Chapter III (2)

“‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he; ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, thank your honour,’ said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’ ‘What brought you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a _dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that he had fled me up to the moon.

“‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, ‘you must not stay here.’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis much against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back?’ ‘That’s your business,’ said he; ‘Dan, mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m doing no harm,’ says I, ‘only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’ ‘That’s what you must not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodging; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a long way.’ ‘I’m by myself, Dan,’ says he; ‘but you’d better let go the reaping-hook.’ ‘And with your leave,’ says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won’t let go--so I will.’ ‘You had better, Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why, then, my little fellow,’ says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, ‘there are two words to that bargain; and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like.’ ‘We’ll see how that is to be,’ says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.

“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and _whap!_ it came in two. ‘Good morning to you, Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; ‘I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.’ I had not time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. ‘God help me!’ says I, ‘this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I am now sold fairly.’ The word was not out of my mouth when, whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else how should they know _me_? The _ould_ gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, ‘Is that you, Dan?’ ‘The same,’ said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of _bedevilment_, and, besides, I knew him of _ould_. ‘Good morrow to you,’ says he, ‘Daniel O’Rourke; how are you in health this morning?’ ‘Very well, sir,’ says I, ‘I thank you kindly,’ drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. ‘I hope your honour’s the same.’ ‘I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel,’ says he. ‘You may say that, sir,’ says I. ‘And where are you going all the way so fast?’ said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. ‘Dan,’ said he, ‘I’ll save you; put out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I’ll fly you home.’ ‘Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,’ says I, though all the time I thought within myself that I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.

“We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. ‘Ah! my lord,’ said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, ‘fly to land if you please.’ ‘It is impossible, you see, Dan,’ said he, ‘for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia.’ ‘To Arabia!’ said I, ‘that’s surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose; why then, to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.’ ‘Whist, whist, you fool,’ said he, ‘hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.’

“Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind; ‘Ah! then, sir,’ said I, ‘will you drop me on the ship, if you please?’ ‘We are not fair over her,’ said he. ‘We are,’ said I. ‘We are not,’ said he; ‘if I dropped you now you would go splash into the sea.’ ‘I would not,’ says I; ‘I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.’ ‘If you must, you must,’ said he; ‘there, take your own way;’ and he opened his claw, and, faith, he was right--sure enough I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night’s sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon my whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying--’twas a voice I knew too--‘Get up, you drunken brute, off o’ that;’ and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me--for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. ‘Get up,’ said she again; ‘and of all places in the parish would no place _sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure enough I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d lie down in the same spot again, I know that.”

_William Maginn, LL.D._

_THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR._

Oh! ’twas Dermot O’Nowlan McFigg,
That could properly handle a twig,
He went to the Fair,
And kicked up a dust there,
In dancing the Donnybrook Jig,
With his twig,
Oh! my blessing to Dermot McFigg!

When he came to the midst of the Fair,
He was _all in a paugh_ for fresh air,
For the Fair very soon
Was as full as the moon,
Such mobs upon mobs as were there,
Oh! rare,
So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.

The souls, they came crowding in fast,
To dance while the leather would last,
For the Thomas Street brogue
Was there much in vogue,
And oft with a brogue the joke passed,
Quite fast,
While the Cash and the Whisky did last!

But Dermot, his mind on love bent,
In search of his sweetheart he went;
Peep’d in here and there,
As he walked thro’ the Fair,
And took a small taste in each tent,
As he went,
Och! on Whisky and Love he was bent.

And who should he spy in a jig,
With a Meal-man so tall and so big,
But his own darling Kate
So gay and so neat;
Faith, her partner he hit him a dig,
The pig,
He beat the meal out of his wig!

Then Dermot, with conquest elate,
Drew a stool near his beautiful Kate;
“Arrah! Katty,” says he,
“My own Cushlamachree,
Sure the world for Beauty you beat,
Complete,
So we’ll just take a dance while we wait!”

The Piper, to keep him in tune,
Struck up a gay lilt very soon,
Until an arch wag
Cut a hole in his bag,
And at once put an end to the tune
Too soon,
Oh! the music flew up to the moon!

