Chapter III (5)

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).

_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’.

_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.)

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._

_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._

_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.

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.”