, and occasionally standing with
one foot on the seat and the other on the backs of the people in the
front row, we succeeded in seeing as much of the entertainment as we
could stand.

The first thing we did was to purchase a bill, which informed us that
we were in for “the entirely original pastoral comedy-opera in three
acts, entitled ‘Dorothy,’ which has been played to crowded houses in
London 950, and (still playing) in the provinces 788 times.” This
playbill, I should add, was thoughtfully decorated with a view of the
theatre showing all the exits, for use in case of a reduction to ashes
during performing hours. From it we further learnt that we should be
regaled by an augmented and powerful orchestra; that the company was
“No. 1”; that---- believes he is now the only HATTER in the county of
Kent that exists on the profits arising solely from the sale of HATS
and CAPS; and so on. Need I add that the eminent one and I sat bursting
with expectation until the overture began. I cannot truthfully say
that the augmented and powerful orchestra proved quite so augmented
or so powerful as the composer could have wished; but let that pass;
I disdain the cheap sport of breaking a daddy-long-legs on a wheel
(butterfly is out of the question, it was such a dingy band). My object
is rather to call attention to the condition to which 788 nights of
Dorothying have reduced the unfortunate wanderers of “No. 1 Company.”
I submit to the manager of these companies that in his own interest
he should take better care of No. 1. Here are several young persons
doomed to spend the flower of their years in mechanically repeating the
silliest libretto in modern theatrical literature, set to music which
must pall somewhat on the seven hundred and eighty-eighth performance.

As might have been expected, a settled weariness of life, an utter
perfunctoriness, an unfathomable inanity pervaded the very souls of
“No. 1.” The tenor, originally, I have no doubt, a fine young man, but
now cherubically adipose, was evidently counting the days until death
should release him from the part of Wilder. He had a pleasant speaking
voice; and his affability and forbearance were highly creditable to him
under the circumstances; but Nature rebelled in him against the loathed
strains of a seven-hundred-times repeated _rôle_. He omitted the
song in the first act, and sang “Though born a man of high degree,”
as if with the last rally of an energy decayed and a willing spirit
crashed. The G at the end was as a vocal earthquake. And yet methought
he was not displeased when the inhabitants of Greenwich, coming fresh
to the slaughter, encored him. The baritone had been affected the other
way; he was thin and worn; and his clothes had lost their lustre. He
sang “Queen of my heart” twice in a hardened manner, as one who was
prepared to sing it a thousand times in a thousand quarter-hours for
a sufficient wager. The comic part, being simply that of a circus
clown transferred to the lyric stage, is better suited for infinite
repetition; and the gentleman who undertook it addressed a comic lady
called Priscilla as “Sarsaparilla” during his interludes between the
_haute-école_ acts of the _prima donna_ and tenor, with a
delight in the rare aroma of the joke, and in the roars of laughter
it elicited, which will probably never pall. But anything that he
himself escaped in the way of tedium was added tenfold to his unlucky
colleagues, who sat out his buffooneries with an expression of deadly
malignity. I trust the gentleman may die in his bed; but he would be
unwise to build too much on doing so. There is a point at which tedium
becomes homicidal mania.

The ladies fared best. The female of the human species has not yet
developed a conscience: she will apparently spend her life in artistic
self-murder by induced Dorothisis without a pang of remorse, provided
she be praised and paid regularly. Dorothy herself, a beauteous
young lady of distinguished mien, with an immense variety of accents
ranging from the finest Tunbridge Wells English (for genteel comedy)
to the broadest Irish (for repartee and low comedy), sang without the
slightest effort and without the slightest point, and was all the more
desperately vapid because she suggested artistic gifts wasting in
complacent abeyance. Lydia’s voice, a hollow and spectral contralto,
alone betrayed the desolating effect of perpetual Dorothy; her figure
retained a pleasing plumpness akin to that of the tenor; and her
spirits were wonderful, all things considered. The chorus, too, seemed
happy; but that was obviously because they did not know any better.
The pack of hounds employed darted in at the end of the second act,
evidently full of the mad hope of finding something new going on; and
their depression when they discovered it was “Dorothy” again, was
pitiable. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals should
interfere. If there is no law to protect men and women from “Dorothy,”
there is at least one that can be strained to protect dogs.

                                        _George Bernard Shaw_ (1856).




                       FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE.


Wance upon a time, an’ a very good time it was too, there was a dacent
little man, named Paddy Power, that lived in the parish of Portlaw.

At the time I spayke of, an’ indeed for a long spell before it, most
of Paddy’s neighbours had wandhered from the thrue fold, an’ the sheep
that didn’t stray wor, not to put too fine a point on it, a black lot.
But Paddy had always conthrived to keep his last end in view, an’ he
stuck to the ould faith like a poor man’s plasther.

Well, in the coorse of time poor Paddy felt his days wor well-nigh
numbered, so he tuk to the bed an’ sent for the priest; an’ thin he
settled himself down to aise his conscience an’ to clear the road in
the other world by manes of a good confession.

He reeled off his sins, mortial an’ vanyial, to the priest by the yard,
an’ begor he felt mighty sorrowful intirely whin he thought what a
bad boy he’d been, an’ what a hape of quare things he’d done in his
time--though, as I’ve said before, he was a dacent little man in his
way, only, you see, bein’ so close to the other side of Jordan, he tuk
an onaisy view of all his sayin’s and doin’s. Poor Paddy--small blame
to him--was very aiger to get a comfortable corner in glory in his old
age, for he’d a hard sthruggle enough of it here below.

Well, whin he’d towld all his sins to Father McGrath, an’ whin Father
McGrath had given him a few hard rubs by way of consolation, he bent
his head to get the absolution, an’ lo an’ behold you! before the
priest could get through the words that would open the gates of glory
to poor Paddy, the life wint out of the man’s body.

It seems ’twas a busy mornin’ in heaven, an’ as soon as Father McGrath
began to say the first words of the absolution, down they claps Paddy
Power’s name on the due-book. However, we’ll come to that part of the
story by-an’-by.

Anyhow, up goes Paddy, an’ before he knew where he was he found himself
standin’ outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly guessed
there ’ud be throuble, but he thought he’d put a bowld face on, so he
gives a hard double-knock at the door, an’ a holy saint shoves back the
slide an’ looks out at him through an iron gratin’.

“God save all here!” says Paddy.

“God save you kindly!” says the saint.

“Maybe I’m too airly?” says Paddy, dhreadin’ all the time that ’tis the
cowld showlder he’d get.

“’Tis naither airly nor late here,” says the saint, “pervidin’ you’re
on the way-bill. What’s yer name?” says he.

“Paddy Power,” says the little man from Portlaw.

“There’s so many of that name due here,” says the saint, “that I must
ax you for further particulars.”

“You’re quite welcome, your reverence,” says Paddy.

“What’s your occupation?” says the saint.

“Well,” says Paddy, “I can turn my hand to anything in raison.”

“A kind of Jack-of all-thrades?” says the saint.

“Not exactly that,” says Paddy, thinkin’ the saint was thryin’ to make
fun of him. “In fact,” says he, “I’m a general dayler.”

“An’ what do you generally dale in?” axes the saint.

“All’s fish that comes to my net,” says Paddy, thinkin’, of coorse,
’twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.

“An’ is it a fisherman you are, thin?” axes the saint.

“Well, no,” says Paddy, “though I’ve done a little huckstherin’ in fish
in my time; but I was partial to scrap-iron, as a rule.”

“To tell you the thruth,” says the saint, “I’m not over fond of general
daylin’, but of coorse my private feelin’s don’t intherfere wud my
duties here. I’m on the gates agen my will for the matther of that; but
that’s naither here nor there so far as yourself is consarned, Paddy,”
says he.

“It must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,” says Paddy,
“to be on the door from mornin’ till night.”

“’Tis,” says the saint, “of a busy day--but I must go an’ have a look
at the books. Paddy Power is your name?” says he.

“Yis,” says Paddy; “an’, though ’tis meself that says it, I’m not
ashamed of it.”

“An’ where are you from?” axes the saint.

“From the parish of Portlaw,” says Paddy.

“I never heard tell of it,” says the saint, bitin’ his thumb.

“Sure it couldn’t be expected you would, sir,” says Paddy, “for it lies
at the back of God-speed.”

“Well, stand there, Paddy _avic_,” says the holy saint, “an’ I’ll
have a good look at the books.”

“God bless you!” says Paddy. “Wan ’ud think ’twas born in Munsther you
wor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin’.”

Faix, Paddy was beginnin’ to dhread that his name wouldn’t be found on
the books at all on account of his not havin’ complate absolution, so
he thought ’twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the keeper
of the kays.

The saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but whin Paddy called
him Saint Pether he lifted his head an’ he put his face to the wicket
again, an’ there was a cunnin’ twinkle in his eye.

“An’ so you thinks ’tis Saint Pether I am?” says he.

“Of coorse, your reverence,” says Paddy; “an’ ’tis a rock of sense I’m
towld you are.”

Well, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an’ says he--

“Now, it’s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below
thinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you raley think,
Paddy,” says he, “that Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no way
to pass the time except by standin’ here in the cowld from year’s end
to year’s end, openin’ the gates of Paradise?”