To the Fiddler says Dermot McFigg,
“If you’ll please to play ‘Sheela na gig,’
We’ll shake a loose toe
While you humour the bow,
To be sure you must warm the wig
Of McFigg,
While he’s dancing a neat Irish jig!”

But says Katty, the darling, says she,
“If you’ll only just listen to me,
It’s myself that will show
Billy can’t be your foe,
Tho’ he fought for his Cousin, that’s me,”
Says she,
“For sure Billy’s related to me!

“For my own cousin-german, Ann Wild,
Stood for Biddy Mulrooney’s first child,
And Biddy’s step-son,
Sure he married Bess Dunn,
Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild
A child
As ever at mother’s breast smiled.

“And maybe you don’t know Jane Brown,
Who served goat’s whey in sweet Dundrum town,
’Twas her uncle’s half-brother
That married my mother,
And bought me this new yellow gown,
To go down,
When the marriage was held in Miltown!”

“By the Powers, then,” says Dermot, “’tis plain,
Like a son of that rapscallion Cain,
My best friend I’ve kilt,
Tho’ no blood it is spilt,
And the devil a harm did I mean,
That’s plain,
But by me he’ll be ne’er kilt again!”

Then the Meal-man forgave him the blow,
That laid him a-sprawling so low,
And being quite gay,
Asked them both to the play,
But Katty, being bashful, said “No,”
“No!” “No!”
Yet he treated them all to the show!

_Charles O’Flaherty_ (1794–1828).

_THE NIGHT-CAP._

Jolly Phœbus his car to the coach-house had driven,
And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;
He gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,
And rubbed them and littered them up for the night.

Then down to the kitchen he leisurely strode,
Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea;
He swore he was tired with that damned up-hill road,
He’d have none of her slops or hot water, not he.

So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen
Well filled with the nectar Apollo loves best,
(From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen);
And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.

His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,
For his bed, faith, ’twas dampish, and none of the best;
All above him the clouds their bright-fringed curtains drew,
And the tuft of his night-cap lay red in the west.

_Thomas Hamblin Porter_ (_fl._ 1820).

_KITTY OF COLERAINE._

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,
And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain.
“Oh! what shall I do now?--’twas looking at you, now!
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er see again;
’Twas the pride of my dairy--O Barney McCleary,
You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!”

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,
She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again.
’Twas hay-making season--I can’t tell the reason--
Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain;
For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

_Anonymous._

_GIVING CREDIT._

In due time it was determined that Peter, as he understood poteen, should open a shebeen-house. The moment this resolution was made, the wife kept coaxing him until he took a small house at the cross-roads before alluded to, where, in the course of a short time, he was established, if not in his line, yet in a mode of life approximating to it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would permit. The cabin which they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and a room at each end of it, in one of which was their own humble chaff bed, with its blue quilted drugget cover; in the other stood a couple of small tables, some stools, a short form, and one chair, being a present from his father-in-law. These constituted Peter’s whole establishment, so far as it defied the gauger. To this we must add a five-gallon keg of spirits hid in the garden and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he bottled, overnight, as much as was usually drunk the following day; and from the tobacco, which was also kept underground, he cut, with the same caution, as much as to-morrow’s exigencies might require. This he kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never think of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and pennyworths, ounces, or half-ounces, according as it might be required; and, as he had it without duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his neighbours soon brought him a large increase of custom.

Peter’s wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant, good-humoured man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of amusement were of a high order, considering his station in life and his want of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, to bring both the young and the old to his house during the long winter nights, in order to hear the fine racy humour with which he related his frequent adventures and battles with excisemen. In the summer evenings he usually engaged a piper or fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance by which he not only rendered himself popular, but increased his business.

In this mode of life the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and Ellish was the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to give them credit. Many plans were, with great skill and forethought, devised to obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board was first procured, on which they got written with chalk--

“No credit giv’n--barrin’ a thrifle to Pether’s friends.”

Before a week passed after this intimation, the number of “Pether’s friends” increased so rapidly that neither he nor Ellish knew the half of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him: the drinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him and Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his firmest resolutions too often gave way before the open flattery with which he was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to bear the brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons were seen approaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to expect an attack upon his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept his eye to the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the road, he immediately slipped into bed, and lay close, in order to escape them. In the meantime they enter.

