• 5-
I
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
THE
HUMOUR OF IRELAND
SELECTED, WITH INTRO-
DUCTION, BIOGRAPHICAL
INDEX AND NOTES, BY
D. J. O'DONOGHUE: THE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
OLIVER PAQUE
THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS,
153-157 FI1'"TH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
lcj>H. . - . ;
* /• • c
CONTENTS.
-M-
PAGE
Introduction ....... xi
Exorcising the Demon of Voracity — From the Irish . i
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 — Fro?n the Irish . 23
Roger and the Grey Mare — Folk-Poem . . -23
Will o' the Vfisv— Folk- Tale . . . . - 25
Epigrams and Riddles — From the Irish . . .32
Donald and his Neighbours— i^^//^-7<a!/<? . . -34
The Woman of Three Cows — From the Irish . . 39
In Praise of Digressions— /^««Ma» 6*0;^// . . .41
A Rhapsody on Vowtky— Jonathan Swift . . -45
Letter from a Liar — Sir Richard Steele . . .50
Epigrams— /<?y4« Winstanley . . . . -55
A Fine L.at>y— George Farquhar . . . • 5^
The Borrower — George Farquhar . . . .60
Widow Wadman's Eye — Laurence Sterne . , -67
Bumpers, Squire ^o^'es— Arthur Dawson . , -70
Jack Lofty — Oliver Goldsmith . . . - • 73
Beau Ty^^'S^— Oliver Goldsmith . . . . .84
The Friar of Orders G^KY—John O'^Keeffe . . -93
The Tailor and the Undertaker-^(£7>5» Q'Keejffe . . 94
Tom QiKQC—John O'Keejffe , . . • - 97
Bulls — Sir Boyle Rocht . . . - . .101
190946
viii CONTENTS.
The Monks of the Screw—/. P. Curran
Ana—/. P, Curran . . . ...
The Cruiskeen Lawn— Anonymous .
The Scandal-Mongers— i^. B. Sheridan
Captain Absolute's Submission— i?. B, Sheridan
Ana — R, B. Sheridan . . . - -
My KyimTlOl^— Edward Lysaght
A Warehouse for Wit — George Canning
Conjugal Affection — Thomas Cannings
Whisky, Drink Divine \— Joseph O'Leary
To A Young Lady Blowing a Turf Fire with her
Petticoat — Anonymous ....
Epigrams, etc. — Henry Luttrell .
Letter from Miss Betty Fudge — Thomas Moore .
Montmorenci and Cherubina — E, S, Barrett
Modern MEDiiEVALiSM — E. S, Barrett
The Night before Larry was Stretched — William
Maher{?) . . .
Darby Doyle's Voyage to Qv-e.^^c— Thomas Ettingsall
St. Patrick of Ireland, my Dear ! — Dr. William Maginn
The Last Lamp of the Alley — Dr. William Maginn
Thoughts and Maxims— Z>r. William Maginn
The Gathering of the Mahonys— Z>r. William Maginn
Daniel O'Rourke— Z>r. William Maginn
The Humours of Donnybrook Fair— Charles 0' Flaherty
The Night-Cap— r. H. Porter ....
Kitty of Colekaink— Anonymous
GiYiNG Credit— William Car leton
Brian O'Linn — Anonymous ....
The Turkey and the Goose-^. A. Wade .
Widow Machree — Samuel Lover
Barney O'Hea — Samuel Lover . . .
Molly Carew — Samuel Lover ....
Handy Andy and the Fostmaster— Samuel Lover .
The Little Weaver of Duleek Gate — Samuel Lover
Bellewstown Hill — Anonymous
CONTENTS.
The Peeler and the Go\t— Jeremiah cyRyan
The Loquacious Barber — Gerald Griffin
Nell Flaherty's Drake — Anonymous
Elegy on Himself — F. S. Makony {^^ Father Protit")
Bob Mahon's Stoky— Charles Lever .
The Widow Mx-LO-ii-e.— Charles Lever .
The Girls of the West — Charles Lever
The Man for Galway — Charles Lever
How Con Cregan's Father Left Himself a Bit of
Land — Charles Lever
Katey's Letter— Z<z^ Dufferin
Dance Light, for my Heart it lies under your Feet
Love— Z>r./. F, Waller
Father Tom's Wager with the Pope — Sir Samuel Fer-
guson .....
The Ould Irish 'jig— -James AfcKowen
Molly Muldoon — Anonymous
The Quare Gander—/. S, Lefanu
Table-Talk— Z?r. E. V. H, Kenealy ,
Advice to a Young Poet— ^. D. Williams .
Saint Kevin and King O'Toole — Thomas Shalvey
The Shaughraun — Dion Boucicault
Rackrenters on the Stump — T. D, Sullivan
Lanigan's Ball — Anonymous .
The Widow's Lament — Anonymous .
Whisky and WATUEK^-Anonymous .
The Thrush and the Blackbird — C.J. Kickham
Irish Astronomy— C G. Halpine
Paddy Fret, the Priest's Boy— J. F. ODonnell
O'Shanahan T>vl\3—J.J. Bourke
Shane Glas-^. /. Bourke
An Irish Story-Teller — Patrick CLeary
The Haunted Shebeen— C. P. O' Conor
Fan Fitzgerl— ^. P. Graves .
Father O'Flynn— ^. P. Graves
Philandering— William Boyle .
X CONTENTS.
PAGE
Honied Persuasion^/. De Quincey .... 345
The First Lord Liftinant — W. P, French . . . 347
The American Wake— /^. 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— 6^. B. Shaw . 373
From Portlaw to Paradise — Edmund Downey . . 382
The Dance at Marley— /*./. McCall . . -393
Fionn MacCumhail and the Princess—/'./. McCall . 397
Tatther Jack Welsh—/*. /. McCall , . . 403
Their Last Race— Frank Mathew , . . . 405
In Blarney — P.J, Coleman . . . . . 409
BiNDiN* the Oats—/*./. Coleman , . . ,411
Selected Irish Proverbs, etc. . . . ^ 414
Biographical Index . . . . . , 423
Notes ..... 4 •» 433
Of THt
gNIVERSITY
OF
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
Xii INTRODUCTION.
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 re-
fused 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
INTRODUCTION. XlH
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 philo-
sophical. 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
Xlv INTRODUCTION.
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 coin-
ing 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 com-
paratively short space of time, the only note of pathos about
their brief existence being the invariable obituary announce-
ment 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.
INTRODUCTION. XV
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 liter-
ature 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 roy-
sterer, 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 philo-
sophy 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 expre-ssion of the
natural emotions. Previous to the close of the seventeenth
XVI INTRODUCTION.
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 modem revellers, and easily
roars the others down.
Not a small portion of the humour of Ireland is the un-
conscious variety in the half-educated local poets. Sometimes
real wit struggles for adequate expression in English with ludi-
crous and unlooked-for results. A goodly number of the street
ballads are very comic in description, phraseology, or vitupera-
tion, 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 ofgrotesquerie^ 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 oif on the English public as
Irish songs deserves to be noticed here. He proved most con-
clusively 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 con-
victs 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 nomen-
clature 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 any-
thing 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
INTRODUCTION. XVll
hour, the original sound is preserved by English people in great
and break.
li 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 practi-
cally 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 modems, 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 naturai 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 Bicker-
staffe were hardly witty in the modem sense, but rather in the
2
xviii INTRODUCTION.
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 de-
tachable; 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 ac-
count 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 respect-
ively. 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
INTRODUCTION. xix
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 un-
necessarily 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 love-
songs. 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 admir-
able 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 proportion-
ately 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 icid wit of Moore. Ferguson and
Wade are better known by their verse than as humorous story-
tellers. 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 legiti-
XX INTRODUCTION.
mate 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 depress-
ing 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 compre-
hensive 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 gtn 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 mined 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 feast-
ing, 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
a.^ -, , IRISH HUMOUR.
dropped not to the ground out of thespe 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 Pichdn 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 Pichdn.