“Begor,” says Paddy, “that never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of
coorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An’ might
I ax your reverence,” says he, “what your own name is? an’ I hopes
you’ll pardon my ignorance.”

“Don’t mintion that,” says the saint; “but I’d rather not tell you my
name, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.”

“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me, sir,” says Paddy.

“’Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,” says the saint.

Findin’ the saint was such a nice agreeable man an’ such an iligant
discoorser, Paddy thought he’d venture on a few remarks just to dodge
the time until some other poor sowl ’ud turn up an’ give him the chance
to slip into Paradise unbeknownst--for he knew that wance he got in by
hook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him out of it
again. So says he--

“Might I ax what Saint Pether is doin’ just now?”

“He’s at a hurlin’ match,” says the deputy.

“Oh, murdher!” says Paddy, “couldn’t I get a peep at the match while
you’re examinin’ the books?”

“I’m afeard not,” says the saint, shakin’ his head. “Besides,” says he,
“I think the fun is nearly over by this time.”

“Is there often a hurlin’ match here?” axes Paddy.

“Wance a year,” says the saint. “You see,” says he, pointin’ over his
showldher wud his thumb, “they have all nationalities in here, and
they plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint’s day, if you
undherstand me.”

“I do,” says Paddy. “An’ sure enough ’twas Saint Pathrick’s Day in
the mornin’ whin I started from Portlaw, an’ the last thing I did--of
coorse before tellin’ my sins--was to dhrink my Pathrick’s pot.”

“More power to you!” says the saint.

“I suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?” says Paddy.

“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates
on our own festival days.”

“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself I’ve
been talkin’ all this while back. Oh, murdher alive, did I ever think
I’d live to see this day!”

Begor, the poor _angashore_ of a man was fairly knocked off his
head to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint
Pathrick, an’ the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the
little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy
how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality
here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”

“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on an
aiquality wud your reverence! Begor, ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be
allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality,
_inagh_!”[52] says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between
the great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from
Portlaw?”

“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says Saint
Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.

“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside
there ’ud dar’ to put himself an an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”

“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he,
“there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their
own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time
occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”

“Bad luck to ’em both!” said Paddy, intherruptin’ him.

“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sintiments, but I
must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll feel
complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”

“The divil a change could make me keep quiet,” says Paddy, “if I heard
the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar’ to
put himself on a par wud you!”

“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to get
the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, _avic_, to sthruggle at
times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”

“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”

“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our counthry
by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is
there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”

“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis
only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad hand
at takin’ my own part--but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that breaks
my _giddawn_ intirely.”

“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.

“He’s an uncanonised craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy; “an’
who is he at all?”

“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Never,” says Paddy.

“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull----”

“Thin,” says Paddy, interruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of
ourselves--more shame for him! Oh, wait till I gets a grip of him by
the scruff of the neck!”

“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’
a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s
ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you--for he’s a hard
man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his timper, or
getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint Pathrick,
“himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both
sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.”

“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick, laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane--the
same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”

“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll excuse
my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this hot
argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”

Begor, Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might
think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven, he says, “Of
coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”

“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.

“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.

“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.

“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure
enough.”

“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye
canonised him.”

“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.

“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”

“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.

“Well, ’twas a blue-bottle,” says St. Pathrick.

“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says Paddy.
“He must have been ‘a hard case.’”

Begor, Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make
your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”

“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,”
says Paddy.

“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’ lookin’
very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he whispers,
rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He looks in
good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”

“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp, an’
I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”

“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates--Paddy
Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of
the wicket--“how goes the enemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?”

“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here
as thick as flies at cock-crow--I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in
the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud
Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”

“It’s sthrange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but
I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the
airly mornin’; often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels
I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan
another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”

“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint
Pether’s mind from his throubles.

“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game.
It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that
outside?” catchin’ sighth of Paddy Power.

“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.

“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint
Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to
have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day
that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the
poor sowls. Did this chap come _viâ_ Purgathory?” say he.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”

“Who is he?” says Saint Pether.

“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick. “He seems a dacent sort
of craychur.”

“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.

“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.

“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he, rubbin’
his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge
I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”

“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down on
the way-bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.”

“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side, an’
sind him to Limbo for a spell.”

Begor, when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud
the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries
out in a pitiful voice--

“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below,
where the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin’ boy, they
always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word,
yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed clane.
I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the
absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a helpless
ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail
for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ ’tis many the prayer I said
to your own self below!”

Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’
turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough. I
don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is of
the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the affair
before we decides wan way or the other.”

“Ah, give the poor _angashore_ a chance,” says Saint Pathrick.
“’Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’
up as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from
the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remimber you towld me wance that you’d
like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”

“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an’ maybe I’d never have another
chance from Portlaw.”

“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.

So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat-pocket,
an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy
Power.

“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this
wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”

“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”

“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber
back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands me over the kays, Pat,” says
he, “I’ll relaise you for the day, so that you can show your frind over
the grounds.”

“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you,
_avic_!”

“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gate; “an’
remimber always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’
ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had
from the Parish of Portlaw.”

                                              _Edmund Downey_ (1856).

  [Illustration: “‘COME IN, PADDY POWER,’ SAYS SAINT PETHER,
  OPENIN’ THE GATE.”]




                        _THE DANCE AT MARLEY._


    Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,
      For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm
        them;
    In the kitchen thronged the girls--cheeks of roses, teeth of
      pearls--
      Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm
        them.
    Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,
      Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she the _bawnoge_
        entered,
    Where a _shass_ of straw was laid on a ladder raised that made
      A seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them
        cantered.

    Murtagh and his _vanithee_[53] had their chairs brought in to see
      The heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and
        laughter;
    In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright--
      The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!
    The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly
      drowned,
      So the couples took their ground--their hearts already dancing!
    Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,
      Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.

    “Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss
      McLeod,”
    “The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes
      the Barley,”
    “The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The
      River Lee,”--
      As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!
    Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigs _galore_,
      With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;
    But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,
      The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to
        Carlow.”

    Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,
      Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as
        their glances;
    Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,
      Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.
    But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on--
      The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:
    Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,
      They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!

    Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,
      Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!
    The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosy _saustagh_[54] spot--
      Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.
    Everything must have an end, and the _girshas_[55] home did wend,
      With guarding brother and a friend--this last was absent rarely!
    Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth--
      Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.

                                          _Patrick J. McCall_ (1861).

  [Illustration: “FAST IN AND OUT THEY WHIRL AND WHEEL, ALL
  CAPERING AND PRANCING.”]




                 _FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS._


Wance upon a time, when things was a great’le betther in Ireland than
they are at present, when a rale king ruled over the counthry wid four
others undher him to look afther the craps an’ other industhries, there
lived a young chief called Fan MaCool. Now, this was long afore we gev
up bowin’ and scrapin’ to the sun an’ moon an’ sich like _raumash_
(nonsense); an’, signs an it, there was a powerful lot ov witches an’
Druids, an’ enchanted min an’ wimen goin’ about, that med things quare
enough betimes for iverywan.

Well, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he kem to the command,
an’ a purty likely lookin’ boy, too--there was nothin’ too hot or too
heavy for him; an’ so ye needn’t be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was
the mischief entirely wid the _colleens_. Nothin’ delighted him
more than to disguise himself wid an ould _coatamore_ (overcoat)
threwn over his showlder, a lump ov a _kippeen_ (stick) in his
fist an’ he mayanderin’ about unknownst, _rings around_ the
counthry, lookin’ for fun an’ _foosther_ (diversion) ov all kinds.

Well, one fine mornin’, whin he was _on the shaughraun_, he was
_waumasin_’ (strolling) about through Leinster, an’ near the
royal palace ov Glendalough he seen a mighty throng ov grand lords
an’ ladies, an’, my dear, they all dressed up to the nines, wid their
jewels shinin’ like dewdrops ov a May mornin’, and laughin’ like the
tinkle ov a _deeshy_ (small) mountain strame over the white rocks.
So he cocked his beaver, an’ stole over to see what was the matther.

Lo an’ behould ye, what were they at but houldin’ a race-meetin’
or _faysh_ (festival)--somethin’ like what the quality calls
_ataléticks_ now! There they were, jumpin’, and runnin’, and
coorsin’, an’ all soorts ov fun, enough to make the trouts--an’
they’re mighty fine leppers enough--die wid envy in the river benaith
them.

The fun wint on fast an’ furious, an’ Fan, consaled betune the
_trumauns_ an’ _brushna_ (elder bushes and furze), could
hardly keep himself quiet, seein’ the thricks they wor at. Peepin’ out,
he seen, jist forninst him on the other bank, the prencess herself,
betune the high-up ladies ov the coort. She was a fine, bouncin’
_geersha_ (girl) with goold hair like the furze an’ cheeks like
an apple blossom, an’ she brakin’ her heart laughin’ an’ clappin’
her hands an’ turnin’ her head this a-way an’ that a-way, jokin’ wid
this wan an’ that wan, an’ commiseratin’, _moryah_![56] the poor
_gossoons_ that failed in their leps. Fan liked the looks ov her
well, an’ whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to their knees an’
jumped up over another wan as high as their chins, the great trial ov
all kem on. Maybe you’d guess what that was? But I’m afeerd you won’t
if I gev you a hundhered guesses! It was to lep the strame, forty foot
wide!