“God save all here! Ellish, agra machree, how are you?”

“God save you kindly! Faix, I’m middlin’, I thank you, Condy; how is yourself, an’ all at home?”

“Devil a heartier, barrin’ my father, that’s touched wid a loss of appetite afther his meals--ha, ha, ha!”

“Musha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but you’re your father’s son, anyway; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth, whether you’re jokin’ or not, I’d be sarry to hear of anything to his disadvantage, dacent man. Boys, won’t yees go down to the other room?”

“Go way wid yees, boys, till I spake to Ellish here about the affairs o’ the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the contints o’ the book, you do; Pether doesn’t stand it half so well. How is he, the thief?”

“Throth, he’s not well to-day, in regard of a smotherin’ about the heart he tuck this morning, afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself on the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him--God be praised for all his marcies!”

“Thin, upon my _sole_vation, I’m sorry to hear it, and so will all at home, for there’s not in the parish we’re sittin’ in a couple that our family has a greater regard an’ friendship for than him an’ yourself. Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued down Bartle Meegan’s throath that you and Biddy Martin war the two portliest weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I was near quarrellin’ wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase I tuck my modher’s part, as I had good right to do.”

“Thrath, I’m thankful to you both, Condy, for your kindness.”

“Oh, the sarra taste o’ kindness was in it all, Ellish, ’twas only the thruth; an’ as long as I live I’ll stand up for that.”

“Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall?”

“Indeed, thin, but middlin’, not gettin’ her health: she’ll soon give the crow a puddin’, anyway; thin, Ellish, you thief, I’m _in_ for the yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me?”

“Why, thin, I can’t say I do. Who are they, Condy?”

“Why, one o’ thim’s a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent boy, indeed--him wid the frieze jock upon him, an’ the buckskin breeches. The other three’s from Teenabraighera beyant. They’re related to my brother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife’s brother-in-law’s uncle. They’re come to this neighbourhood till the ’Sizes, bad luck to them, goes over; for, you see, they’re in a little throuble.”

“The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys!”

“I brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows; an’ Ellish, avourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth is, you see, that when we left home none of us had any notion of dhrinkin’, or I’d a put a something in my pocket, so that I’m taken at an average.--Bud-an’-age--how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, that goor-soon, when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don’t think there’s a finer child in Europe of his age, so there isn’t.”

“Indeed, he’s a good child, Condy. But, Condy, avick, about givin’ credit:--by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy in the parish, it ud be to yourself. It was only last night that I made a promise against doin’ sich a thing for man or mortual. We’re a’most broken an’ harrish’d out o’ house an’ home by it; an’ what’s more, Condy, we intend to give up the business. The landlord’s at us every day for his rint, an’ we owe for the two last kegs we got, but hasn’t a rap to meet aither o’ thim; an’ enough due to us if we could get it together: an’ whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that’s what ails Pether, although he doesn’t wish to let an to any one about it.”

“Well, but you know I’m safe, Ellish?”

“I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself; an’ should have what you want wid a heart an’ a half, only for the promise I made an my two knees last night aginst givin’ credit to man or woman. Why the dickens didn’t you come yistherday?”

“Didn’t I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an’ that I wished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish; don’t disgrace me afore my sisther’s bachelor an’ the sthrange boys that’s to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn’t for the best cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an’ besides, there’s a _cleeveenship_ atween your family an’ ours.”

“Condy, avourneen, say no more: if you were fed from the same breast wid me, I couldn’t, nor wouldn’t break my promise. I wouldn’t have the sin of it an me for the wealth o’ the three kingdoms.”

“Bedad, you’re a quare woman; an’ only that my regard for you is great entirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you’re dacent still.”

He then left her, and joined his friends in the little room that was appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he related the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter and Ellish.

“Boys,” said he, “she’s too many for us! St. Pether himself wouldn’t make a hand of her. Faix, she’s a cute one. I palavered her at the rate of a hunt, an’ she ped me back in my own coin, wid dacent intherest--but no whisky!--Now to take a rise out o’ Pether. Jist sit where yees are, till I come back.”