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 Mac-
Conglinne, "for, indeed, thou hast consumed such a
quantity and variety of agreeable morsels, that I shall eat
EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY. 3
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 Mac-
Conglinne, " 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 dais of curd and butter,
Beds of glorious lard,
Many shields of thin-pressed cheese.
IRISH HUMOUR.
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-Eatings 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
EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY. 5
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 firied 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 vrait
upon thee, who must be of good repute. . . Let this
maiden give thee thy thrice nine morsels, O MacCon-
glinne, each morsel of which shall be as big as a heath-
fowl'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, buck-
wheat, 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 ciure 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 ;
6 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 out-
side 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.
THE ROMAN EARL. 7
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 earFs 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.
IRISH HUMOUR.
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."
THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN. 9
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
lO IRISH HUMOUR.
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 molli-
fied, 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^^ {Gtolla na Chroiceann Gobhair — the
fellow in the goat-skin), and that name remained on him till
THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN. II
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, ''youVe 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
12
IRISH HUMOUR.
A
THE GIANT HANDED HIM THE FLUTE."
THE FELLOW IN THE iGOAT-SKIN. 1 3
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.
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 huUabulloo 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
3
14 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 busi-
ness?" said the king, "and where do you come from?"
"I come, my liege," said Gilla, "from the country of the
* Yellow Bellies,'^ 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;
^ /.^., 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."
THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN. 1$
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,
l6 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Til do no harm to you." "Waw! waw ! wawl"
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
THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN, 1 7
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
l8 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 bed-
time, 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
ofl"," 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, " AVhat 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
THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN. 1 9
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 ! mur-
dher ! " 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 yoii 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 I Gilla na Chreckan Gour ! wait till you're
20 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Httle
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 hap-
pened." 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 ofi", 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
THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN. 21
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.
Kennedys Fireside Stories of Ireland,
22 IRISH HUMOUR.
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,
ROGER AND THE GREY MARE. 23
THE OLD CROW AND THE YOUNG CROW.
There was an old crow teaching a young crow one day,
dnd he said to him, "Now, my son," says he, "Usten 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.
24 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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 n»ver
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."
WILL O' THE WISP. :
" 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 y®u well, Roger,
Go murn^ 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 immedi-
ately." " Well," says Will, " since that is the case, I wish
that any person who takes my sledge into their hand
1 Mourn.
26 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 w6rld, 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. Accord-
ingly, 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 Mone)', 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 Bally-
WILL O' THE WISP. 2/
money, 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 dis-
engage 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
28 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 fkmily,
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 1 call on you again." " Well," says Will, " I
will do what 1 can." He then went to Satan and took him
by the arm, and with the greatest ease lifted him out of the
WILL O' THE WISP. 29
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 him-
self 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
4
30 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 any-
thing, and so would sneak away. In this manner he cheated
both town and country round, until Satan, weary of confine-
ment, 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 O' THE WISP. 3 1
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 h© 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
32 IRISH HUMOUR.
the weary traveller, so that he may become a prey to us."
So lighting a wisp, he gave it to Will, and he was con-
ducted 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-)
RIDDLES. 33
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,)
34 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 posses-
sion of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock killed, immedi-
DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 35
ately 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
36 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 hear-
ing. 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
DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS. 3/
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
38 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 advan-
tage 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. 39
THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.
0 Woman of Three Cows, agraghl don^t let your tongue
thus rattle !
Oh, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have
cattle.
1 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 lai^d to
mourning;
Mavronel for they were banished, with no hope of their
returning;
40 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 ma6e 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'Carrblls 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,
Luse, inagh^ y
than she has;
ideas.
Because, inagh^ youVe got three cows, one more, I see,
^ Forsooth.
IN PRAISE OF DIGRESSIONS. 4I
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 innova-
42 IRISH HUMOUR.
tions; 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. Mean-
while, 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
IN PRAISE OF DIGRESSIONS. 43
more prudent method to become scholars and wits, without
the fatigue of reading or of thinking. The most accom-
plished 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 con-
sulting enly 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
pri^dent 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.
44 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
JFrom 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
A RHAPSODY ON POETRY. 45
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 (166'j-i']/^^).
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.
46 IRISH HUMOUR. .
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.
• • • t •
Poor starveling bard ! how small thy gains I
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 ;
A RHAPSODY ON POETRY. 47
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 numerous 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 WilFs the folFwing 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 ;
48 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 RHAPSODY ON POETRY. 49
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 diffVent 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 ;
50 IRISH HUMOUR.
The greater for the smaller watch,
But meddle seldom with their match.
A whale of moderate 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 tbe 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
LETTER FROM A LIAR.
51
"my imagination runs away with mk.'
52 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 con-
fusion, I cannot but know I am Hable to be detected by the
first man I meet.
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
LETTER FROM A LIAR. 53
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^resent, in company who are strangers too . . .
though I was never out of this town, and fifty miles
about it.
54 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 behef
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
J&r Richard Steele (i 6 7 2-1 7 2 9),
EPIGRAMS.
55
EPIGRAMS.
On a Fat Man.
When Fatty walks the street, the paviors cry,
" God bless you, sir ! " and lay their rammers by.
'GOD BLESS YOU, SIR I'
On a Stingy Beau.
Curio's rich sideboard seldom sees the light;
Clean is his kitchen, his spits are always bright ;
S6 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Tm afraid
They cannot find a priest."
yd/in Wtnstanley (1678-175 o).
A FINE LADY.
A Ladfs 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.
\st 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.
A FINE LADY. 57
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 educa-
tion must be pardoned. Arid I warrant they were fisted
about among his dirty levk of disbanded officers?
Faugh ! the very thoughts of them fellows, with their eager
S8 IRISH HUMOUR.
looks, iron swords, tied-up wigs, and tucked in cravats,
make me sick as death. Come, let n]ie 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 morn-
ing with them dirty fists of yours ? {Rufis 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.
Re7n. 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 lady-
ship, I think, is a little too slender for the fashion.
Lure. How ! too slender for the fashion, say you 1
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
A FINE LADY. 59
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 con-
trive 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.)
Cha7?i, 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 quahty to model their husbands to
good breeding.
George Farquhar (167 8- 1707).
60 IRISH HUMOUR.
THE BORROWER,
Rtchmore, You may keep the letter.
Young WouH-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.
K 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, \ 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 straight-
ened 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.
THE BORROWER. 6 1
N
K W, Then why should not I be a lord as well as he?
Had I the same titj^ 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 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, K very odd reason — because I hate him.
Rich, How should he know that ?
K W, Because he thinks it reasonable it should be so.
Rich. But did your actions ever express any malice to
him?
K 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 ?
K 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
6
62 IRISH HUMOUR.
five guineas. But as the case stands, I can assure you I
have lately paid off my sister's fortune, a^gd
V. W, Sir, this put-off looks like an affront, when you
know I don't use to take such things.
Rick Sir, your demand is rather an affront, when you
know I don't use to give such things.
K 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.
K 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 tv/o 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.
K W. And is this all I must expect from our friendship?
Rich. Friendship ! Sir, there can be no such thing with-
out 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,
THE BORROWER. 63
Y. IV, 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. [£xU 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 ser-
vant. I have brought you a whetting-glass, the best Old
Hock in Europe; I know 'tis your drink in a morning.
K W, I'll pledge you, Mr. Balderdash.
Bald. Your health, sir. \JDrinks,
K 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
64
IRISH HUMOUR.
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 ?
,-#S!^
!^
/^J !,'
"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.
K 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
THE BORROWER. 65
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.
K JV. But since you reaped the benefit of my extrava-
gance, you will, I hope, consider my necessity.
Ba/d, 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.
K IV. How, sir?
Ba/d. 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 ?
K IV, But methinks, sir, that a person of your nice
conscience should have cautioned me before.
Ba/d. 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.
V. W. Will you lend me money, sir ?
Bald. Will you pay me this bill, sir?