List’nin’ to them whisperin’ to wan another, Fan heerd them tellin’
that whichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely
ov; he wud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an’ ov coorse, wud be
med king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his
toes an’ looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the skhy. Well,
whin Fan h’ard this, he was put _to a nonplush_ (considering) to
know what to do! With his ould _duds_ (clothes) on him, he was
ashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to have the eyes ov the
whole wurruld on him, an’ his heart wint down to his big toe as he
watched the boys makin’ their offers at the lep. But no wan ov them
was soople enough for the job, an’ they kep on tumblin’, wan afther
the other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began to look
sorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a _coolyeen_ (curls)
a yard long--an’ more be token he was a boy o’ the Byrnes from
Imayle--jist tipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an’ then
twistin’, like a crow in the air scratchin’ her head with her claw, he
spraddled wide open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a
mudbank! Well, me dear, Fan forgot himself, an’ gev a screech like an
aigle; an’ wid that, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed,
an’ Fan was surrounded. In less than a minit an’ a half they dragged me
bould Fan be the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king
himself.

“What ould _geochagh_ (beggar) have we now?” sez the king, lookin’
very hard at Fan.

“I’m Fan MaCool!” sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.

“Well, Fan MaCool or not,” sez the king, mockin’ him, “ye’ll have
to jump the strame yander for freckenin’ the lives clane out ov me
ladies,” sez he, “an’ for disturbin’ our spoort ginerally,” sez he.

“An’ what’ll I get for that same?” sez Fan, _lettin’ on_
(pretending) he was afeerd.

“Me daughter, Maynish,” sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye
see, Fan would be drownded.

“Me hand on the bargain,” sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on
the knuckles wid his _specktre_ (sceptre) an’ towld him to hurry
up, or he’d get the _ollaves_ (judges) to put him in the Black Dog
pres’n or the Marshals--I forgets which--it’s so long gone by!

Well, Fan peeled off his _coatamore_, an’ threw away his
_bottheen_ ov a stick, an’ the prencess seein’ his big body an’
his long arums an’ legs like an oaktree, couldn’t help remarkin’ to her
comerade, the craythur--

“Bedad, _Cauth_ (Kate),” sez she, “but this beggarman is a fine
bit ov a _bouchal_ (boy),” sez she; “it’s in the arumy he ought to
be,” sez she, lookin’ at him agen, an’ admirin’ him, like.

So, Fan, purtendin’ to be fixin’ his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two
_lusmores_ (fox-gloves) an’ put them anunder his heels; for thim
wor the fairies’ own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an’
he, ov coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an owld
_lenaun_ (fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he
was a little stand-a-loney.

Well, me dear, ye’d think it was on’y over a little _creepie_
(three-legged) stool he was leppin’ whin he landed like a thrish jist
at the fut ov the prencess; an’ his father’s son he was, that put his
two arums around her, an’ gev her a kiss--haith, ye’d hear the smack
ov it at the Castle o’ Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake,
an’ pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an’ at last he ordhered the bowld
beggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuk off his weskit
an’ seen the collar ov goold around Fan’s neck the ould chap became
delighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun for a
son-in-law.

“Hello!” sez the king, “who have we now?” sez he, seein’ the collar.
“Begonnys,” sez he, “you’re no _boccagh_ (beggar) anyways!”

“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as a cock sparra’; “have
you anything to say agen me?” for his name wasn’t up, at that time,
like afther.

“Ay, lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ round this a-way,
dressed like a playacthor, takin’ us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to
be vexed; “an’ now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ jump
back agen afore you gets me daughter for _puttin’ on_ (deceiving)
us in such a manner.”

“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must have a word or two
with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft
to her, an’ the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were
_croosheenin_’ an’ _colloguin_’ (whispering and talking), an’
not mindin’ him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who
comes up but the Prence ov Imayle, afther dryin’ himself, to put his
pike in the hay, too.

“Well, _avochal_ (my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry yet?” an’ the
prencess laughed like a bell round a cat’s neck.

“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez the other; “but
there’s one thing you can’t do wid all your prate!”

“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not,” sez he.

“You couldn’t whistle an’ chaw oatenmale,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, in
a pucker. “Are you any good at throwin’ a stone?” sez he, then.

“The best!” sez Fan, an’ all the coort gother round like to a
cock-fight. “Where’ll we throw to?” sez he.

“In to’ards Dublin,” sez the Prence ov Imayle; an’ be all accounts he
was a great hand at _cruistin_ (throwing). “Here goes pink!” sez
he, an’ he ups with a stone, as big as a castle, an’ sends it flyin’ in
the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top
ov the Three Rock Mountain.

“I’m your masther!” sez Fan, pickin’ up another _clochaun_ (stone)
an’ sendin’ it a few perch beyant the first.

“That you’re not,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, an’ he done his best, an’
managed to send another finger stone beyant Fan’s throw; an’ shure, the
three stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.

“Well, me lad,” says Fan, stoopin’ for another as big as a hill, “I’m
sorry I have to bate you; but I can’t help it,” sez he, lookin’ over
at the Prencess Maynish, an’ she as mute as a mouse watchin’ the two
big men, an’ the ould king showin’ fair play, as delighted as a child.
“Watch this,” sez he, whirlin’ his arm like a windmill, “and now put on
your spectacles,” sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin’ through
the air like a peggin’-top, over the other three _clochauns_, and
then across Dublin Bay, an’ scrapin’ the nose off ov Howth, it landed
with a swish in the say beyant it. That’s the rock they calls Ireland’s
Eye now!

“Be the so an’ so!” sez the king, “I don’t know where that went to, at
all, at all! What _direct_ did you send it?” sez he to Fan. “I had
it in view, till it went over the say,” sez he.

“I’m bet!” sez the Prence ov Imayle. “I couldn’t pass that, for I can’t
see where you put it, even--good-bye to yous,” sez he, turnin’ on his
heel an’ makin’ off; “an’ may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!”
An’ back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an’ took to fret, an’ I
undherstand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an’ they put a
turtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; but
_I_ think he overstrained himself, throwin’, though that’s nayther
here nor there with me story!

“Are you goin’ to lep back agen?” sez ould King Garry, wantin’ to see
more sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein’ the like as if he was
a lad ov twenty.

“To be shure I will!” sez Fan, ready enough, “but I’ll have to take the
girl over with me this time!” sez he.

“Oh, no, Fan!” sez Maynish, afeerd ov her life he might stumble, an’
that he’d fall in with her; an’ then she’d have to fall out with
him--“take me father with you,” sez she; an’, egonnys, the ould king
thought more about himself than any ov them, an’ sed he’d take the
will for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin’ went on; an’ maybe
that wasn’t the grand _blow out_. But I can’t stay to tell yous
all the fun they had for a fortnit; on’y, me dear, they all went into
_kinks_ (fits) ov laughin’, when the ould king, who tuk more than
was good for him, stood up to drink Fan’s health, an’ forgot himself.

“Here’s to’ards your good health, Fan MaCool!” sez he, as grand as you
like--“an’ a long life to you, an’ a happy wife to you--an’ a great
many ov them!” sez he, like he’d forgot somethin’.

Well, me dear, every one was splittin’ their sides like the p’yates,
unless the prencess, an’ _she_ got as red in the face as if she
was churnin’ in the winther an’ the frost keepin’ the crame from
crackin’; but she got over it like the maisles.

But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an’ as the evenin’s gettin’
forrad I’ll stop; so put down the kittle an’ make tay, an’ if Fan and
the Prencess Maynish didn’t live happy together--that we may!

                                                 _Patrick J. McCall._




                         _TATTHER JACK WELSH._


    Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,
    With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,
    With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,
    To humour the way for himself and his pig?

    Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,
    Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;
    And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh--
    Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!

    Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,
    And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,
    But breaking the hearts of the girls all around--
    Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.

    For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune--
    Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”
    Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself
    If you heard the fife played by that musical elf.

    One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,
    And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,
    Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,
    Shure you can’t court at all--look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”

    So up the rogue rushes, and gave me a _pogue_,[57]
    And Darby ran out, like he’d got a _polthogue_,[58]--
    “Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”
    “Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”

                                                 _Patrick J. McCall._




                          _THEIR LAST RACE._


                        I.--THE FACTION FIGHT.

In the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a
triangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the comer of it towards
Loch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is
a wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster
of walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times,
before the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley,
there was no place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when
its men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside
took his _kippeen_--his cudgel--from its place in the chimney, and
went out to do battle with a glad heart.

Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight
than Mat smashing his way through a forest of _kippeens_, with
his enemies staggering back to the right and left of him; there was
no sweeter sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and
gladness, shouting, “Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!” Where his
_kippeen_ flickered in the air his followers charged after, and
the enemy rushed to meet him, for it was an honour to take a broken
head from him.