He then left them enjoying the intended “spree,” and went back to Ellish.

“Well, I’m sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you’d refuse my father’s son sich a thrifle, I wouldn’t believe them. It’s not wid Pether’s knowledge you do it, I’ll be bound. But bad as you thrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at any rate.”

As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into the room where Peter lay.

“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, at this hour o’ the day?”

“Eh? What’s that--who’s that? Oh!”

“Why, thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”

“Oh!--oh! Eh? Is that Condy?”

“All that’s to the fore of him. What’s asthray wid you, man alive?”

“Throth, Condy, I don’t know rightly. I went out, wantin’ my coat, about a week ago, an’ got cowld in the small o’ the back: I’ve a pain in it ever since. Be sittin’.”

“Is your _heart_ safe? You have no smotherin’ or anything upon _it_?”

“Why, thin, thank goodness, no; it’s all about my back an’ my hinches.”

“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_ ails you, you shkaimer o’ the world wide. ’Tis the oil o’ the hazel, or a rubbin’ down wid an oak towel, you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an’ by that, I’ll flail you widin an inch o’ your life.”

“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”

“No, no, faix; I’ve found you out: Ellish is afther tellin’ me that it was a smotherin’ on the heart; but it’s a pain in the small o’ the back wid _yourself_. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take the stick to you!”

“Why, thin, all sorts o’ fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you’re the sarra’s pet, for there’s no escapin’ you. What was that I hard atween you an’ Ellish?” said Peter, getting up.

“The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into the wrong side o’ the sacret afore you die. Go an’ get us a pint o’ what you know,” replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.

“Ellish,” said Peter, “I suppose you must give it to thim. Give it--give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin’ll you pay me for this?”

“Never fret yourself about that; you’ll be ped. Honour _bright_, as the black said whin he stole the boots.”

“Now, Pether,” said the wife, “sure it’s no use axin me to give it, afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I’ll have no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we’ll soon get out of it altogether, for myself’s sick an’ sore of it, dear knows!”

Peter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday, which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant at Condy’s success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after pint followed in rapid succession.

Every additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from Ellish; and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations deepened. When the night was far advanced they departed, after having first overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest friendship, promising that in future she exclusively should reap whatever benefit was to be derived from their patronage.

In the meantime Condy forgot to perform his promise. The next Sunday passed, but Peter was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at mass, or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month afterwards--an instance of ingratitude which mortified his creditor extremely. The latter, who felt that it was a _take in_, resolved to cut short all hopes of obtaining credit from them in future. In about a week after the foregoing hoax he got up a board, presenting a more vigorous refusal of _score_ than the former. His friends, who were more in number than he could possibly have imagined, on this occasion were altogether wiped out of the exception. The notice ran to the following effect:--

“Notice to the Public, _and to Pether Connell’s friends in
particular_--Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got
or given in this house, while there is stick or stone of it
together, barrin’ them that axes it has the _ready money_.

“PETHER X CONNELL, his mark.
“ELLISH X CONNELL, her mark.”

_William Carleton_ (1794–1869).

_BRIAN O’LINN._

Brian O’Linn was a gentleman born,
His hair it was long and his beard unshorn,
His teeth were out and his eyes far in--
“I’m a wonderful beauty,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was hard up for a coat,
He borrowed the skin of a neighbouring goat,
He buckled the horns right under his chin--
“They’ll answer for pistols,” says Brian O’Linn;

Brian O’Linn had no breeches to wear,
He got him a sheepskin to make him a pair,
With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in--
“They are pleasant and cool,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no hat to his head,
He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,
He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin--
“’Twill pass for a feather,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shirt to his back,
He went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack.
He puckered a meal-bag under his chin--
“They’ll take it for ruffles,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no shoes at all,
He bought an old pair at a cobbler’s stall,
The uppers were broke and the soles were thin--
“They’ll do me for dancing,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn had no watch for to wear,
He bought a fine turnip and scooped it out fair,
He slipped a live cricket right under the skin--
“They’ll think it is ticking,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn was in want of a brooch,
He stuck a brass pin in a big cockroach,
The breast of his shirt he fixed it straight in--
“They’ll think it’s a diamond,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went a-courting one night,
He set both the mother and daughter to fight--
“Stop, stop,” he exclaimed, “if you have but the tin,
I’ll marry you both,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn went to bring his wife home,
He had but one horse, that was all skin and bone--
“I’ll put her behind me, as nate as a pin,
And her mother before me,” says Brian O’Linn!