K W, Lend me the hundred pound, and Fll 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.
66 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
K IV. Thou sophisticated ton of iniquity, -have I fat-
tened 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.
Ser. Welcome, sir ! [Kicks him,
Y. W, Well said, Jack. [Kicks him again.
Ser. Very welcome, sir! 1 hope we shall have your
company another time. Welcome, sir ! [He is kicked off.
V. IV. 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.
67
WIDOW W ADMAN'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
*" DO LOOK INTO IT,' SAID SHE."
into this eye of mine; — do look into it — it is not in the
white."
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
68 IRISH HUMOUR.
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, IVe 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
chaif, 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 com-
parison 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
WIDOW WADMAN'S EYE. 69
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 (17 13 1768).
70 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES. 7I
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 1
You preach once a week.
But your tithes never seek
Above once in a year 1
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 !
72 IRISH HUMOUR.
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,^
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, —
^ Law commentators of the time.
JACK LOFTY. 73
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 Daivson ( 1 700 ?-i 775).
JACK LOFTY,
5<r^/^^— Croaker's House.
Present— M.^s>. 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 express'^is to his
Grace be ready, let them be sent off; the/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 Cumbercoufs stale request, it can keep cold;
you understand me. Madam, I ask ten thousand par-
dons. 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.
74 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 emin-
ence in every capacity.
Lofty. I am nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; n
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 !
Lj)fiy. 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
JACK LOFTY.
75
I CAN TALK MY TWO HOURS WITHOUT FEELING THE WANT OF THEM.''
76 IRISH HUMOUR.
them. And yet all men have their faults, — too much
modesty is his/' says his Grace.
Mrs. C, And yet, I dare say, you don't want assurance
when you come to solicit for your friends.
Loffy. 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 ;
JACK LOFTY. *jy
dull as the last new comedy. A poor, impracticable crea-
ture ! 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 Rich-
land 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— Yovi^G Honeywood's House.
Present— Si^ 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.
7
yS IRISH HUMOUR.
Miss R, How have we been deceived ! As sure as can
be, here he comes.
Sir W. Does he? Remember, I am to continue un-
known; 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 con
siderable 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 any-
thing, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family;"
JACK LOFTV. 79
but what can be done? There's no procuring first-rate
places for ninth-rate abilities.
Miss R, I have heard of Sir William Honey wood; 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.
LA)fty. 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 IV. 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
8o IRISH HUMOUR.
Treasury, you have an employment in you that I want; I
have a place in me that you want; do me hpre, 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 em-
ployed in my affairs; I know you will serve us.
Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sk
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 ?
JACK LOFTY. 8 1
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 con-
trol 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, 1 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— K^ Inn.
Present— SiK 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.
82 IRISH HUMOUR.
Miss E, 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 good-
ness of it.
Lofty, You can't ? Ha, ha !
Croa. No, for the soul of me; I think it was as con-
founded 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?
JACK LOFTY. 83
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 Gazette^er and praised in the
St, Ja^ne^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 ! W^ho 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.
[^Dtscovers his ensigns of the Bath.
Croa, Sir William Honeywood !
Hon, Astonishment ! my uncle ! \Aside,
84 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Golds^nith (1728-17 74).
BEAU TJBBS,
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 for-
ward 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 for-
ward, 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.
Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the
familiarity of an old acquaintance. " My dear Drybone,"
BEAU TIBBS.
85
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 sur-
veying the appearance of our new companion : his hat was
" ' YOU KNOW I HATE FLATTERY, — ON MY SOUL, I DO.
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
S6 IRISH HUMOUR.
so much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that 1
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 yester-
day to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's. My lord was
there. * Ned,' says he to me ; * Ned,' says he, * Fll 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 com-
panion, with looks of infinite pity; "I hope your fortune
is as much improved as your understanding in such com-
pany?" "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 tete-a-tete dinner in the country,
where we talked of nothing else." " T 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,
BEAU TIBBS. 8/
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 asa-
fcetida 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 pre-
liminary 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
SS IRISH HUMOUR.
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 com-
panion, 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 AU-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 Drum-
stick'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
accompHshment. 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
BEAU TIBBS. 89
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
1 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 ha
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, be-
cause " " Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explan-
ations ! " cried he; "go and inform her we have got
company. Were that Scotch hag," continued he, turn-
90 IRISH HUMOUR.
ing 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 High-
lands, 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 man-
darine 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 carry-
ing 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;
yod 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
BEAU TIBBS. 9I
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
B acquainted with high life." By this time my curiosity
began to abate and my appetite to increase: the com-
pany of fools may at first make us smile, but at last
never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pre-
tended 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
i^ assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at
least in less than two hours.
Oliver Goldsmith,
93
IRISH HUMOUR.
U^
A CHIRPING CUP IS MY MATIN SONG.
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY. 93
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 V\\ 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:
Fm 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 hqly friar !
John GKeeffe (1747-1833P
94 IRISH HUMOUR.
THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER,
(The two tradesmen call for orders respecting a supposed
corpse^
Enter Shears, a tailor^ and Grizley, a servant,
Grtz. 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.
Uftder, " 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.
THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER. g^
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 — Fm
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 gentle-
man 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
96
IRISH HUMOUR.
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 ?
Wm
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.
TOM GROG. 97
Under, And, zounds, man— tailor, I mean — I'm an under-
taker.
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 1
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, Fll go home and bury myself for the
good of my family. {Exit,
John O'Keeffe,
TOM GROG,
Present— Tou Grog and Rupee.
Rupee. I drink tea at Sir Toby Tacifs this evening.
Tom, you'll come — Fll 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,
98 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
TOM GROG.
99
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 ?
"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
<IOO IRISH HUMOUR.
barking-irons in a pawnbroker's window; come, it lies on
our way to the W^r Office. •
'- Stern, I should like to touch at the Victualling Office ill
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 meaPs 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.
lohn O'Keejfe.
BULLS. ' , , . , JO!
i 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 honour-
able 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 usr (Laughter.)
I apprehend gentlemen have entirely mistaken my words.
I assure the house that by posterity'!' do not mean my
ancestors, but those who are to com^ immediately after
them."
Sir Boyle Roche '(i 740?-^ 807).
I02
IRISH HUMOUR.
THE MONKS OF THE SCRE JV.
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.
ANA. 103
My brethren, be chaste — till you're tempted;
While sober, be grave and discreet; v
And humble your bodies with fasting,
As oft as youVe 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 (i 750-181 7).
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 Currants 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.
I04
IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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
heady sir," answered Curran.
Another judge had the habit of continually shaking his
head during Currants 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 com-
plained 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."
'*^*' <*,
y^W^"^^'
THE GRUISKEEN LAWN.
105
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 I
io6
IRISH HUMOUR.
THE CRUISKEEN LAWN. I07
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,
^08 IRISH HUMOUR.
THE SCANDAL-MONGERS,
Scene— l.AJ>Y Sneer well's House.
Pr^j^///— Lady Sneerwell, Maria, Mrs. Candour, «/?^
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 MaridL). Oh, Maria ! child, what ! is the
whole affair off between you and Charles ? His extrava-
gance, I presume; the town talks of nothing else.
Maria. T 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 I 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
THE SCANDAL-MONGERS. lOQ
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 dis-
covered 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 for-
bearance and good nature !
Mrs. C. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear
people attacked behind their backs ; and when ugly circum-
stances 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 ?
no IRISH HUMOUR.
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 any-
thing.
Sir B. To say the truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to print;
THE SCANDAL-MONGERS. Ill
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. How-
ever, 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 out-
live the robuster characters of a hundred prudes.
112 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 circum-
stances.
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 com-
pany, 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 Dun-
dizzy (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 farm-house where the babies were put to
nurse.
Lady S. Strange, indeed !
Crab. Matter of fact, I assure you. Oh, lud ! Mr. Sur-
face, 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
THE SCANDAL-MONGERS. II3
can scarcely remember him, I believe ? Sad comfort, when-
ever 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.