But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed
with men--fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by
the black lakes, or in tiny ragged villages under the shadow of the
mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides--every little town for miles,
by river or seashore or mountain-built, was emptied. The fame of the
Aughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well
that every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them;
Black Michael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the Valley, just
where the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross
by it) meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force.
Now Black Michael, “Meehul Dhu,” was Long Mat’s rival; though smaller
he was near as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him,
for it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself
behind with his heels in doing it.

The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more
time for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for
the battle. Why you could scarcely have moved in Callanan’s Field out
beyond the churchyard at the end of the Village, it was so packed
with men--more than five hundred were there, and you could not have
heard yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their
_caubeens_, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf--“Hurroo for
Carrala!” “Whoop for Aughavanna!” Around them a mob of women, old men
and children, looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the
mists had crept half-way down the dark mountain walls, as if to have a
nearer look at the fight.

As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down
the Village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two
last houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan’s Field; he looked
every inch a king; his _kippeen_ was ready, his frieze coat was
off, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the
sleeve, while with a great voice he shouted--in Irish--“Where’s the
Carrala man that dare touch my coat?” “Where’s the cowardly scoundrel
that dare look crooked at it?”

In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him,
and rushed forward, with a mighty cry, “Where’s the face of a trembling
Aughavanna man?” In a moment their _kippeens_ clashed; in another,
hundreds of _kippeens_ crashed together, and the grandest fight
ever fought in Connemara raged over Callanan’s Field. After the first
roar of defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so
the shout of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds
that broke the music of the _kippeens_ clashing and clicking on
one another, or striking home with a thud.

Never was Long Mat nobler: he rushed ravaging through the enemy,
shattering their ranks and their heads, no man could withstand him; Red
Callanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses
out of Dan O’Shaughran of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the
sedgy banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry
Mulcahy, that lived on the Devil’s Mother Mountain--never again did
Larry set the two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed
Black Michael Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the
head--who would have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull?

For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot.
At first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for
granted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men
found themselves out-numbered and driven back to the Village, a great
fear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not out-number
them if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and
they were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till
hardly a man of them could stand.

And when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking
themselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was
prone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the
mud--he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as
he would have chosen--in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under
the hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or
politics), revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his
death from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will,
but only gentle regret for the mishap.


                         II.--THEIR LAST RACE.

When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying
day came. All the morning Long Mat Murnane’s coffin lay on four chairs
by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women _keening_
round it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered
to do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the Valley from
the chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the
rough hearse, and the motley funeral--a line of carts with a mob of
peasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot--moved slowly
towards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, _keening_ like an
Atlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a
wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that
he could not see his funeral.

The Joyces too had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and
now Black Michael’s funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along
the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the
_keening_ of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they
converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the
other would be there first.

There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go
quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to
break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys
were galloping, and till every one raced at full speed, and the rival
parties broke into a wild shout of “Aughavanna _abu_!” “Meehul Dhu
for ever!”

For the dead men were racing--feet foremost--to the grave; they were
rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was
there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads meet in Callanan’s
Field the hearses were abreast; neck to neck they dashed across the
trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the
two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck
they reached the churchyard, and the hearses jammed in the gate. Behind
them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if
they were mad.

But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized
their long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last
race. The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains,
so that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one
another’s hands; they hugged one another.

“Himself would be proud,” they cried, “if he hadn’t been dead!”

                                               _Frank Mathew_ (1865).




                             _IN BLARNEY._


    _He_--Be the fire, _alanna_, sittin’,
            Purty ’tis you look and sweet,
          Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’
            Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.

    _She_--It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,
            Yis, and impudence _galore_!
          Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,
            When yer afther half-a-score?

    _He_--Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,
            Found at all the likes o’ you.
    _She_--Now my worsted all is ravelled
            And whatever will I do?

    _He_--Might I make so bould to ask it,
            Shure I know the girl o’ girls;
          And I’d make me heart the casket,
            And her love the pearl o’ pearls.

    _She_--Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’
            That it’s you’re the honied rogue.
    _He_--Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’
            From yer rosy lips a _pogue_.[59]

    _She_--Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,
            When it’s all alone she’s left?
    _He_--Wor they all as sweet as this is,
            Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.

    _She_--Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!
            Or I’ll soon begin to scould.
          Sure, I’d like to know what school in
            Did ye learn to be so bould?

    _He_--Och! it’s undher Masther Cupid
            That I learned me A, B, C.
    _She_--That the scholar wasn’t stupid,
            Faith, is very plain to see.

    _He_--Ah, then Eily, but the blush is
            Most becomin’ to ye, dear!
          Like the red rose on the bush is----
      _She_--Sir I you needn’t come so near!

    _He_--Over lane and road and _boreen_,
            Troth, I’ve come a weary way,
          Jusht to whisper ye, _asthoreen_,
            Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.

          I’ve a cosy cottage, which is
            Jusht the proper size for two----
    _She_--There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,
            And it’s all because av you!

    _He_--And, to make a sthray suggestchun,
            Maybe you me wish might guess?
    _She_--Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,
            Somehow--I--might answer--YES!

                                         _Patrick J. Coleman_ (1867).

  [Illustration: “GATHERIN’ UP THE GOLDEN GRAIN.”]




                          _BINDIN’ THE OATS._


    Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
      Don’t you remember
        That evening, dear?
    Ah! but you bound my heart complately,
      Fair and nately,
    Snug in the snood of your silken hair!

    Swung the sickles, you followed after
      With musical laughter
        And witchin’ eye.
    I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,
      Spoiled the stook, love,
    For your smile had bothered my head awry!

    Such an elegant, graceful binder,
      Where could I find her
        All Ireland through?
    Worn’t the stout, young, strappin’ fellows
      Fairly jealous,
    Dyin’, _asthore machree_, for you?

    Talk o’ Persephone pluckin’ the posies,
      Or the red roses,
        In Henna’s plain!
    _You_ wor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,
      And beautiful head, love,
    Gatherin’ up the golden grain.

    Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
      Don’t you remember
        The stolen _pogue_?[60]
    How could I help but there deliver
      My heart for ever
    To such a beautiful little rogue?

    Bindin’ the oats, ’twas there you found me,
      There you bound me
        That harvest day!
    Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,
      Fair and fond, love,
    Happy, for ever and ever, stay!

                                                _Patrick J. Coleman._




                    _SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC._


A man ties a knot with his tongue that his teeth will not loosen.

Honey is sweet, but don’t lick it off a briar.

The doorstep of a great house is slippery.

The leisure of the smith’s helper (_i.e._, from the bellows to the
anvil).

You have the foal’s share of the harrow.

Laziness is a heavy burden.

You’d be a good messenger to send for death--(said of a slow person).

Better be bald than have no head at all--but the devil a much more than
that.

Better the end of a feast than the beginning of a fight.

Let him cool in the skin he warmed in.

A man is shy in another man’s corner.

The pig in the sty doesn’t know the pig going along the road.

’Tis on her own account the cat purrs.

Cows far from home have long horns.

A black hen lays a white egg (_i.e._, do not judge by appearances).

’Tis a good story that fills the belly.

A drink is shorter than a story.

    The man that’s up is toasted,
    The man that’s down is trampled on.

He knows more than his “Our Father.”

A mouth of ivy and a heart of holly.

A soft word never broke a tooth yet.

He comes like the bad weather (_i.e._, uninvited).

Who lies down with dogs will get up with fleas.

The eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.

’Tis the fool has luck.

What the Pookha writes, he himself can read.

A blind man can see his mouth.

To die and to lose one’s life are much the same.

Don’t leave a tailor’s remnant behind you.

’Tis a wedge of itself that splits the oak.

The three sharpest things at all--a thorn in mire, a hound’s tooth, and
a fool’s retort.

When it goes hard with the old hag, she must run.

The jewel most rare is the jewel most fair.

He that loses the game, let him talk away.

A heavy purse makes a light heart.

He is like a bag-pipe--he never makes a noise till his belly’s full.

Out of the kitchen comes the tune.

Falling is easier than rising.

A woman has an excuse readier than an apron.

The secret of an old woman scolding (_i.e._, no secret at all).

A bad wife takes advice from every man but her own husband.

The daughter of an active old woman makes a bad housekeeper.

Never take a wife who has no faults.

She burnt her coal and did not warm herself (_i.e._, when a woman
makes a bad marriage).

A ring on the finger and not a stitch of clothes on the back.

A hen with chickens never yet burst her craw.

A big belly was never generous.

One bit of a rabbit is worth two of a cat.

There is hope from the sea, but no hope from the cemetery.

When the hand ceases to scatter, the mouth ceases to praise.

Big head and little sense.

The tail is part of the cat (_i.e._, a man resembles his family).

A cat’s milk gives no cream (said of a stingy person).

Butter to butter’s no relish (said when two men dance together, or two
women kiss each other).

One cockroach knows another.

A heavy load are your empty guts.

The young thorn is the sharpest.

Sweet is wine, bitter its payment.

Whoever drinks, it is Donall that pays.

An alms from his own share, to the fool.

Better a wren in hand that a crane promised.

The man on the fence is the best hurler (against critics and idle
lookers-on).

A closed hand gets but a shut fist.

It is not all big men that reap the harvest.

Easy, oh woman of three cows! (against pretentious people).