Brian O’Linn and his wife and wife’s mother,
They all crossed over the bridge together,
The bridge broke down and they all tumbled in--
“We’ll go home by water,” says Brian O’Linn!

_Anonymous._

_THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE._

Did yir honor ever hear of the wager ’tween the goose and the turkey? Oncet upon a time an ould cock-turkey lived in the barony of Brawny, or, let me see, was it in Inchebofin or Tubbercleer? faix, an’ it’s meself forgets that same at the present writin’,--but Jim Gurn--you know Jim Gurn, yir honor, Jim Gurn the nailer that lives hard by,--him that fought his black-and-tan t’other day ’gainst Tim Fagan’s silver hackle,--oh! Jim is the boy that’ll tell ye the _ins_ and _outs_ of it any day yir honor wud pay him a visit, ’caze Jim’s in the way of it. Well, as I was relatin’, the turkey was a parson’s bird, and as proud as Lucifer, bein’ used to the best of livin’; while the gander was only a poor _commoner_, for he was a _Roman_,[13] and oblidged to live upon what he could get by the roadside. These two fowls, yir honor, never could agree anyhow,--never could put up their horses together on any blessed p’int,--till one day a big row happened betune them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeplechase across the country, day and dark, for twenty-four hours. Well, to my surprise,--though I wasn’t there at the time, but Jim Gurn was, who gave me the whole history,--to my surprise, the turkey didn’t say _no_ to it, but was quite agreeable to it, all of a suddent; so away they started from Jim Gurn’s dunghill one Sunday after mass, for the gander wouldn’t stir a step afore prayers. Well, to be sure, to give the divil his due, the turkey took the lead in fine style, and was soon clane out of sight; but the gander kept movin’ on, no ways downhearted, after him. About nightfall it was his business to pass through an ould archway across the road; and as he was stoopin’ his head to get under it,--for yir honor knows a gander will stoop his head under a doorway if it was only as high as the moon,--who should he see comfortably sated in an ivy-bush but the turkey himself, tucked in for the night. The gander, winkin’ to himself, says, “Is it there ye are, honey?”--but he kept never mindin’ him for all that, but only walked bouldly on to his journey’s end, where he arrived safe and sound next day, afore the turkey was out of his first sleep; ’caze why, ye see, sir, a goose or a gander will travel all night; but in respect of a turkey, once the day falls in, divil another inch of ground he’ll put his futt to, barrin’ it’s to roost in a tree or the rafters of a cow-house! Oh! maybe the parson’s bird wasn’t ashamed of himself! Jim Gurn says he never held his head up afterward, though to be sure he hadn’t long to fret, for Christmas was nigh at hand, and he had to stand sentry by the kitchen fire one day without his body-clothes till he could bear it no longer; so they dished him entirely. Them that ett him said he was as tough as leather, no doubt from the grief; but divil’s cure to him! what business had he to be so proud of himself, the spalpeen?

_Joseph A. Wade_ (1796–1845).

_WIDOW MACHREE._

Widow Machree, it’s no wonder you frown,
Och hone, Widow Machree--
Faith, it ruins your looks that same dirty black gown,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear--
It’s destroying your hair,
Which should be flowing free,
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone, Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, now the summer is come,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
When everything smiles--should a beauty look glum,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares--
Why even the bears,
Now in couples agree,
And the mute little fish,
Though they can’t speak, they wish,
Och hone, Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, when the winter comes in,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
To be poking the fire, all alone, is a sin,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
Why the shovel and tongs,
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs,
Full of family glee,
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone, Widow Machree.

And how do you know, with the comforts I’ve told,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
But you’re keeping some poor divil out in the cold?
Och hone, Widow Machree.
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled,
Could you sleep in your bed,
Without thinking to see,
Some ghost or some sprite,
Come to wake you each night,
Crying, och hone, Widow Machree.

Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
And with my advice, faith, I wish you’d take me,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
You’d have me to desire.
Then to stir up the fire,
And sure hope is no liar,
In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart,
When you’d me near your heart,
Och hone, Widow Machree.

_Samuel Lover_ (1797–1868).

_BARNEY O’HEA._

Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,
I know you won’t,
I know you won’t,
Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.
It makes me outrageous when you’re so contagious--
You’d better look out for the stout Corney Creagh!
For he is the boy that believes me his joy;--
So you’d better behave yourself, Barney O’Hea.
Impudent Barney--
None of your blarney,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.

I hope you’re not going to Bandon fair,
To Bandon fair,
To Bandon fair,
For sure I’m not wanting to meet you there,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.
For Corney’s at Cork, and my brother’s at work,
And my mother sits spinning at home all the day;
So no one will be there, of poor me to take care,
And I hope you won’t follow me, Barney O’Hea.
Impudent Barney--
None of your blarney,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.

But as I was walking up Bandon Street,
Just who do you think ’twas myself should meet
But impudent Barney O’Hea!
He said I look’d killin’,
I call’d him a villain,
And bid him that minute get out of my way.
He said I was jokin’,
And look’d so provokin’,--
I could not help laughing with Barney O’Hea!
Impudent Barney--
’Tis he has the blarney,
Impudent Barney O’Hea!

He knew ’twas all right when he saw me smile,
For he is the rogue up to every wile,
Is impudent Barney O’Hea!
He coax’d me to choose him,
For, if I’d refuse him,
He swore he’d kill Corney the very next day;
So for fear ’twould go further,
And--just to save murther--
I think I must marry that mad-cap O’Hea.
Botherin’ Barney--
’Tis he has the blarney
To make a girl Misthress O’Hea!

_Samuel Lover._

_MOLLY CAREW._

Och hone, and what will I do?
Sure, my love is all crost
Like a bud in the frost,
And there’s no use at all in my going to bed;
For ’tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head;
And ’tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew--
And indeed ’tis a sin and a shame;
You’re complater than Nature
In every feature,
The snow can’t compare
With your forehead so fair;
And I rather would see just one blink of your eye
Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky--
And by this and by that,
For the matter of that,
You’re more distant by far than that same!
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
I’m alone in this world without you.

Och hone! but why should I spake
Of your forehead and eyes,
When your nose it defies
Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme?
Tho’ there’s one Burke, he says, that would call it _snublime_.
And then for your cheek!
Throth, ’twould take him a week
Its beauties to tell as he’d rather.
Then your lips! oh, Machree!
In their beautiful glow
They a patthern might be
For the cherries to grow.
’Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know--
For apples were _scarce_, I suppose, long ago;
But at this time o’ day,
’Pon my conscience, I’ll say,
Such cherries might tempt a man’s father!
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
I’m alone in this world without you.

Och hone! by the man in the moon,
You _taze_ me all ways,
That a woman can plaze,
For you dance twice as high with that thief Pat Magee,
As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me,
Tho’ the piper I bate,
For fear the ould chate
Wouldn’t play you your favourite tune;
And when you’re at mass
My devotion you crass,
For ’tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew;
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,
That I can’t at your sweet purty face get a peep:
Oh! lave off that bonnet,
Or else I’ll lave on it
The loss of my wandherin’ sowl!
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
Och hone, like an owl,
Day is night, dear, to me, without you!

Och hone! don’t provoke me to do it;
For there’s girls by the score
That love me--and more;
And you’d look very quare if some morning you’d meet
My wedding all marchin’ in pride down the sthreet;
Throth, you’d open your eyes,
And you’d die with surprise,
To think ’twasn’t you was come to it!
And, faith, Katty Naile,
And her cow, I go bail,
Would jump if I’d say,
“Katty Naile, name the day.”
And tho’ you’re fair and fresh as a morning in May,
While she’s short and dark like a cowld winther’s day,
Yet if you don’t repent
Before Easther, when Lent
Is over I’ll marry for spite;
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.

_Samuel Lover._

_HANDY ANDY AND THE POSTMASTER._

“Ride into the town, and see if there’s a letter for me,” said the Squire one day to our hero.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know where to go?”

“To the town, sir.”