114
IRISH HUMOUR.
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 mov-
able.
Crab. I have seen one that was at his house. Not a
"poor dear girl, who knows what her situation may be?"
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. II5
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTES SUBMISSION.
Scene— Captain Absolute's Lodgings.
Present— Captain Absolute and his Father.
Cap/. 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 1
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
Il6 IRISH HUMOUR.
my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved,
therefore, to fix you at once in an noble independence.
Capt A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I
presume you would not wish me to quit the army ?
Sir Anih. Oh ! that shall be as your wife chooses.
Capf, A, My wife, sir 1
Sir Anih, 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 zxazz^ 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
CAPTAIN absolute's SUBMISSION. II7
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.
Il8 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 1 [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 trmm-
virate ! 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.
CAPTAIN absolute's SUBMISSION.
119
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 !
"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, Taith. My father wants to force me to marry the
120 . IRISH HUMOUR.
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; how-
ever, ril 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 acknow-
ledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.
Sir Anth. What's that ?
Capt. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and con-
sidering on your past goodness, and kindness, and con-
descension 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?
CAPTAIN absolute's SUBMISSION.
121
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.
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
122 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Worcester-
shire ?
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 in-
sinuations 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 1
Ods life ! when I ran away with your mother, I would not
have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE'S SUBMISSION. T23
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 hypo-
crite, eh? — I'll never forgive you, if you ha'n't been lying
and playing the hypocrite.
124 IRISH HUMOUR.
Capt, A, Fm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which 1
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 circu-
late some witticism of Sheridan's, the latter hastily ex-
claimed, " 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."
ANA.
125
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 im-
agination for his facts, and to his memory for his jests."
" • WHY, FAITH, I BELIEVB 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
10
126 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 aii 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.
A WAREHOUSE FOR WIT. 127
Many, I see, have riches plenty —
Fine coaches, Hvery, 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,
128 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 con-
tinue 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
A WAREHOUSE FOR WIT. 1 29
Parliament for permission to open " A Licensed Warehouse
for JVz^j^' and for a patent, entitling me to the sole vend-
ing and uttering ware of this kind, for a certain term of
years. For this purpose I have already laid in /okes^ /esfs,
WitlictsmSy 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 addi-
tion 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 Funs 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 hid Jokes,
George Canning (ly 'J 0-182^).
I30 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 j
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, 1 790-1800).
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.
WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE! 131
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.
132 IRISH HUMOUR.
Be his name adored,
Who summed up thy merits
In one Httle 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 GLeary (17— -1845?).
TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE
WITH HER PETTICOAT
Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid 1
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 1 33
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 poefs 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, LuttrelFs 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.
134 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Roger^ poein^ " Italy ^^ which was illustrated by
Turner,
Of Rogers' " Italy " Luttrell relates
That 'twould have been dished^ if 'twere not for iYiQ plates/
Henry Luttrell (1766 ?-i85i.)
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 teetotum, 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 — i 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 i la Psyche and curls a la braise. —
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite i la Franfaise,
BETTY FUDGE IN PARIS. I35
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 Lais,^ 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 ! parkz-moi, Dolly, de fa —
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 !
^ A celebrated and noisy French singer.
136 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 l?ut little of it ; —
Here B^grand,^ 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 (i 779-1852).
^ A noted French actress.
UNI VtKt^l • T
-Of
MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA. I37
k
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 knock-
ing 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, anre your carbines charged, and your daggers
sharpened?' whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of black
138 IRISH HUMOUR.
feathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. *If they
an%' 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
MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA. 1 39
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 — 1
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 ! ! 1 " " 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
I40 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 reUeve 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),
MODERN MEDIEVALISM.
141
MODERN MEDIEVALISM.
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 in-
habitants 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 him-
self wuth 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-daisv ! ma'am," said Margueritone, "are
11
142 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 II 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
MODERN MEDI.EVALISM. I43
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 champs
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 I"
144 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 in-
to a tapestried apartment — in which rusty daggers, moulder-
ing 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,"
THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED. 145
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 pro-
posed 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.^
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.
" Tm sorry now, Larry," says I,
"To see you in this situation;
Ton my conscience, my lad, I don't lie,
rd rather it was my own station."
^ Hanged
146 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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 <:heated;
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 ! "
THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED. I47
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 Maker (?) {fl. 1780).
148 ' IRISH HUMOUR.
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 my-
self, 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 2i flaugholoch^ mess," siz I. So we ate
and drank away.
Many's the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telHng me to leave
^ Generous, satisfying.
DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. T49
"mAnVs the squeeze NED GAVE MY FIST.
I50 IRISH HUMOUR.
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."
DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. 1 51
" 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 out-
side 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
152 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 per-
suade 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
DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. I S3
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 1; "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 remimber," 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 end-
ways; 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.
154 IRISH HUMOUR.
At last I called Ned. " Ned, avic," siz I, " I want to go
about my bisnessJ' "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 omad-
hauuy^'^ 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^^'^ 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
^ Fool. * My boy.
DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. 1 55
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 shwim-
min' ? " " 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
156 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 gang-
way 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.
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'
DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. 157
jumped ten yards into the wather to get out of their sight.
Shure enough, every one's eyes danced in their head, while
they looked 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,
"I WAS MADE TO PEEL OFF BEHIND A BIG SHEET.
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
12
IS8 IRISH HUMOUR
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 v^di^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 boucha^' 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
DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC. 159
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 ^
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 r
" An', murdher an' Irish, if you're yer brother, can't you
1 O'Connell's.
l6o IRISH HUMOUR.
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 ?),
ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR I
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 ;
ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR! l6l
ST. PATRICK AND THE SNAKES.
l63 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 yc—
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 I "
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 hfted 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 ;
ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR! 163
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 IVe 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 !
YouVe 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. (i 793-1 842).
l64 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY.
165
I'll not leave thee, thou lone onk.
l6$ IRISH HUMOUR.
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 table-
cloth 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 harm-
less observation on poetry or politics without starting;
which start, I am inclined to think, proceeds from affecta-
tion, 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
I
THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS. 167
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 deliber-
ation, might be found to be no idea at all. This, I contend,
is prevented by the judicious interference of the fair sex.
•X- *
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 observa-
tions 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 acquaint-
ance.
*
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
l6S IRISH HUMOUR.
— 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 PimHco who presumed only to recollect
ever having seen her. And don't be manoeuvred 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," ''^ toujour s 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 Neoera's hair,"
as Milton expresses it — then to take a hot-bath, and dress —
then to sit down to a plain substantial dinner, irt company
with a select party of real good, honest, jolly Tories — and
to spend the rest of the evening with them over a pitcher
THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS. 169
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,
T 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 soufflees, 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 prin-
ciple 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.
■X- -x-
■X-
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).
lyo
IRISH HUMOUR.
WINDING UP THE WHOLE WITH A DEVIL, AND A TUMBLER OR TWO OF
HOT RUM-PUNCH."
THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS. 171
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.
•X- -x-
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.
* -x-
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 under-
stand.
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
whfch eminent criminals have dangled, has no intention to
make an airy and tassel-like termination of his own terres-
trial 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
N
172 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 3^33 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
lilrtle leisure.
William Maginn^ LL.D,
THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS. 173
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.
13
174 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 nian is more handy who fights, as I do,
with a flail.
We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by iligarrt
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 175
DANIEL GROURKE,
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, 18 13, 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 gentle-
men 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
176 IRISH HUMOUR.
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^ — 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
^ Lament.
DANIEL O'ROURKE. 177
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.
178 IRISH HUMOUR.
"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 JQ 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 ^///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 mooH like a
cockthrow.'
DANIEL O'ROURKE. I79
" * 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 1 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 con-
dition, 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. * T 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
l8o IRISH HUMOUR.