Fair words won’t feed the friars.

Never poor till one goes to hell.

Not worried till married.

Brother to Donall is Theigue (= _Arcades ambo_).

Three without rule--a wife, a pig, and a mule.

When your hand is in the dog’s mouth, draw it out gently.

Better a drop of whisky than a blow of a stick.

After their feeding, the whelps begin to fight.

The four drinks--the drink for thirst, the drink without thirst, the
drink for fear of thirst, and the drink at the door.

A woman is more obstinate than a mule--a mule than the devil.

All the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.

When the goat goes to church he never stops till he goes up to the
altar.

A strip of another man’s leather is very soft.

’Tis a bad hen that won’t scratch for herself.

Better riding a goat than the best marching.

Death is the poor man’s doctor.

If ’tis a sin to be yellow, thousands will be damned.

There’s no good crying when the funeral is gone.

Buttermilk is no milk, and a pudding’s no meat.

Though near to a man his coat, his shirt is nearer (_i.e._, blood
is thicker than water).

Better a fistful of a man than a basketful of a woman.

What cannot be had is just what suits.

An unlearned king is a crowned ass.

’Tis the end of the little pot, the bottom to fall out of it.

A woman’s desire--the dear thing.

Twelve things not to be found--four priests not covetous, four
Frenchmen not yellow, and four cobblers not liars.

Nora having a servant and herself begging (shabby gentility).

A man without dinner--two for supper.

The man without a resource is hanged.

Poor women think butter-milk good.

Harsh is the poor man’s voice--he speaks all out of place.

A wet mouth does not feel a dry mouth (_i.e._, plenty does not
understand want).

’Tis a fine horse that never stumbles.

Take care of my neck and go on one side (_i.e._, do not lean
altogether on one).

A man loses something to teach himself.

A hen carried far is heavy.

The day of the storm is not the day for thatching.

Winter comes on the lazy.

A crow thinks its own young white.

Putting on the mill the straw of the kiln (_i.e._, robbing Peter
to pay Paul).

Truth is bitter, but a lie is savoury at times.

’Tis a bad hound that is not worth whistling for.

Better to-day than to-morrow morning.

Patience is the cure of an old complaint.

Have your own will, like the women have.

It is not the same thing to go to town (or to court) and to come from
it.

An old cat does not burn himself.

A foolish woman knows the faults of a foolish man.

The man that’s out his portion cools (_i.e._, out of sight, out of
mind).

That’s great softening on the butter-milk.

The law of lending is to break the ware.

No heat like that of shame.

A candle does not give light till lit.

Don’t praise your son-in-law till the year’s out.

It is not a sheep’s head that we wouldn’t have another turn at it
(there being only one meal in a sheep’s head).

The glory the head cannot bear, ’twere better not there.

He that does not tie a knot will lose his first stitch.

The fox never found a better messenger than himself.

Better a little fire that warms than a large fire that burns.

Better a short sitting than a long standing.

Better be idle than working for nothing.

Do not show your teeth when you cannot give a bite.

Better come empty than with bad news.

Trust him as far as you can throw a cow by the tail.

Praise the end of it.

To know one since his boots cost fourpence (_i.e._, from an early
age).

Never was door shut but another was opened.

The heaviest ear of corn bends lowliest.

He who is bad at giving lodging is good at showing the road.

The husband of the sloven is known amongst a crowd.

Where there’s women there’s talk, and where there’s geese there’s
cackling.

More beard than brains, as the fox said of the goat.

A bad reaper never got a good reaping hook.

A trade not learned is an enemy.

An empty house is better than a bad tenant.

He knows as much about it as a dog knows of his father.

He’d say anything but his prayers.

A vessel will only hold the full of it.

Blow before you drink.

Better fame (_i.e._, reputation and character) than fortune.

A blind man is no judge of colours.

Fierceness is often hidden under beauty.

When the cat is out, the mice dance.

There is often anger in a laugh.

A fool’s gold is light.

No one claims kindred with the homeless.

An empty vessel makes most sound.

The lamb teaching her dam to bleat.

Both hard and soft, like the cow’s tail.

He that gets a name for early rising may sleep all day.

Talk is cheap.

When the hand grows weak, love gets feeble.

If you have a cow you can always find somebody to milk her.

Long-lived is a man in his own country.

Forgetting one’s debts does not pay them.

Nearer is God’s aid than the door.

Bad is the walk that is not better than rest.

Diseases without shame are love and thirst.

It is hard to dry a rush that has been dipped in tallow (_i.e._,
it is hard to break off a habit).

Might is not lasting.

Wrath speaketh not true.

A bribe bursts the rock.

What goes to length goes to coldness.

Better the good that is than the double good that was.

Often a mouse went under a cornstack.

A good retreat is better than a bad stand.

Not better is food than sense at time of drinking.

The idiot knows the fault of the fool.

Thy complexion is black, says the raven.

Better be sparing at first than at last.

Whoever escapes, the peacemaker won’t.

I would take an eye out of myself to take two out of another.

A hedge on the field after the trespass.

Melodious is the closed mouth.

A spit without meat is a long thing.

Alas for a house that men frequent not.

It’s many the skin that sloughs off youth.

Time is a good story-teller.

The quills often took the flesh with them.

One debt won’t pay another.

There never came a gatherer but a scatterer came after him.

There’s none for bad shoes like the shoemaker’s wife.

No man ever gave advice but himself were the better for some of it.

A man of learning understands the half-word.

O’Brien’s gift and his two eyes after it (_i.e._, regretting it).

  [Illustration]




                    BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS.


   BARRETT, EATON STANNARD.--Satirist and poet, and one of
   the wittiest of writers. Born in Cork in 1786, he graduated at
   Trinity College, Dublin, and became a barrister in London. Some
   of his satires had great vogue, especially “All the Talents,”
   which was directed against a ministry still known by that
   description. He was the author of various burlesque novels,
   plays, and poems, but could write well on serious topics.
   Barrett died in Glamorganshire, Wales, on March 20th, 1820,
   through the bursting of a blood-vessel.

   BOUCICAULT, DION.--The real name of this popular
   dramatist and actor was Dionysius Lardner Bourcicault. He was
   born in Dublin on December 26th, 1822, and wrote the comedy of
   “London Assurance,” when only nineteen years old. His Irish
   dramas are well known, and are still considered the best of
   their kind. He was an admirable comedian, as well as dramatic
   writer. He spent many years in the United States, and died there
   in September 1890.

   BOURKE, JAMES JOSEPH.--Born in Dublin on September
   17th, 1837. His poems are very widely known and appreciated
   among Irish people. Over the signature of “Tiria” he wrote
   largely for the Irish newspapers of the last thirty years. He
   died on April 28th, 1894.

   BOYLE, WILLIAM.--There are few Irish authors whose
   writings are more racy than his. He was born in 1853 at
   Dromiskin, co. Louth, and was educated at St. Mary’s College,
   Dundalk. He entered the Inland Revenue department in 1874, and
   is now stationed in Glasgow.

   CANNING, GEORGE.--Born in London on April 11th, 1770.
   His father and mother were Irish, and he insisted that he was an
   Irishman born out of Ireland. After a brilliant Parliamentary
   career he became Prime Minister in 1827, but only held the
   position about three months, his death occurring on August 8th
   of that year. His witty essays were written in early life for
   _The Microcosm_ and _Anti-Jacobin_.

   CANNINGS, THOMAS.--A private soldier, who published at
   Cork in 1800, or thereabouts, a volume of _Detached Pieces in
   Verse_. He belonged to the 61st Regiment.

   CARLETON, WILLIAM.--Author of the _Traits and Stories
   of the Irish Peasantry_, and recognised as one of the
   greatest delineators of Irish character. Born at Prillisk, co.
   Tyrone, in 1794, he was the son of a peasant. His best-known
   work, already mentioned, appeared in 1830, and after that date
   scarcely a year passed without a new work of his appearing.
   He wrote largely for the _Dublin University Magazine_,
   etc., and was granted a Civil List pension of £200 by Lord John
   Russell. He died near Dublin on January 30th, 1869.

   COLEMAN, PATRICK JAMES.--A native of Ballaghadeerin,
   co. Mayo, where he was born on September 2nd, 1867. He
   matriculated in London University, and in 1888 went to
   America. He now occupies a position in the journalistic
   world of Philadelphia, and is regarded as one of the rising
   Irish-American poets.

   CURRAN, JOHN PHILPOT.--This noted orator and wit was
   born at Newmarket, co. Cork, on July 24th, 1750. His patriotism
   has endeared him to his countrymen, and his eloquence and humour
   have made his name widely familiar. He became Master of the
   Rolls in Ireland in 1806, and died in London on October 14th,
   1817.

   DAWSON, ARTHUR.--A Baron of the Exchequer in Ireland,
   was born about 1700, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University. He
   was appointed Baron of the Irish Court of Exchequer in 1742, and
   died in 1775.

   DE QUINCEY, J.--A solicitor’s clerk in Limerick, who
   wrote a little humorous verse in the Irish papers some years ago.