“But do you know where to go in the town?”

“No, sir.”

“And why don’t you ask, you stupid fellow?”

“Sure, I’d find out, sir.”

“Didn’t I often tell you to ask what you’re to do when you don’t know?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why don’t you?”

“I don’t like to be throublesome, sir.”

“Confound you!” said the Squire, though he could not help laughing at Andy’s excuse for remaining in ignorance.

“Well,” continued he, “go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, where they sell gunpowder.”

“You’re right for once,” said the Squire; for his Majesty’s postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. “Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for me. Remember,--not gunpowder, but a letter.”

“Yes, sir,” said Andy, who got astride of his hack and trotted away to the post-office. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said--

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“Who do you want it for?” said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life; so Andy thought the coollest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.

“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

“And who do you want it for?” repeated the postmaster.

“What’s that to you?” said Andy.

The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell what letter to give unless he told him the direction.

“The directions I got was to get a letther here--that’s the directions.”

“Who gave you those directions?”

“The masther.”

“And who’s your master?”

“What consarn is that o’ yours?”

“Why, you stupid rascal! if you don’t tell me his name, how can I give you a letter?”

“You could give it if you liked; but you’re fond of axin’ impident questions, bekase you think I’m simple.”

“Go along out o’ this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself to send such a messenger.”

“Bad luck to your impidence,” said Andy; “is it Squire Egan you dar’ to say goose to?”

“Oh, Squire Egan’s your master, then?”

“Yes; have you anything to say agin it?”

“Only that I never saw you before.”

“Faith, then, you’ll never see me agin if I have my own consint.”

“I won’t give you any letter for the Squire unless I know you’re his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?”

“Plenty,” said Andy; “it’s not every one is as ignorant as you.”

Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the Squire’s letter. “Have you one for me?”

“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one--“four pence.”

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop with his letter.

“Here’s a letter for the Squire,” said the postmaster; “you’ve to pay me elevenpence postage.”

“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?”

“For postage.”

“To the divil wid you! Didn’t I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? and now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing. Do you think I’m a fool?”

“No, but I’m sure of it,” said the postmaster.

“Well, you’re welkim to be sure, sure;--but don’t be delayin’ me now; here’s fourpence for you, and gi’ me the letther.”

“Go along, you stupid thief!” said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.

While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers, and saying, “Will you gi’ me the letther?”

He waited for above half-an-hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the postmaster, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence.

The Squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.

“There is, sir,” said Andy.

“Then give it to me.”

“I haven’t it, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wouldn’t give it to me, sir.”

“Who wouldn’t give it to you?”

“That ould chate beyant in the town--wanting to charge double for it.”

“Maybe it’s a double letter. Why the devil didn’t you pay what he asked, sir?”

“Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It’s not a double letther at all; not above half the size o’ one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence.”

“You’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you _omadhaun_; and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter.”

“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my face for fourpence apiece.”

“Go back, you scoundrel! or I’ll horsewhip you; and if you’re longer than a hour, I’ll have you ducked in the horsepond!”

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.

“I’m come for that letther,” said Andy.

“I’ll attend to you by-and-by.”

“The masther’s in a hurry.”

“Let him wait till his hurry’s over.”

“He’ll murther me if I’m not back soon.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy’s eye caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter; so while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the great man’s pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the Squire’s presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding three letters over his head, while he said, “Look at that!” he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the Squire, saying--

“Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour the worth o’ your money, anyhow!”

_Samuel Lover._

_THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE._

There was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife, and av coorse they had childhre, and plenty of them, and small blame to them, so that the poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers to the bone a’most to get them the bit and the sup, but he didn’t begridge that, for he was an industherous craythur, as I said before, and it was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.

Well, it was one mornin’ that his wife called to him, “Come here,” says she, “jewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it’s ready.” But he never minded her, but wint an workin’. So in a minit or two more, says she, callin’ out to him agin, “Arrah, lave off slavin’ yourself, my darlin’, and ate your bit o’ brekquest while it is hot.”

“Lave me alone,” says he, and he dhruv the shuttle fasther nor before. Well, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and says she, coaxin’ him like, “Thady, dear,” says she, “the stirabout will be stone cowld if you don’t give over that weary work and come and ate it at wanst.”