'tis a long way.' * Fm 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 tx) 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'i 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 T, 'I thank
you kindly,' drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want
of some. *I hope your honour's the same.' 'I think 'tiis
DANIEL O'ROURKE.
l8l
"l WAS TUMBLING OVER AND OVER, AND ROLLING AND ROLLING.'
1 82 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 flbw after him as fast as
hops.
"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
DANIEL O'ROURKE. 183
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 Carriga-
phooka? 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.
l84 IRISH HUMOUR.
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,
THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR. 1 8$
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 1 the music flew up to the moon !
To the Fiddler says Dermot McFigg,
" If you'll please to play * Sheeia na gig,'
We'll shake a loose toe
While you humour the bow.
l86 IRISH HUMOUR.
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,
THE NIGHT-CAP. 187
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 C Flaherty (1794-1828).
THE NIGHT-CAP.
Jolly Phoebus 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 roac^
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.
1 88 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Til 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.
KITTY OF COLERAINE.
189
i^y
Oj.
^'^'1^
I SAT DOWN BESIDE HER, AND GENTLY DID CHIDE HER."
14
I90
IRISH HUMOUR.
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, accord-
ing 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
GIVING CREDIT. I9I
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 grea't 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, par-
ticularly, 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
192
IRISH HUMOUR.
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 ? "
" Go way wid yees, boys, till I spake to EUish here about
** HE KEPT HIS EYE TO THE WINDOW, AND IF THEY TURNED FROM THE DIRECT
LINE OF THE ROAD, HE SLIPPED INTO BED."
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.
GIVING CREDIT. I93
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 so/evsition, 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 fqrgive 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 Teena-
braighera 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
194 IRISH HUMOUR.
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' har-
rish'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
deeveenship 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
GIVING CREDIT. 195
for you is great entirely, we would be two, EUish ; 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 know-
ledge 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 any-
thing upon /'//"
196 IRISH HUMOUR.
"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 allover-
ness 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'U
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. 1 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:
GIVING CREDIT. 1 97
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 Pet her Conne If 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 (i 794-1869).
IQS IRISH HUMOUR.
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. 199
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,
200
IRISH HUMOUR.
->
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' j while the gander was only a poor commoner, for he
was a Roman} 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
^ Catholic.
THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE. 201
any blessed p'int, — till one day a big row happened betune
them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeple-
chase 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 agree-
able 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 door-
way 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 (i 796-1845).
202 IRISH HUMOUR.
WIDO W MA CHREE,
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.
WIDOW MACHREE. 203
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 IVe 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).
204
IRISH HUMOUR.
^
BARNEY O' HE A,
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,
BARNEY O'HEA. 20£
For sure Fm 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,
15
206
IRISH HUMOUR.
^^K.^^'
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
MOLLY CAREW. 207
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 snub-
lime.
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.
Ton 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
208 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Jtnorning 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. 209
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
2IO IRISH HUMOUR.
tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacred-
ness of private life ; so Andy thought the coollest contempt
he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the post-
master 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 simf>licity, 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?"
"Themasther."
" 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
HANDY ANDY. 211
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.
212 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 21 3
heap of letters which lay on the counter; so while certain
weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he con-
trived 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 unaccount-
able 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,
214 IRISH HUMOUR.
"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."
** Fm 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 morn-
ing, 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
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 21$
spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes ? " And with
that, bein' altogether cruked-tempered at the time, he Ufted
his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o' stir-
about, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at
the one blow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he
" HE KEM HOME IN THE EVENIN', AFTHER SPENDIn' EVERY RAP HE HAD.
counted the carcases one by one, and laid them out an a
clane plate for to view them.
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
2l6 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 thro win' 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.
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 217
" 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
2lS IRISH HUMOUR.
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 brainJ^
" 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 sarvinty md!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.
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 219
" Bad luck to your impidince," says the miller, " youVe as
much tin about you as a thravellin' tinker, but youVe 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 Fm 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."
220 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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, purtendiri he
was quite onknownst who he was spakin' to.
" Do you know who I am," says the king, " tiiat 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.
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 221
" * SURE, don't you see THERE,' SAYS THE KING, ' THAT HE KILLED
THREESCORE AND TIN AT ONE BLOW.*"
16
222 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
" Fm 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 '11 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.
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 223
"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 ha
"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' ever-
more, 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
224 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 haste'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.
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 22$
*' • I'll give you a ride that 'ill astonish your siven small senses, my boy.
226 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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 ingineSy^
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 haste'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.
THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE. 227
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 Moun fDhrsiggin" 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 vaga-
bone, 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 Til do for you," says the king; "FlI
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,
228 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 fashioDj
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 Hke tailors the gentlemen dealers,
In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.
BELLEWSTOWN HILL.
229
FROM THE COACH OF THE QUALITY, DOWN TO THE JOLLITY
JOGGING ALONG ON AN OULD JAUNTING-CAR."
230 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Mourn e 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,
THE PEELER AND THE GOAT. 23 1
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 thran sported by Peel's Act,
Upon my information, O.
232 IRISH HUMOUR,
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 IVe 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,
THE PEELER AND THE GOAT. 233
ril 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 (yEyan (17 1855).
234 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 nutri-
ment 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 ex-
patiated with as much cognoscence and satisfaction as a
THE LOQUACIOUS BARBER.
235
U-
ON LOOKING ROUND HIM, HARDRESS BEHELD A SMALL, THIN-FACED,
RED-HAIRED LITTLE MAN."
236 IRISH HUMOUR.
fashionable gourmand might do on the culinary productions
of Eustache Ude. " What is point ? "
"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 everything; the kitchen^ 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' saw-dust 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
1 Anything eaten with potatoes.
THE LOQUACIOUS BARBER. 237
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 ma^n
have a middling-sized pit o' cups again the winter, a small
caish} 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 farm-
ing 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
1 A pig.
17
238 IRISH HUMOUR.
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, arooV * 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 improve-
ment 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
NELL FLAHERTY'S DRAKE. 239
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; Met it be as it is.'
*Sure if it improves it, you may as well,' says they.
* Baithershin ! ' ^ 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 them-
selves 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 (i 803-1 840).
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.
^ Be it so.
240 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 hog wash and boiled oil.
NELL FLAHERTY'S DRAKE. 24I
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,
242 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 1 '
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
Overawed 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 herring
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 i^^ Father Front'*) (i 804-1 866).
BOB MAHON*S STORY. 243
BOB MAHOlSrS 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 whereas 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 P'ather 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 my-
self 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 at-
tention, he resolved on being a little tyrannical before
telling it.
The priest made immediate submission ; and, slyly hint-
ing 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
244 IRISH HUMOUR.
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, some-
how, 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 abund-
ance 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.
**0f 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 New-
gate 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
BOB MAHON'S STORY. 245
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 beauti-
246 IRISH HUMOUR.
ful 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 home-
wards 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.'
BOB MAHON'S story. 247
" * 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 com-
fortable ; and in ten minutes' time we were all sitting
pleasantly round a big fire, waiting for the rashers and
eggs.
248 IRISH HUMOUR.
" * 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 fur-
nished, 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 Hfe-boat in, I often thought it was a cruel
BOB MAHON'S STORY. 249
waste of money; for the fellows weren't half as pleasant as
they were that evening on bacon and whisky !
" IVe a theory on that subject, Hinton, I'll talk to you
more about another time ; Fll only observe now, that I'm
sure we all over-feed our company. IVe 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
IVe 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.'
"*0f course, if you won't take anything more. Just
make yourself at home; and, as vou don't know the way
here — follow me ! '
250 IRISH HUMOUR.
" * 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 con-
trived 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 wa^
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
BOB MaHON'S story. 251
looked down into the pit. Never was such a scene before
or since. Dan was pitching into poor Ffrench, who, think-
ing 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 ! Ill dinge your ribs for you, you
infernal scoundrel ! '
" Eyre was struggling in the hay, thinking he was swim-
ming 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 ! '
252 IRISH HUMOUR.
" ' 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 ( 1806-187 2).
