Chapter III (6)

Katty’s heart went pit-a-pat during this conference. She knew that the “creel” was not the firmest of structures, and she shivered at the bare idea of Paddy making a turn which might send it to pieces.

Again the whisky went round, mollifying the hard lines of Mrs. Galvin’s unromantic countenance. Old Tyrrell, meanwhile, kept a steady eye on the “creel,” which had relapsed by this time into its normal immobility.

“Have a dhrop, Katty,” he said, handing his daughter his glass.

The girl, who knew the consequence of disobeying his slightest command, touched the rim of the vessel with her lips, and returned it with a grateful “Thank you, father.” At the same time on lifting her eyes to the “creel” she saw Paddy’s face peering out at her, and was honoured with one of the finest winks that gentleman was capable of.

“Well, here’s long life to all of us, and may we be no worse off this day twelvemonth,” said the old man, as he replenished the ladies’ glasses, and then set about draining his own. “Give me your hand, Mrs. Galvin. There isn’t a finer nor a better woman in----”

The sentence was never finished, for whilst he was speaking the “creel” gave way, and Paddy Fret, followed by the miscellaneous lumber which had concealed him, tumbled into the middle of the astonished party. The women shrieked and ran, whilst poor Katty, overcome by the terror of the situation, fainted into a chair.

Paddy rose to his feet, unabashed and confident. “Wasn’t that a grand fright I gave ye all?” he asked, with superb indifference.

Tyrrell, pale as death, and trembling in every limb, went to a corner, took up a gun, and pointed the muzzle at the intruder’s head. “Swear,” he hoarsely exclaimed, “you’ll make an honest woman of my daughter before another week, or I’ll blow the roof off your skull.”

“I’ll spare you all the throuble,” said Paddy; “send for Father Maher and I’ll marry her this minit, if you like. Will you have Paddy Fret for your husband, Katty?” he asked, taking the hands of the now conscious girl.

The whisky was finished, and on the following Sunday Father Maher united Paddy Fret and Katty Tyrrell, in the little chapel of Croagh. Mrs. Galvin danced bravely at the wedding, and was heard, more than once, to whisper that “only for her ’twould never be a match.”

_John Francis O’Donnell_ (1837–1874).

_O’SHANAHAN DHU._

O’Shanahan Dhu, you’re a rover, and you’ll never be better, I fear,
A rogue, a deludherin’ lover, with a girl for each day in the year;
Don’t you know how the mothers go frowning, when a village you
wander athrough,
For the priest you’d not seek were you drowning--
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
“For I’m aisy in love and divarsion,” says the ranting
O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan, don’t think you’re welcome, for I was but this moment,
I’m sure,
Saying--“Speak of the dhioul[30] and he’ll come,” and that moment
you stood on the floor;
Now you’ll blarney, and flatter, and swear it, while you know I’ve
my spinning to do,
It would take a bright angel to bear it--
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;
“For, darling, all know you’re an angel,” says the ranting
O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, there’s Jack Morrow, the smith in the hill-forge
above,
Who says marriage is nothing but sorrow, and a wedding the end of
all love;
I myself don’t care much for believing that it’s gospel, yet what
can one do,
When you men are so given to deceiving--
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;
“We’re the thieves of the world, still you like us,” says
the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, why come scheming, when there’s nobody in but poor
me,
Can you fancy I’m foolish or draming, to believe that our hearts
could agree?
Don’t you know, sir, all round they’re reporting, with good reason,
perhaps, for it too,
That Jack Shea’s dainty daughter you’re courting?--
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
“But there’s no one believes it, my darling,” with a wink,
says O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, now you’ll vex me, let me go, sir, this moment, I
say,
I’m in airnest, and why so perplex me, see I’m losing the work of
the day.
There’s my spinning all gone to a tangle, my bleached clothes all
boiled to a blue,
While for kisses you wrestle and wrangle--
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
“I own I’ve a weakness for kisses,” says the ranting
O’Shanahan Dhu.

O’Shanahan Dhu, here’s my mother, if you don’t let me go, faith,
I’ll cry,
Why, she’ll tell both my father and brother, and with shame maybe
cause me to die,
And then at your bedside I’ll haunt you, with a light in my hand
burning blue,
From my shroud moaning, “Shemus, I want you,”--
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
“But, ah, darling, say that while you’re living,” says the
ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.

_James J. Bourke_ (1837–1894).