“I’m busy with a patthern here that is brakin’ my heart,” says the waiver; “and antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won’t quit”

“Oh, think of the iligant stirabout that ’ill be spylte intirely.”

“To the divil with the stirabout,” says he.

“God forgive you,” says she, “for cursin’ your good brekquest.”

“Ay, and you too,” says he.

“Throth, you’re as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,” says the poor wife; “and it’s a heavy handful I have of you when you are cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow cowld, and not a one o’ me ’ill ax you agin;” and with that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed, and the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know, is only nath’ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout; and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow--for you see, it was in the hoighth o’ summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them.

“Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence,” says the waiver, “would no place sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?” And with that, bein’ altogether cruked-tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o’ stirabout, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at the one blow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he counted the carcases one by one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them.

Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin’ in him, when he seen the slaughther he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as the very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he’d do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was squarin’ up into their faces and sayin’, “Look at that fist! that’s the fist that killed threescore and tin at one blow--Whoo!”

With that all the neighbours thought he was crack’d, and faith, the poor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin’, afther spendin’ every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin’ about the place, and lookin’ at his hand every minit.

“Indeed, an’ your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,” says the poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin’ home. “You had betther wash it, darlin’.”

“How dar’ you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?” says he, going to bate her.

“Well, it’s nat dirty,” says she.

“It is throwin’ away my time I have been all my life,” says he; “livin’ with you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin’ but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two o’ the siven champions o’ Christendom.”

“Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,” says the wife, “sure, what’s that to uz?”

“Don’t put in your prate,” says he, “you ignorant sthrap,” says he. “You’re vulgar, woman--you’re vulgar--mighty vulgar; but I’ll have nothin’ more to say to any dirty snakin’ thrade again--divil a more waivin’ I’ll do.”

“Oh, Thady, dear, and what’ll the children do then?”

“Let them go play marvels,” says he.

“That would be but poor feedin’ for them, Thady.”

“They shan’t want for feedin’,” says he, “for it’s a rich man I’ll be soon, and a great man too.”

“Usha, but I’m glad to hear it, darlin’, though I dunna how it’s to be; but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.”

“Don’t talk to me of any bed but the bed o’ glory, woman,” says he, lookin’ mortial grand.

“Oh! God sind we’ll all be in glory yet,” says the wife, crossin’ herself; “but go to sleep, Thady, for this present.”

“I’ll sleep with the brave yit,” says he.

“Indeed, an’ a brave sleep will do you a power o’ good, my darlin’,” says she.

“And it’s I that will be the knight!” says he.

“All night, if you plaze, Thady,” says she.

“None o’your coaxin’,” says he. “I’m detarmined on it, and I’ll set off immediately and be a knight arriant.”

“A what?” says she.

“A knight arriant, woman.”

“Lord, be good to me! what’s that?” says she.

“A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,” says he; “goin’ round the world for sport, with a swoord by his side, takin’ whatever he plazes for himself; and that’s a knight arriant,” says he.

Well, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and he got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o’ tin clothes like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he was very partic’lar about bekase it was his shield, and he went to a frind o’ his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield in big letthers:--

“I’M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,
THAT KILL’D THREESCORE AND TIN
AT A BLOW.”

“When the people sees _that_” says the waiver to himself, “the sorra one will dar’ for to come near me.”

And with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for him, “for,” says he, “it will make an illigant helmet;” and when it was done, he put it on his head, and his wife said, “Oh, murther, Thady, jewel; is it puttin’ a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by way iv a hat?”

“Sartinly,” says he, “for a knight arriant should always have _a weight an his brain_.”

“But, Thady, dear,” says the wife, “there’s a hole in it, and it can’t keep out the weather.”

“It will be the cooler,” says he, puttin’ it an him; “besides, if I don’t like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o’ sthraw, or the like o’ that.”

“The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin’ up,” says she.

“Every helmet has a spike stickin’ out o’ the top of it,” says the waiver, “and if mine has three, it’s only the grandher it is.”

“Well,” says the wife, getting bitther at last, “all I can say is, it isn’t the first sheep’s head was dhress’d in it”