   DOWNEY, EDMUND.--Author of the well-known stories
   signed “F. M. Allen,” such as “Through Green Glasses,” etc.
   These richly humorous Irish stories are perhaps better known,
   but can hardly be considered superior to his excellent
   sea-stories. “Anchor-Watch Yarns” and kindred tales by Mr.
   Downey place him in the front rank of writers of sea-stories.
   He was born in Waterford in 1856, and is the son of a shipowner
   and broker. He came to London in 1878, and was for a time in the
   office of Tinsley the publisher. He afterwards became a partner
   in the firm of Ward & Downey, from which he has now retired.

   DUFFERIN, LADY.--Born in 1807, the daughter of Thomas,
   son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She and her two sisters were
   noted for personal beauty; one of them, the Hon. Mrs. Norton,
   was also well known as a poetess. She married first the Hon.
   Pryce Blackwood (afterwards Lord Dufferin), and afterwards the
   Earl of Gifford. The present Marquis of Dufferin is her son. She
   died on June 13th, 1867. Her poems are often exquisite in their
   pathos, humour, or grace.

   ETTINGSALL, THOMAS.--A fishing-tackle manufacturer of
   Wood Quay, Dublin, and was born about the close of last century.
   He wrote only a few sketches and stories for _The Irish Penny
   Journal_ (1840) and _Dublin Penny Journal_ (1832). It
   was in the last-named magazine, on December 15th, 1832, that
   the story here given appeared. He was concerned with H. B.
   Code in the authorship of _The Angling Excursions of Gregory
   Greendrake_, which was published in Dublin in 1824. He was
   “Geoffrey Greydrake” of that work, which was reprinted from
   _The Warder_. He died in poor circumstances about 1850.

   FAHY, FRANCIS ARTHUR.--One of the raciest and most
   humorous of Irish poets. Born in Kinvara, co. Galway, on
   September 29th, 1854, and came to London as a Civil Service
   clerk in 1873. He wrote many poems for the Irish papers, signed
   “Dreoilin” (the wren), and in 1887 published a collection of
   _Irish Songs and Poems_ in Dublin. He is represented
   by a few pieces in the recently-issued _Songs of the Four
   Nations_, and some of his later songs have been admirably set
   to music by Mrs. Needham.

   FARQUHAR, GEORGE.--This noted dramatist was born in
   Derry in 1678, and was the son of a clergyman. He studied at
   Dublin University and did not graduate. He went on the stage
   in 1695, but though successful as an actor, he left the stage
   and wrote plays, of which his most important are “The Beaux
   Stratagem,” “The Inconstant,” and “The Recruiting Officer.” He
   died in April 1707.

   FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL.--Is regarded as one of the
   greatest of Irish poets. Was born on March 10th, 1810; graduated
   at Dublin University, and was called to the Bar. He was one of
   the leading contributors to _Blackwood’s Magazine_, his
   “Father Tom and the Pope” (often attributed in error to others)
   appearing in its columns, and also his fine poem, “The Forging
   of the Anchor.” He published several volumes of very admirable
   poetry, and some graphic stories of ancient Ireland. He died on
   August 9th, 1886.

   FRENCH, WILLIAM PERCY.--Born at Clooniquin, co.
   Roscommon, on May 1st, 1854, and graduated at Dublin University.
   He is one of the cleverest of living Irish humorists, and is the
   author of many verses, stories, etc., most of which appeared in
   a small Dublin comic, _The Jarvey_, edited by himself. Some
   of his songs have become very popular, and he is also the author
   of the _libretti_ of one or two operas.

   GOLDSMITH, OLIVER.--The leading facts of Goldsmith’s
   career are almost too well known to need even bare mention. He
   was born at Pallas, near Ballymahon, co. Longford, on November
   10th, 1728. He entered Dublin University, and graduated B.A.
   there in 1749. After wandering about the Continent he settled
   down in London to a literary life, his first experiences being
   those of a badly-paid hack. He died on April 4th, 1774, and was
   buried in the Temple.

   GRAVES, ALFRED PERCEVAL.--The author of “Father
   O’Flynn” is decidedly the most popular, after Lover, of the
   humorous Irish song-writers. He has not only produced many good
   songs in the lighter vein, but has also written excellent ones
   of a pathetic character. He is the son of the present Bishop
   of Limerick, and was born in Dublin in 1846. He is a graduate
   of Dublin, and holds the position of Inspector of Schools. He
   resided for some years in Taunton, but now lives in London. It
   would have been easy to extract a dozen inimitable pieces from
   his several volumes. He has done much to make Irish music and
   the Irish character better known.

   GRIFFIN, GERALD.--Born in Limerick on December 12th,
   1803, came to London in youth to carve out his fortune. He wrote
   some admirable Irish stories and some beautiful poems, as well
   as a tolerable play, but just as he was succeeding in literature
   he withdrew from the world, joining the order of the Christian
   Brothers. He died in Cork on June 12th, 1840. His best-known
   book is _The Collegians, or, the Colleen Bawn_.

   HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM.--Author of one or two volumes
   of verse, some of which is occasionally very humorous. He was
   born at Oldcastle, co. Meath, in 1829, and was the son of a
   Protestant clergyman. He went to the United States in the
   fifties and fought through the Civil War, gaining the rank of
   colonel. He died through taking an overdose of chloral to induce
   sleep, on August 3rd, 1868.

   HYDE, DOUGLAS, LL.D.--Is the son of Rev. Arthur Hyde
   of Frenchpark, co. Roscommon, and was born at Kilmactranny, co.
   Sligo, somewhere about 1860. Graduated at Dublin University, and
   had a brilliant career there. Is one of the foremost of living
   Irish writers, and a master of the Gaelic tongue. He is well
   known as a scholar and an enthusiast in folk-lore studies, and
   has published fine collections of Irish folk-tales and popular
   songs of the West of Ireland. He is also a clever writer of
   verse, both in Irish and in English.

   KENEALY, EDWARD VAUGHAN HYDE, LL.D.--Born in Cork
   on July 2nd, 1819, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University
   in 1850. Was called to the English Bar in 1847, and had a
   somewhat stormy career as a member, being finally disbarred on
   account of his conduct in the famous Tichbourne case. He wrote
   a good deal for _Fraser’s Magazine_ in its early years,
   as also for _Bentley’s Miscellany_, and published various
   collections of poetry. He was a vigorous journalist, and a man
   of undoubtedly great ability, and entered Parliament in 1875. He
   died on April 16th, 1880.

   KICKHAM, CHARLES JOSEPH.--A poet of the people, and
   a novelist of some power. To get a genuine impression of
   the home-life of the Munster people, his stories, _Sally
   Cavanagh_ and _Knocknagow, or the Homes of Tipperary_,
   should be read. He was born at Mullinahone, co. Tipperary, in
   1828, and became a Fenian. He was connected with _The Irish
   People_, the Fenian organ, and in 1865 was arrested and
   sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude. He lost his sight
   during his imprisonment, and was much shattered in health. He
   died on August 22nd, 1882.

   LEFANU, JOSEPH SHERIDAN.--Born in Dublin on August
   28th, 1814, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University in 1837. He
   was called to the Bar, but devoted himself to literature and
   journalism. He owned two or three Dublin papers, and was editor
   of _The Dublin University Magazine_, also his property,
   where most of his novels and poems appeared. He is one of the
   most enthralling of novelists, his _Uncle Silas_, _In a
   Glass Darkly_, etc., being very powerful. His poems, such as
   “Shamus O’Brien,” are also very well known. He died on February
   7th, 1873.

   LEVER, CHARLES JAMES.--This most widely read of Irish
   novelists was born in Dublin on August 31st, 1806, and graduated
   M.B. at Dublin University in 1831. He took his M.D. degree at
   Louvain, and became a dispensary doctor in Ireland, but also
   practised abroad for a time with success. He was editor of
   _The Dublin University Magazine_ from 1842 to 1845, and
   wrote much for it, for _Blackwood’s Magazine_ and other
   leading periodicals. There is no necessity to name any of his
   novels. He acted as English Consul in Italy, and died at Trieste
   on June 1st, 1872. His life has been admirably told by Mr. W. J.
   Fitzpatrick (1879; 2nd ed. 1882).

   LOVER, SAMUEL.--Poet, painter, musician, dramatist, and
   novelist--and successful in all departments. His work in each
   was excellent, and he might have been considered great if he
   had confined himself to any one of them. He was born in Dublin
   on February 24th, 1797, and was first notable as a miniature
   painter. His weak eyesight, however, compelled him to give up
   the art. He wrote several clever plays, one or two tremendously
   popular novels, and some hundreds of songs, most of which he set
   to music himself. He died in Jersey on July 6th, 1868.

   LUTTRELL, HENRY.--At one time Luttrell was one of the
   most popular men in London society, and known far and wide for
   his powers of repartee. He was born in 1766 or 1767, in Dublin,
   and was for a time a member of the Irish Parliament. After
   the Union he came to England, and was a frequent guest at the
   brilliant social functions of Holland House. He died in Brompton
   Square on December 19th, 1851. His “Advice to Julia” and
   “Crockford House” are clever verse of the light satirical order.