THE .WIDOW MALONE.
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.
253
18
254 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 1
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 1
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. 255
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,
256 IRISH HUMOUR.
THE MAN FOR GAL WA Y.
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 Caysarsj
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,
P'or they come from i\\Q Fhenaycia?is;
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,
CON CREGAN. ^57
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
2S8 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 gooldj
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."
CON CREGAN. 259
" 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
weVe 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
266 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 dis-
tance of the half-lighted room; the highly-wrought expres-
sion 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 man-
kind!"
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
CON CREGAN. 26 1
bequeath unto my son, Peter, the whole of my two farms
of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboorn, with the fallow
meadows behind Lynches 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 mur-
mured 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.
"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
262
IRISH HUMOUR.
CON CREGAN. 263
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,
264 IRISH HUMOUR.
KA TE Y'S LE TTER.
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 theyVe 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 % without one word from
me.
UNIVERSITY
Of
KATEY'S LETTER.
265
"as I SAID INSIDE THE LETTER THAT I LOVED HIM FAITHFULLY.
266 IRISH HUMOUR.
Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman's so con-
sated.
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 Duffertn (1807-1867).
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.
FATHER TOM'S WAGER WITH THE POPE. 267
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 lights for my heart it lies under your feet ^ love I ^^
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
268
IRISH HUMOUR.
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
(4
><
"'het^e, spring, my man,' says he."
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.
FATHER TOM'S WAGER WITH THE POPE. 269
" 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,
19
270 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 otTf
on the other side, where I got up on a ditch, and seeif sich
a coorse as I'll be bound to say was never seetf afore or
since. If Spring turned that hare onst that djly, he turned
her fifty times, up and down, back and forward, 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 fhe clock sthruck twelve, and afore you
could say thrap-sticks^ Spring had the plateful ov mate
consaled. " Kow,'' says his riv'rence, " hand me over my
pound, for IVe won my bet fairly."
" You'll excuse me," says the Pope, pocketing the money,
" for Mre put the clock half-an-hour back, out ov compliment
to y6ur riv'rence," says he, " and it was Sathurday morning
afbre 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 (i8i 0-1886).
THE OULD IRISH JIG. 27 1
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.
2/2 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 dehght 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,
Fve 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 (i8 14-1889),
MOLLY MULDOON. 2/3
MOLL Y 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.
274 IRISH HUMOUR.
And Jemmy would wear
His caubeen^ and hair
With such a peculiar and rollicking air,
That rd 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;
1 Hat.
MOLLY MULDOON. 275
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.
2/5 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 fool
on.
Were greased with the fat of a quare sort of mutton I
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 brida
. 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.
MOLLY MULDOON.
277
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 I
He stopped and sighed,
Looked round and tried
WITH A SPRING AND A ROAR
HE JUMPED TO THE DOOR."
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;
278 IRISH HUMOUR.
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, " IVe 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 karacter^ 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,
THE QUARE GANDER. 279
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 — whereas the use of talking ? —
Upset by a broken stocking 1
Anonymous.
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 conthriv-
ance 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
28o
IRISH HUMOUR,
"the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubbin' himself
AGIN his legs."
THE QUARE GANDER. 28 1
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 inten-
tions 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,'*
282 IRISH HUMOUR.
says he; " so ax no more questions, but do my biddinV
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-
THE QUARE GANDER. 283
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 aggra-
vatin' 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 to-
night," 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
284 IRISH HUMOUR.
a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice the gandher
tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftinant j
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' down-hearted 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 T^r 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
THE QUARE GANDER. 285
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 musha-
roon; "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.
20
286 IRISH HUMOUR.
"There's no use in purtendinV 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
THE QUARE GANDER. 287
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
288 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 con-
saved 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 (i 8 14-1873).
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 lale. The
best exhibitions of that manly and rational amusement take
place nightly in the House of Commons.
TABLE-TALK. 289
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. Thii
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."
290 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
SAINT KEVIN AND KING O'TOOLE. 29I
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;^
Said the king, " You are a stranger, for your face IVe never
seen.
But if you have a taste o' weed, I'll lend you my dhudeen.^'^
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?"
^ A draw, a whiff. ^ Short pipe.
292
IRISH HUMOUR.
SAINT KEVIN TOOK THE GANDER FROM THE ARMS OF THE KING.
SAINT KEVIN AND KING O^TOOLE. 293
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 Skalvey {fl. 1850).
294 IRISH HUMOUR.
THE SB A UGHRA UN,
5"^^«^— 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. OK. 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. OK. And, bless him, so he was.
Moya (aside). Well, that's a quare way of dying o' drink.
Mrs. OK. 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. OK. Nivir ! An' Conn takes afther him !
Moya. Mother.
Mrs. OK. Well?
Moya. I'm afeard I'll take afther Conn.
Mrs. OK. 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. OK. Conn nivir did an honest day's work in his
THE SHAUGHRAUN. 295
life — but dhrinkin', an' fishin', an' shootin', and sportin', and
love-makin'.
Moya, Sure, that's how the quality pass their lives.
Mrs, (JK. 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. CK. {embracing him). Oh, Conn, what have you
been afther ? The polls 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. (JK. 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
296
IRISH HUMOUR.
\^
i^: r\-
JUST THEN WE TOOK A STONE WALL AND A DOUBLE DITCH TOGETHER.
THE SHAUGHRAUN. 297
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 T, " 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).
298 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 con-
stituted 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 plat-
form 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
RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP. 299
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 over-
population 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 Vv^ay 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-
300
IRISH HUMOUR.
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.)
"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 : —
RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP. 30I
" 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 plat-
form—Colonel Hardup faints.) They say the life of any
21
302 IRISH HUMOUR.
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
RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP. 303
indignation in the breast of his lordship, and so affected
the epigastric region of that most amiable young noble-
man, 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 Caesar, 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 WelHngton, I would reduce them
with grape and canister; that's the reduction I would give
them ! Thunder and lightning — ahem ! thunder and light-
ning ! 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 Fd do it. (Cheers.)
By all the bombshells in Britain, I'd have the country as
304 IRISH HUMOUR.
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
RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP. 305
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 prob-
ably 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 con-
fidence on the Government ; they will give to this unreason-
able 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 them-
selves 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).
306 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 I
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.
LANIGAN'S BALL. 307
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 murtherP^
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 powerful 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,
308 IRISH HUMOUR.
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'U 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 !)
THE WIDOW'S LAMENT.
309
I'm not GOIN" to fall, MISTHER MOORE 1 TAKE YOUR ARM FROM
AROUND MY WAIST."
3IO IRISH HUMOUR.
I'll throw meself into the river ; Fll 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;
WHISKY AND WATHER. 31I
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 thrifling 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.
312 IRISH HUMOUR.
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,
WHISKY AND WATHER.
313
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,
"ITLL MAKE YE, ALL OVER, AS WARM AS A TOAST,
AND YER HEART JIST AS LIGHT AS A FEATHER."
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:
314 IRISH HUMOUR.
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.
Gh! 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,
rd 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
THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD.
31S
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
r^^<^o
" NANCY FLEW AT HER LIKE A WILD CAT."
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
3l6 IRISH HUMOUR.
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, Hfted up his head. " Och ! Shawn, avour-
neen niachree^^^^ she exclaimed, "won't you spake to me?"
Shawn condescended to open his eyes. " Sally," she con-
tinued, " he's comin' to — glory be to God ! Hurry over
and hould up his head while I'm runnin' for somethin' to
re wive 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^^ what else 'd I be but fond av
you?"
^ Darling of my heart. ^ Friend.
THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD 317
"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 black-
bird?"
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 ex-
claimed, 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.
22
3l8 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 '11 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 some-
thing 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^ 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.
^ A forked stick.
THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD. 319
" 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 1 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.
^ Cudgel
320 IRISH HUMOUR.
" Begob," said Tim Croak, after a minute's serious reflec-
tion, " 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 rattUn' hare, sir."