_SHANE GLAS._

If you saw Shane Glas as he tramped to the fair,
With his fresh white shirt and his neat combed hair,
You’d never believe what a rake went by;
Why the girls--however he’s won them--the rogue--
Love the ground that is touched by the sole of his brogue,
And they follow him, ’spite of the old people’s cry--

“Sludhering Shawn, deludhering Shawn,
Whose blarneying lies might a warship float,
Let the girls alone, you big vagabone,
Or soon they’ll have reason to cry, ‘Ochone,’
Go home I say, there’s a rogue in your coat.”

He met Sally one day at the market town,
With her neat blacked shoes and her dimity gown,
And never dreamt she what a rake was nigh;
He whispered soft nothings, he pleaded with sighs,
Praised her red glowing cheek, her round breasts, her blue eyes,
And, O maid of the mountain, he left her to cry--

“Sludhering Shawn, soothering Shawn,
Traitor, on whom all the girls still doat,
Sal, Peggy, and Sue have reason to rue
The day they beheld your bright eyes of blue,
And your swaggering gait, and the rogue in your coat.”

_Translated from the Irish by J. J. Bourke._

_AN IRISH STORY-TELLER._

Meehawl Theige Oge (Murphy) was the name of the man of whom I speak. Though small in stature, he himself deemed that there never lived a more powerful man. He was not fond of speaking truth, as may be easily learnt from the following story.

He lived near Miskish, and reclaimed as much land at the base of this hill as afforded pasture to a cow or two. This, he often swore, he made so fertile that it would grow potatoes without sowing them at all. Somebody once asked him how were the new potatoes. “I’ll tell you, then,” says he. “I was setting down yesterday west there near the end of wan of the ridges, and I heard the sweetest music that ever a singer made. Wid the hate (heat) of the sun, ’tis how the _knapawns_[31] were fighting wid aich other, and they making noise and they saying like this:--

“‘Move out from me and don’t crush me so,
But you won’t, you won’t, O bitter woe!’

West wid me to the house for a spade and a skive. I hadn’t the spade in the ground right, when up popped every _knasster_[32] as big as your head. I went home in high glee,--sure, a wran’s egg wouldn’t break under me, my heart was so light,--I washed the praties for myself and hung them over the fire. Then I sat on the _seestheen_,[33] and reddened (lit) my pipe. I hadn’t a _shoch_ (whiff) and a half pulled when here are the praties fubbling. I tuk ’em off the fire at my dead aise and put ’em on the table after a spell. Glory be to God that gave ’em to me; ’tis they wor the fine ating; I never ate the like of ’em, and I won’t again too till the _Day of Flags_ (day of his burial). ’Tisn’t that itself, but they wor laffing with me, widout they knowing I was going to lie my back-teeth on ’em.”

Meehawl was often obliged to go to England. Once, after returning home, a contemptible little fellow asked him would himself find any kind of suitable employment there. Meehawl looked at him from head to foot, as he stood by the fire warming himself, though the sun was splitting the trees, the heat was so great. A fly alighted on his nose; but he gave him a slap which put an end to his pricking. “The divel,” says Meehawl, “if you had a whip I am sure you would keep the flies from the hams of bacon which I used see hanging in the houses in England!”

He was very fond of liquor, but alas! he had not the means whereby to indulge his desires. At times, however, he used to have a few shillings; then he would go to the fair,--not without bringing his blackthorn stick,--and finding some neighbour whom he made much of, they would both go and have a “drop” together, till his money was spent; after which he would make his exit from the tavern like a mad thunderbolt. And if anybody came near him he was sure to get a taste of his blackthorn. To do him justice, there were few men who could beat him fighting with a stick.

One day he came home drunk; “he had a blow on the cat and a blow on the dog.” His wife was sitting in the corner as mute as a cat, but she uttered not a word till he had slept off the effects of the drunkenness; then she asked him why he had come home as he did the night before. It did not take him long to find his answer:--“Sure,” said he, “I had to drink something to clane the cobwebs out of my throat!” The poor fellow had no stripper that winter, so that he had to eat his food dry.