   LYSAGHT, EDWARD.--One of the most famous of Irish
   wits, born at Brickhill, co. Clare, on December 21st, 1763,
   and educated at Cashel, co. Tipperary, and at Oxford, where he
   graduated M. A. in 1788. He became a barrister, but was too much
   of a _bon vivant_ to succeed greatly in his profession. His
   reputation as a wit is not sustained by his collected poems. He
   has been accredited with the authorship of “Kitty of Coleraine,”
   “The Sprig of Shillelagh,” “Donnybrook Fair,” and “The Lakes
   of Mallow,” not one of which was written by him (_vide_
   “The Poets of Ireland, a biographical dictionary,” by D. J.
   O’Donoghue). He died in Dublin in 1810.

   MAGINN, WILLIAM, LL.D.--One of the greatest scholars
   and humorists Cork has produced. He was born in that city on
   July 10th, 1793, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University
   in 1819. He was, from its commencement, the most brilliant
   contributor to _Blackwood’s Magazine_, and also edited
   _Fraser_ on its appearance in 1830. His fatal propensity to
   liquor prevented his doing himself justice, though he wrote many
   inimitable pieces, which have mostly been collected. He was one
   of the most lovable of men. He died on August 21st, 1842.

   MAHER, WILLIAM.--A Waterford clothier, who is
   considered the most likely author of “The Night before Larry
   was Stretched.” One thing is certain, Dean Burrowes of Cork
   did _not_ write it, as has often been claimed. Walsh’s
   _Ireland Sixty Years Ago_ (1847) gives it to Maher, who
   flourished about 1780.

   MAHONY, REV. FRANCIS SYLVESTER.--Better remembered as
   “Father Prout,” the name he took as his pseudonym in writing.
   He was of Kerry family, but was born in Cork in 1804--not 1805,
   as is frequently said. He was educated for the priesthood at
   Amiens and Paris, and joined the Jesuit order. After some
   years, however, he practically gave up his functions, and led
   a Bohemian life. He was one of the most admired contributors
   to _Fraser_, where his “Reliques” appeared. In later life
   he acted as Paris correspondent of _The Globe_ (which
   he partly owned) and as Roman correspondent of _The Daily
   News_. Before his death, which occurred in Paris on May 18th,
   1866, he repented of his disregard for his sacred calling. He
   was buried in his native city. It is extremely difficult to
   make extracts from his prose, on account of the superabundant
   classical allusions and references which it contains. He was not
   a very agreeable man, personally.

   MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE.--One of the first of Irish
   poets, and held to be the greatest of them by many of his
   countrymen. He was born in Dublin on May 1st, 1803, and was
   the son of a grocer. He wrote innumerable poems to the Irish
   periodicals of his time, notably _The Nation_ and _Dublin
   University Magazine_. He knew various languages, but his
   pretended translations from Turkish, Coptic, Hebrew, Arabic, and
   Persian are so many elaborate jokes. He was most unfortunate
   in life, mainly through his addiction to drink. His was a
   wonderful personality, which has attracted many writers, and
   his great poetical gifts are gradually becoming evident to
   English critics. He was greatly encouraged by his admirers, but
   to little purpose. His poems have been collected into several
   small volumes, but there is no complete edition, though it is
   badly wanted. He died in a Dublin hospital on June 20th, 1849.
   See John McCall’s _Life of J. C. Mangan_ for further
   particulars of his interesting career.

   MATHEW, FRANK.--Is a solicitor and a nephew of the
   eminent English judge, Sir James Mathew. Was born in 1865, and
   his first literary work was his biography of his illustrious
   relative, Father Mathew, “The Apostle of Temperance.” His
   admirable Irish stories, which appeared in _The Idler_,
   have been collected in a volume called _At the Rising of the
   Moon_. They are very graphically told.

   MCCALL, PATRICK JOSEPH.--A genuinely Irish poet,
   whose original poems and translations from the Irish are very
   characteristic. He is the son of a Dublin grocer (the author
   of a memoir of Mangan), and was born in Dublin on March 6th,
   1861. Was educated at the Catholic University School in his
   native city, and for some years has been a frequent and welcome
   contributor to the Dublin Nationalist press. A good selection of
   his poems has just been published under the title of _Irish
   Noinins_. His stories have mostly appeared in _The
   Shamrock_ of Dublin.

   MCKOWEN, JAMES.--Born at Lambeg, near Lisburn, co.
   Antrim, on February 11th, 1814. He received only an elementary
   education, and was first employed at a thread manufactory,
   afterwards working as a linen-bleacher for many years. He wrote
   principally for North of Ireland papers, and was exceedingly
   popular with Ulster people, but one or two of his songs have
   found a much wider audience. He died on April 22nd, 1889.

   MOORE, THOMAS.--Son of a Dublin grocer, and born in
   that city on May 28th, 1779. He graduated at Dublin University,
   and studied law in London. He began to woo the muse, as the
   saying goes, at a very early age, but his first great success
   was occasioned by his _Irish Melodies_, which began to
   appear in parts in 1806. He died on February 26th, 1852.

   O’CONOR, CHARLES PATRICK.--Born in co. Cork in or
   about 1837, and came to England in his youth. He has written
   some good verse, and was granted a Civil List pension of £50 a
   year. To Irish papers he contributed very largely, and published
   several small collections of verse. His complete works were
   published by himself, and are to be obtained from him at Hither
   Green, Lewisham.

   O’DONNELL, JOHN FRANCIS.--An Irish writer who is best
   known to his countrymen as a poet. He was born in Limerick in
   1837, and began to write for the press at the age of fourteen.
   In 1861 he came to London, and wrote largely for various
   journals, including those of Charles Dickens. He died on May
   7th, 1874. A selection from his poems was published in 1891,
   through the exertions of the Southwark Irish Literary Club.

   O’FLAHERTY, CHARLES.--Born in 1794, in Dublin, where
   his father was a pawnbroker in Ross Lane, and was apprenticed
   to a bookseller, eventually turning to journalism. He was on
   the staff of the Dublin _Morning Post_, and afterwards
   edited the _Wexford Evening Post_. He died in May 1828. He
   published three volumes of verse, and some of his songs enjoyed
   great popularity, especially “The Humours of Donnybrook Fair,”
   which is taken from his _Trifles in Poetry_, 1813.

   O’KEEFFE, JOHN.--This popular dramatist was born in
   Dublin on June 24th, 1747, and was at first intended as an
   artist, as he was very deft with the pencil. But he preferred
   the stage, and was a successful actor for a time. Removing to
   London, he began to earn repute as a dramatist, writing numerous
   plays, chiefly operas and farces, which had great vogue. His
   “Wild Oats,” a comedy, still keeps the stage, and other pieces
   of his are still remembered. He lost his sight many years before
   his death, which occurred at Southampton on February 24th, 1833.

   O’LEARY, JOSEPH.--Author of _The Tribute_, a
   collection of prose and verse, published anonymously at Cork in
   1833. He was born in Cork about 1790, and was a contributor to
   the scurrilous _Freeholder_ and other papers of his native
   city and of Dublin. He came to London in 1834, and acted as
   parliamentary reporter for the _Morning Herald_. Between
   1840 and 1850 he disappeared, and is said to have committed
   suicide in the Regent’s Canal. “Whisky, Drink Divine” first
   appeared in The _Freeholder_ about 1820.

   O’LEARY, PATRICK.--One of the foremost writers in
   Irish at the present day. He is a resident of West Cork, and is
   probably a native of that locality. The original of the sketch
   quoted appeared in _The Gaelic Journal_, and was translated
   by himself for the present collection.

   O’RYAN, JEREMIAH.--Born near Bansha, co. Tipperary,
   about the close of last century, and died in March 1855. He is
   generally known as “Darby Ryan of Bansha.” Some of his songs
   were collected and published in Dublin in 1861.

   PORTER, REV. THOMAS HAMBLIN, D.D.--Born about 1800, and
   died some years ago, but little is known about him. He graduated
   D.D. at Dublin University in 1836, and wrote a few pieces, which
   were published in Dublin magazines. “The Nightcap” appeared
   about 1820.

   ROCHE, SIR BOYLE.--Born probably in the south of
   Ireland about 1740. Was a soldier, and distinguished himself
   in the American War. He entered the Irish Parliament, and was
   created a baronet in 1782 by the Government for his unwavering
   support. He was pensioned for his service in voting for the
   Union, and died in Dublin on June 5th, 1807. He was noted for
   his very carefully prepared blunders in speech.

   SHALVEY, THOMAS.--A market-gardener in Dublin, who
   wrote some amusing poems for James Kearney, a vocalist who used
   to sing at several music-halls and inferior concert-rooms in
   Dublin a good many years ago. Kearney was very popular, and some
   of his best songs were written for him by Shalvey.

   SHAW, GEORGE BERNARD.--Born in Dublin in 1856, is now
   recognised as one of the most brilliant of musical critics in
   London. He was for a time a land agent in the West of Ireland,
   but was always a musical enthusiast, and belongs to a musical
   family well known in Dublin. He has a profound knowledge of
   music, but a somewhat flippant way of showing it. He has written
   several clever novels, and literary, art, and musical criticisms
   for leading London papers. He was the caustic “Corno di
   Bassetto” of _The Star_, and is now the musical critic of
   _The World_. He is also a brilliant speaker, and has quite
   recently come to the front as a dramatist.

   SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY.--Born in October 1751, in
   Dorset Street, Dublin, and son of a noted actor and manager.
   As dramatist, orator, and spendthrift, Sheridan’s name figures
   very prominently in the memoirs of his time. His wit was
   squandered in every direction as well as his cash, and he has
   been reproached for making every one of the characters in his
   plays as witty as himself. He was an important personality in
   the politics of his day, and sat in the English Parliament for
   many years. He died in debt and poverty on July 7th, 1816, and
   was accorded a grand burial in Westminster Abbey.

   STEELE, SIR RICHARD.--Born in Dublin in 1671 or 1672,
   and educated at the Charterhouse School, London, and at Oxford.
   In 1709 he commenced the publication of _The Tatler_, and
   followed it up by _The Spectator_, etc. He also wrote
   several comedies, and other works. He entered Parliament in
   1713, and held one or two Government offices. He died in Wales
   on September 1st, 1729.

   STERNE, REV. LAURENCE.--Born at Clonmel, co. Tipperary,
   on November 24th, 1713, and graduated M.A. at Cambridge in
   1740. His father was an officer in the army. He was ordained
   about 1740, and after some years of inactivity at home and
   travel abroad, wrote his great work, _Tristram Shandy_,
   which appeared at intervals between 1759 and 1767. _His
   Sentimental Journey_ appeared in 1768. He died on March 18th,
   1768.

   SULLIVAN, TIMOTHY DANIEL.--This well-known politician
   is one of the most widely read of the Irish verse-writers, and
   has written a few songs which have deeply impressed themselves
   on Irish memories. But he excels in the writing of political
   skits, which at one time formed one of the chief features of the
   _Nation_ newspaper, then edited by him. Several volumes of
   his poetical work have been published. He was born at Bantry,
   co. Cork, in 1827.

   SWIFT, REV. JONATHAN, D.D.--This greatest of satirists
   in the English tongue was born in Hoey’s Court, Dublin, on
   November 30th, 1667, and graduated B. A. at Dublin University
   in 1686, and afterwards at Oxford. He was ordained in 1694,
   and published The _Tale of a Tub_ in 1705. _Gulliver’s
   Travels_ followed in 1726–27, and innumerable other works
   came from his pen. He was one of Ireland’s champions, and had
   an extraordinary popularity with the people. He died on October
   19th, 1745.

   WADE, JOSEPH AUGUSTINE.--An unfortunate Irish genius,
   born in Dublin in 1796, and the son of a dairyman in Thomas
   Street. As a poet and musician Wade has been highly praised. He
   composed some excellent songs. He made large sums of money by
   his writings and music, but was very erratic in his career. He
   died in poverty on September 29th, 1845.

   WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS, LL.D.--Born in Limerick in 1809,
   and connected with the Wallers of co. Tipperary. He graduated
   LL.D. at Dublin University in 1852, and held an important
   Government position in Dublin for many years. He was editor
   of The _Dublin University Magazine_ for some time, and
   published several volumes of clever prose and verse. He is one
   of the best of Irish song-writers. Died on January 19th, 1894.

   WILLIAMS, RICHARD DALTON.--Born in Dublin, of Tipperary
   family, on October 8th, 1822. Was one of the earliest and one of
   the leading contributors to _The Nation_, writing generally
   over the signature of “Shamrock.” His writings are often very
   fierce and intense, but his true power lay in the humorous vein,
   some of his parodies being almost unrivalled. He was implicated
   in the ’48 rising and was arrested, but was soon released,
   and went to America, where he became a professor of English
   literature at Mobile, Alabama. He was a medical student when he
   wrote for _The Nation_. He died in Louisiana on July 5th,
   1862.

   WINSTANLEY, JOHN.--A Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin.
   He was born in 1678, and died in 1750. His poems first appeared
   in 1742, a second series being published after his death by his
   son.




                                 NOTES


_The Monks of the Screw_, p. 102.--Curran belonged to a small
convivial society in Dublin known by this name in the latter part of
the last century. It included some of the most famous Irishmen of the
time, and Curran was prior, and called his residence at Rathfarnham
“The Priory” on that account.

_To a Young Lady, etc._, p. 132.--From _The Shamrock, or
Hibernian Cresses_, 1772, a collection of poems edited and largely
written by Samuel Whyte, the schoolmaster of Moore, Sheridan, etc.

_Daniel O’Rourke_, p. 175.--This was written for Crofton Croker by
Dr. Maginn, together with other stories, and as they were included in
the former’s _Fairy Legends_ without a signature, they have been
always assigned to Croker.

_Kitty of Coleraine_, p. 188.--This very popular song is based
on an old story, of which one version will be found in “La Cruche” by
M. Autereau, a contemporary of La Fontaine, the fabulist, which is
included in some editions of the latter’s works.

_Brian O’Linn_, p. 198.--This version is made up from several in
the possession of Mr. P. J. McCall, of Dublin.

_Bellewstown Hill_, p. 228.--An inferior song on the same subject
was written by Richard Sheil, a Drogheda printer and poet.

_The Peeler and the Goat_, p. 231.--This famous song, thought
written at the time of, or very soon after, the establishment of the
Irish police force, is still popular in Ireland. A version of it will
be found in Gerald Griffin’s _Rivals_, 1835.

_Nell Flaherty’s Drake_, p. 239.--Many versions of this ballad
are to be found in the Irish ballad-slips. They are all corrupt and
generally very gross.

_Father Tom’s Wager with the Pope_, p. 267.--This is extracted
from the story of “Father Tom and the Pope,” which, though attributed
to Dr. Maginn, John Fisher Murray, and others, was really written
by Sir Samuel Ferguson. It appeared anonymously, in May 1838, in
_Blackwood’s Magazine_, at the time of a famous controversy
between a Father Maguire and the Rev. Mr. Pope.

_Molly Muldoon_, p. 273.--This poem was written about 1850, and
its authorship has always been a mystery. An American journal once
ascribed it to Fitzjames O’Brien, the Irish-American novelist.

_Lanigan’s Ball_, p. 306.--A version made up from several, and as
near absolute correctness as seems possible.

_The Widow’s Lament_, p. 308.--This piece is of comparatively
recent origin. It appeared in an Irish-American paper some years ago,
and attempts to find its author have proved futile.

_Whisky and Wather_, p. 310.--Taken from a song-book published
in Dublin, and there attributed in a vague way to “Zozimus” (Michael
Moran), the once celebrated blind beggar of Dublin. He, however, could
not have written it, any more than the other matters assumed to be his
compositions because he recited them.

    THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LIMITED, FELLING-ON-TYNE.
                                                        12-07


FOOTNOTES:

[1] _I.e._, Wexford, the natives of which are nicknamed “yellow
bellies,” from a legend current amongst them. Queen Elizabeth first
gave them the name (so they say) on witnessing a hurling match when
the Wexford men, with yellow scarves round their waists, won. Said the
queen, “These Yellow Bellies are the finest fellows I’ve ever seen.”

[2] Mourn.

[3] Forsooth.

[4] Law commentators of the time.

[5] A celebrated and noisy French singer.

[6] A noted French actress.

[7] Hanged.

[8] Generous, satisfying.

[9] Fool.

[10] My boy.

[11] O’Connell’s.

[12] Lament.

[13] Catholic.

[14] Anything eaten with potatoes.

[15] A pig.

[16] Be it so.

[17] Hat.

[18] A draw, a whiff.

[19] Short pipe.

[20] Darling of my heart.

[21] Friend.

[22] A forked stick.

[23] Cudgel.

[24] Come hither.

[25] Evidently _sprissaun_, a diminutive, expressing contempt.

[26] Blockhead.

[27] Puppy.

[28] Lout.

[29] Child.

[30] Devil.

[31] _Knapawns_, a huge potato.

[32] _Knasster_, a big potato.

[33] A seat made of straw or hay ropes.

[34] _Casoge_, a coat.

[35] Reclaimed mountain-land.

[36] A species of diver.

[37] The small toe.

[38] _Gom_ or _Gommach_--a fool.

[39] Bard.

[40] Harped.

[41] Cudgels.

[42] _Beimedh a gole_--Let us be drinking.

[43] The “American wake” is the send-off given to people the night
before their departure for America.

[44] A hundred thousand welcomes--pron. _cade meelya falltha_.

[45] _Canavaun_--blossom of the bog.

[46] _Floohool_--generous.

[47] Kindliest.

[48] Woman of the house.

[49] _Doreen_--small drop.

[50] _Colleen dhas_--pretty girl.

[51] Overcoat.

[52] Indeed.

[53] Woman of the house.

[54] Suitable.

[55] Girls.

[56] Forsooth.

[57] A kiss.

[58] A blow.

[59] Kiss.

[60] Kiss.


Transcriber’s Notes:

1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been
   corrected silently.

2. Some hyphenated and non-hyphenated versions of the same words
   have been retained as in the original.

3. Italics are shown as _xxx_.

4. Where appropriate, the original spelling has been retained.