IRISH ASTRONOMY. 321
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 thransportin',
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 (182 9-1 868).
322 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Httle 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 cometker^ at him. There was min
in them times, not sprahauns^ 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
^ Come hither.
* Evidently sprissaiin^ a diminutive, expressing contempt.
PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST'S BOY. 323
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 unforchin-
ate 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 con-
scious 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
324 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 bed-
room, 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.
" Fm 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."
PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST*S BOY. 325
" 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,^^ says
she, * that I wouldn't graize the wheel of a barrow with.' ''
" She wouldn't graize a great many wheels, at any rate,'*
repHed 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 Fm 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 narra-
tive. She allowed her lover to hold her hand, and fancied
she was a princess.
^ Blockhead.
326 IRISH HUMOUR.
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'U 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 some-
times 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 colleefiV^ asked the priest's housekeeper. "'Tis a bad
bargain you'd make o' the same daltheen^ 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
^ Puppy.
PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST'S BOY. 327
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^ 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, T 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,'^ 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, mean-
while, 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."
^ Lout. 2 Child.
328 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Fll 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 {i2>2^']-i2>'j4).
O'SHANAHAN DHU. 329
aSHANAHAN 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 ^ 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,
1 Devil
330
IRISH HUMOUR.
"'that's the truth,' says o'shanahan dhu."
O'SHANAHAN DHU. 331
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 wi"angle —
" 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,
332 IRISH HUMOUR.
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, be left her to cry —
AN IRISH STORY-TELLER. 333
" 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 STOR Y-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. " Til 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^ 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^ as big as your head. I went home in high
1 KnapawnSy a huge potato.
* Knasstery a big potato.
23
334 IRISH HUMOUR.
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^
and reddened (lit) my pipe. I hadn't a shock (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 lafiing 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
^ A seat made of straw or hay ropes.
AN IRISH STORY-TELLER. 335
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.^
When it was going of me to get a lodging anywhere, what
should I see a couple of steps from rne 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 brickie (brittle)
moantawn'^ 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
^ Casoge, a coat. * Reclaimed mountain -land.
336 IRISH HUMOUR.
fast as I could. When I had it ate, I looked around me
just as cute as Norry-the-bogs^ 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 any-
thing 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
* A species of diver.
THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN. 337
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 trate-
ment 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. ^Fooisgl fooisgV 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 ^ of my left leg ! "
Patrick CLeary,
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 ! '
^ The small toe.
338 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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'^
y^2i^filea^ that clairsecKd^ 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 ! '
1 Gom or Gommach — a fool. ^ Bard. ^ Harped.
THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN. 339
" 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^ 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 overcome (as they think),
That he fel}
Down under the table — nor woke
Till day o'er the Atlantic broke.
^ Cudgels.
340
IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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 ! '
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 agoleP^^
Charles P, a Conor (1837 ?).
^ Beimedh a gole — Let us be drinking.
FAN FITZGERL. 341
FAN FITZGERL,
WiRRA, wirra ! ologonel
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.
342 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 an 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, 343
FATHER O'FLYNN,
Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned 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 ?
344 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 vou.
HONIED PERSUASION. 34S
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* 11 be bruck.
Kiss me, acushla I 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 ma"
" 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.
346
IRISH HUMOUR.
Whin IVe 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."
y. De Quincey (185-).
I'll make the purtiest bridb in the land of you."
THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT. 347
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',
fot 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
34^ IRISH HUMOUR.
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
THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT. 349
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 iSth, 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 '11 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
24
350 IRISH HUMOUR.
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
THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT.
3SI
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 enter-
view," says Essex.
" Oh, beg pardon, me lord," says the butler, steppin' to one
YER MAJESTY, YOU HAVE A FACE ON YOU TH/iT WOULD CHARM A BIRD
OFF A BUSH. '"
side, " I didn't know 'twas yourself was in it; come inside,
sir; the Queen's in the dhrawin'-room."
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.
352 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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 1 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 fay male 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 West-
land 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."
THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT.
353
" 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
'"arrest that thrater.'"
men and me money. Let's have a look at that threaty I see
stickin' out o' your pocket."
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?"
354 IRISH HUMOUR.
"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. 355
THE AMERICAN WAKE>
'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 1 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 !
1 The " American wake " is the send-off given to people the night
before their departure for America.
3S6 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 dehght 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 AMERICAN WAKE.
357
MY ARM AROUND HER I PASSED.
3S8 IRISH HUMOUR.
The Dohertys scarce in New York
Were landed, Fm thinking, a week or more,
When a wedding took place in West Cork,
The hke 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).
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
HOW TO BECOME A POET. 359
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 dis-
cover 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.'
360 IRISH HUMOUR.
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,
HOW TO BECOME A POET. 36 1
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 " j
** 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 senti-
ment. 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," "rounde-
lay," " 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 "
362 IRISH HUMOUR.
For similar reasons words of mean significance have to
be avoided. For instance, for *'dead drunk," use "spirit-
uously 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"; "Epi-
taph 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, over-
coats 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.
HOW TO BECOME A POET. 363
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 advan-
tage, 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
364 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 off-
spring of the muse consigned to oblivion in weak defer-
ence 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 nuntion of the wife and five children) begs to send you
HOW TO BECOME A POET. 365
his first attempt to woo the Muses {it may be your eighty-firsty 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 y * 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 " Out-
break 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, how-
ever 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 : —
25
366 IRISH HUMOUR.
«* Homer— DonU 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 de-
scribe 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 Uiie;
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
HOW TO BECOME A POET. 367
(when asked to stand a drink). You despise mere mun-
dane matters (debts, engagements, and the Uke). 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 pro-
duce 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,
'^hat you worCt dedicate your first vol. to his name.*'
Francis A, Fahy.
368 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 millefailte'^ they'll give you down at Donovan's,
As cheery as the spring-time, and Irish as the ceanabhan;"^
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, Httle 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, %o flaitheamhail^ and so hand-
some.
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.
^ A hundred thousand welcomes — pron. cade meelya falltha,
2 Canavaun — blossom of the bog. ^ F/ookoo/— generous.
THE DONOVANS.
369
370 IRISH HUMOUR.
There bustles round the room the iawkee-e%\} of vanithees^
Fresh as in her young bloom, and trying all she can to
please;
In vain to maintain you won't have a deorin^ more again —
She'll never let you rest till your glass is brimming o'er again.
There smiles the cailin deas^ — 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^ and hat you had better put astray from
them —
The hardest job in life is to tear yourself away from them !
Francis A. Fahy.
* Kindliest. ^ Woman of the house.
' Doreen-~sm^X\ drop. '* Colleen dhas—i^xtiiy girl. ^ Overcoat.
PETTICOATS DOWN TO MY KNEES. 371
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 1
»
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 I
372 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 I
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. 373
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
374 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 con-
sisted 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; "
MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS. 375
SO he had his say out. Let him deliver that speech next
Sunday on the common, and he will not get i6s. gd. 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 con-
centrated 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
fisticuifs 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
376 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 phren-
ology?" 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 with-
out 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
MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS. 377
reason, could not be done. I offered to dispense with
the Hcence ; 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 accompany-
ing 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 con-
cert, 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 shillins;s in remembrance of his last birth-
day, 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 our-
selves 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 con-
clusion 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
378 IRISH HUMOUR.
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
MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS. 379
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 play-
bill, 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. i";
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. I Company." I submit to the manager of these
companies that in his own interest he should take better
care of No. i. 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
380 IRISH HUMOUR.
the very souls of " No. i." 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 credit-
able to him under the circumstances; but Nature rebelled
in him against the loathed strains of a seven-hundred-times
repeated rdle. 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 crushed.
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-
kole 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
MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS. 38 1
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 con-
sidered. 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 (185S).
2^
382 IRISH HUMOUR.
FROM PORTLA W 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 con-
science 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 absolu-
tion, 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
FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE. 383
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, " per-
vidin' 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."