I have stated before that Meehawl often had to go to England. Here is one of the stories which he used to relate after coming back:--“After going to England I was a spell widout any work, and sure it did not take me long to spind the little penny of money that I brought wid me, and I wouldn’t get a lodging anywhere, since my pocket wasn’t stiff. I put my hand in my pocket, trying for my pipe, and what should I get there but tuppence (2d.) by the height of luck. I bought a loaf of bread for myself; I ate a bit of it, and put the rest of it in the pocket of my _casoge_.[34] When it was going of me to get a lodging anywhere, what should I see a couple of steps from me but a big gun. It was a short delay for me to get into its mouth, and while you’d be closing your eye I wasn’t inside when I fell asleep. In the morning, when I was waking myself up, I didn’t feel a bit till I got a bullet that put so much hurry on me that I couldn’t ever or ever stop till I fell in a fine brickle (brittle) _moantawn_[35] in France. ‘Well, Meehawl,’ says I to myself, ‘maybe you oughtn’t complain since you didn’t fall into the say where you’d get swallowing without chawing (chewing).’ Then I thanked God who brought me safe and sound so far. I put my hand in the pocket of my _casoge_ and what should be there before me but the small little bit of bread I put into it the night before that. ‘_Food is the work-horse_, wherever you’ll be,’ says I to myself, ating up the bread dry as fast as I could. When I had it ate, I looked around me just as cute as Norry-the-bogs[36] when she’d be trying for fish in a river, but sure if I stopped looking till the _Day of Flags_, I wouldn’t get as much as the full of my eye of wan Frenchman.

“‘Well, that’s best,’ says I, going to a fine cock of hay, as high as Miskish, but high as it was, I went on top of it. I made a hole through it, and left myself into it, widout a bit of me out but the top of my nose, to draw my breath. I wasn’t there long till I fell asleep, and I didn’t feel anything till morning. When I woke up I looked round me--where was I? God for ever wid me! where was I only in the middle of the say, and my heart ruz as I thought of it right. I suppose ’tis how a cloud fell near the cock, and that ruz the flood in the river so much that it swept myself and the cock all together away--widout letting _me_ know of it. I gave myself up to God, but if I did ’tis likely I didn’t deserve much of the good from Him, for again a spell here’s a whale to me (there’s a creeping could running through me when I think of him!), and he opened his dirty mouth and he swallowed myself and the cock holus bolus.

“I wasn’t gone right till that happened me. People say that Hell is dark, but if it is as dark as the stomach of that baste, the divil entirely is in it. But that isn’t here nor there; you’d see the fish running hither and over about his stomach, some of ’em swimming fine and aisy for theirself, more of ’em lepping as light as flays (fleas), and some more of ’em bawling like young childer. ‘Ye haven’t any more right to do that nor me,’ says I, and I tuk out and opened a big knife; widout a lie it was sharp--wan blow of it would cut off the leg of the biggest horse that ever trod or walked on grass. Here am I cutting, and ’tis short till the pain pinched the whale, and begor I saw that he would like to turn off. ‘Squeeze out,’ says I, and wid that I saw the fish running out. ‘That your road may rise wid ye,’ says I; but I wasn’t going to stop till he would give the same tratement or better to myself. Here’s he blowing; ‘Blow on wid you,’ says I, and I was cutting always at such a rate that it wasn’t long till I put my knife out through his side, and I fell on the top of my head. ‘_Fooisg! fooisg!_’ says the stomach of the whale, and praise and thanks be to God, he blew me out through his mouth. He was tired of me and I was no less tired of him too. He blew me so high in the sky that I couldn’t be far from the sun, there was so much hate (heat) there. But any way I fell down safe and sound on a fine soft bog of turf that was cut only a few days before that. Nothing happened to me, only that the nail was taken off the _loodeen_[37] of my left leg!”

_Patrick O’Leary._

_THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN._

A very queer story I heard
Long ago,
In Kerry. ’Tis gruesome and weird:
Stage went slow
As we passed a ruined shebeen
On our way to Cahirciveen.

“They drank and they feasted _galore_,
With each breath
Loud calling for one bottle more!
Father Death
Came in in the midst of the cheer,
With ‘Long life to all of yez here!’

“By Crom’ell! his eyes they were bright;
Loud he laughed,
Saying, ‘Boys, we will make it a night.’
Then he quaffed
A dandy of punch in a trice,
Remarking, ‘_Da di!_ it is nice!’

“’Tis whisky that loosens the tongue!
Beard o’ Crom’!
And that same has been often sung;
Not a _gom_[38]
Was _filea_[39] that _clairsech’d_[40] the line:
O whisky’s a nectar divine!

“One welcomed the pale king with cheers;
All his life
Was channelled with woe’s soulful tears;
He had wife
That came, a black fate, in his way,
When his years were just clasping the May.

“Another--he gave furtive glance,
And grew pale--
‘This coming,’ mused he, ‘won’t entrance,
I’ll go bail,
This meeting of ours!’--week ere this,
God Hymen had made for him bliss.

“And another?--Rises the din
Loud and strong;
The whisky a-firing, Neill Finn
Said, ‘A song
We’ll have from our guest ere we’ll go!’
The guest said, ‘Well, Neill, be it so!’