384 IRISH HUMOUR.
"To tell you the thruth," says the saint, "I'm not over
fond of general daylin', but of coorse my private feelings
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 Portia w," 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."
FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE. 38$
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 rever-
ence," 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 huY-lin' match here ? " axes Paddy.
"Wance a year," says the saint. "You see," says he,
pointin' over his showldher wud his thumb, "they have
386 . IRISH HUMOUR.
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, tnagh / " ^ 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? "
1 Indeed,
FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE. 387
" 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 dis-
grace 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 ? "
388 IRISH HUMOUR.
" 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, intherruptin' 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 P^ether's ears, maybe he'd clap twinty
years of Limbo on to you — for he's a hard man some-
times, 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 Brake-
speare, 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."
FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE. 389
"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
390 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 Irish-
men," 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 vid 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
FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE. 39 1
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 fo^ 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
392
IRISH HUMOUR.
4^'
"*COME IN, PADDY POWER,' SAYS SAINT PETH^R, OPENIN' THE GATE.'
THE DANCE AT MARLEY. 393
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, ae/zV/"
" 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).
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^ had their chairs brought in to see
The heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love
and laughter;
^ Woman of the house.
394 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 drumnaing sound, the lovers' whisper-
ing 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 Devirs 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 some-
what dulled.
The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for " Follow
me up to Carlo w."
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.
THE DANCE AT MARLEY.
395
^..'''v
"fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing."
396 IRISH HUMOUR.
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^ spot —
Yet now I think I'd better not go tell, but wait the
sequel.
Everything must have an end, and the girshas^ 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.
Fatrick J. McCall ( 1 86 1 ).
1 Suitable. " Girls.
FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS. 397
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 power-
ful 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 2iw' 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 ataleticks now ! There they were, jumpin', and runnin',
and coorsin', an* all soorts ov fun, enough to make the
27-
398 IRISH HUMOUR,
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', moryahf^ 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
^ Forsooth.
FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS. 399
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 Uke 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'U have to jump the sthrame 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, lettirC on
(pretending) he was afeerd.
"Me daughter, Maynish," sez the king, wid a laugh; for
he thought, ye see, Fan would be drpwnded.
"Me hand on the bargain," sez Fan; but the owld chap
gev him a rap on the knuckles wid his specktre (sceptre) an'
to wid him to hurry up, or he'd get the 0 Haves (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.
400 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 com-
mandher 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 puttitC 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' colloguirC
(whispering and talking), an' not mindin' him no more than
FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS. 4OI
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, whirHn' 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'
402 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 /think he overstrained himself, thro win',
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 I " sez he,
as grand as you like — " an' a long life to you, an' a happy
TATTHER JACK WELSH. 403
wife to you — an' a great many ov them ! " sez he, like he'd
forgot something
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.
404 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 2i pogue}
And Darby ran out, like he'd got 2i polthogue^^ —
" Arrah, what can be ailing," says he, " Darby Kelsh ? "
" Haith, you know well enough," says I, " Tatther Jack
Welsh!"
Patrick J, McCalL
^ A kiss. 2 A blow.
THEIR LAST RACE. 405
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 corner 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 sea-
shore 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
406 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 church-
yard 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
THEIR LAST RACE. 4O7
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 back-
wards 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
408 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 cofifin 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 ^uneral 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 abul^^ *' Meehul Dhu for ever ! "
IN BLARNEY. 409
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, sitting
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 I
Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,
When yer afther half-a-score ?
410 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 2^ pogue?-
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 ! you needn't come so near 1
^ Kiss.
BINDIN' THE OATS. 4II
He — Over lane and road and boreen.
Troth, I've come a weary way,
Jusht to whisper ye, asthoreen^
Somethin' that IVe longed to say.
IVe a cosy cottage, which is
Jusht the proper size for two-
She — There, Fve 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 I
Patrick J, Coleman (1867).
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 Y took, love,
Spoiled the stook, love,
For your smile had bothered my head awry !
412
IRISH HUMOUR.
gatherin' up the golden grain.
BINDIN' THE OATS. 413
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 ? ^
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 !
Fatrick J, Coleman.
1 Kiss.
28
414 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 (/.^., from the bellows
to the anvil).
You have the foaPs 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 (/>., 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 (/>., uninvited).
Who lies down with dogs will get up with fleas.
The eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.
SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC. 415
'Tis the fool has luck.
AVhat 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.
4l6 IRISH HUMOUR.
Big head and little sense.
The tail is part of the cat (/>., 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.
SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC. 417
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 (/>.,
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 buttermilk 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).
41 8 IRISH HUMOUR.
Truth is bitter, but a lie is savoury at times.
'Tis a bad hound that is not worth whistUng 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 (/>., out of sight,
out of mind).
That's great softening on the buttermilk.
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 (/.^., 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.
SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC. 419
Where there's women there's talk, and where there's geese
there's cackHng.
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 (/>., 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 tallo\M
(/>., it is hard to break off a habit).
Might is not lasting.
Wrath speaketh not true.
A bribe bursts the rock.
y
420 IRISH HUMOUR.
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 (/>., regretting it).
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 o^his satires had great vogue, especially " All the Talents,"
which was directed against a ministry still known by that descrip-
tion. 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 nth, 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 Tke Microcosm and
Anti-Jacobin.
424 BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
Cannings, Thomas.— A private soldier, who published at Cork in
1800, or thereabouts, a volume of Detached Pieces in Verse. He
belonged to the 6ist 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 with-
out 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 bom 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
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX. 425
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 Grey-
drake" 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
A^ren), 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 loth, 1810; graduated at Dublin
University, and was called to the Bar. He was one of the leading
contributors to Blackwood^ 5 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.
426 BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
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 loth,
1728. He entered Dublin University, and graduiated 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 0*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 char-
acter. 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 arid 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 with-
drew 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 French-
park, CO. Roscommon, and was born at Kilmactranny, co. Sligo,
somewhere about i860. 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 pub-
lished 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 EngHsh Bar in 1847, and had a somewhat
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX. 427
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
Bentle/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 i6th,
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 Tipperaryy should be read. He was born at
MuUinahone, 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 y In a Glass Darkly y 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 excel-
lent, 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.
428 BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
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,"
** Donny brook Fair," and ** The Lakes of Mallow," not one of
which was written by him [vide " The Poets of Ireland, a biograph-
ical 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 loth, 1793, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University
in 1 8 19. 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.
Maker, 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, how-
ever, he practically gave up his functions, and led a Bohemian
life. He was one of the most admired contributors to Eraser^
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 i8th, 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.
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX. 429
Mangan, James Clarence.— One of the first of Irish poets, and
held to be the greatest of them by many of his country-
men. He was born in Dublin on May ist, 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 trans-
lations 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 ftirther 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 firequent 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 nth, 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
29
430 BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
verse, and was granted a Civil List pension of ;£5o 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.
0*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 selec-
tion 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, 18 1 3.
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 South-
ampton 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 Free-
holder 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 i86i.
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX. 43 1
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 Night-
cap " 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 recog-
nised 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 some-
what 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 re-
proached 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 Tailer, and followed it up by
The Spectator, etc. He also wrote several comedies, and other
works. He entered Parliament in 17 13, and held one or two
Government offices. He died in Wales on September ist, 1729.
Sterne, Rev. Laurence. — Born at Clonmel, co. Tipperary, on
November 24th, 1 7 13, and graduated M.A. at Cambridge in 1740.
432 BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX.
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 inter-
vals between 1759 and 1767. His Sentimental Journey di^T^t^xQ^i
in 1768. He died on March i8th, 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 dairjrman 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 con-
vivial 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.j 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 (yRourke, p. 175. — This was written for Croft 01* 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 Shell, a Drogheda printer and poet.
The Peeler and the Goat, p. 231. — This famous song, though 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.
434 NOTES.
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 To?n^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 Black-
wood'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.
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