“He sang them a _spirited_ stave,
Written where
The poet for bread is no slave
To black care--
‘Long life to yez!’ shouted Neill Finn;
Death smiled, and said, ‘Neill, boy, amin!’

“They called for the cards and they played,
Sure the same
‘Forty-fives’ it was named--Mike Quade
In the game
So cheated that Death said: ‘’Tis like
The wind from your sails I’ll take, Mike.’

“What time with a blow from his stick,
To the earth
He struck Mick. Then _kippeens_[41] took quick
Striking birth;
The Quade boys were there to the fore,
All longing, my dear, for red gore!

“They went for the old man, but he
Used to fight,
His glass drained, and quick as a bee
Left and right
Blows laid--when they woke from their fix,
They waited for Charon by Styx.

“The old one he stuck to the drink,
(So they tell),
Till being o’ercome (as they think),
That he fell
Down under the table--nor woke
Till day o’er the Atlantic broke.

“Forgetful of all that had passed,
He looked round,
And seeing his subjects all massed
On the ground,
He said, ‘Oh, get up from the floor,
And help me with one bottle more!’

“Since that time, the peasantry say,
Every night
Sure there is the devil to pay!
And the sight
They see--‘Sirs, no lie! ’pon my soul!’
Death drunk, _singing Beimedh a gole_!”[42]

_Charles P. O’Conor_ (1837?).

_FAN FITZGERL._

Wirra, wirra! _ologone!_
Can’t ye lave a lad alone,
Till he’s proved there’s no tradition left of any other girl--
Not even Trojan Helen,
In beauty all excellin’--
Who’s been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl?

Wid her brows of silky black
Arched above for the attack,
Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man;
Masther Cupid, point your arrows,
From this out, agin the sparrows,
For you’re bested at Love’s archery by young Miss Fan.

See what showers of goolden thread
Lift and fall upon her head,
The likes of such a trammel-net at say was never spread;
For, whin accurately reckoned,
’Twas computed that each second
Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead.

Now mintion, if you will,
Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill,
Or Mag’llicuddy’s Reeks, renowned for cripplin’ all they can;
Still the country-side confisses
None of all its precipices
Cause a quarther of the carnage of the nose of Fan.

But your shatthered hearts suppose,
Safely steered apast her nose,
She’s a current and a reef beyand to wreck them roving ships.
My meaning it is simple,
For that current is her dimple,
And the cruel reef ’twill coax ye to’s her coral lips.

I might inform ye further
Of her bosom’s snowy murther,
And ah ankle ambuscadin’ through her gown’s delightful whirl;
But what need when all the village
Has forsook its peaceful tillage,
And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl!

_Alfred Perceval Graves_ (1846).

_FATHER O’FLYNN._

Of priests we can offer a charmin’ variety,
Far renown’d for larnin’ and piety;
Still, I’d advance ye without impropriety,
Father O’Flynn is the flow’r of them all.
Here’s a health to you, Father O’Flynn,
_Slainthe_, and _slainthe_, and _slainthe_ agin;
Powerfullest preacher, and tenderest teacher,
And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Don’t talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,
Faix, and the divil and all at Divinity,
Father O’Flynn ’d make hares of them all!
Come, I venture to give ye my word,
Never the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from Mythology into Thayology,
Troth! and Conchology, if he’d the call.

Och! Father O’Flynn, you’ve a wonderful way wid you,
All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You’ve such a way wid you, Father _avick_!
Still for all you’ve so gentle a soul,
Gad, you’ve your flock in the grandest control;
Checking the crazy ones, coaxing onaisy ones,
Lifting the lazy ones on with a stick.

And though quite avoidin’ all foolish frivolity,
Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity,
Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?
Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
“Is it lave gaiety all to the laity?
Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too!”

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

_PHILANDERING._

Maureen, _acushla_, ah! why such a frown on you!
Sure, ’tis your own purty smiles should be there,
Under those ringlets that make such a crown on you,
As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear,
When from the picthers in church they look down on you,
Kneeling in prayer.

Troth, no, you needn’t, there isn’t a drop on me,
Barrin’ one half-one to keep out the cowld;
And, Maureen, if you’ll throw a smile on the top o’ me,
Half-one was never so sweet, I’ll make bowld.
But, if you like, dear, at once put a stop on me
Life with a scowld.

Red-haired Kate Ryan?--Don’t mention her name to me!
I’ve a taste, Maureen darlin’, whatever I do.
But I kissed her?--Ah, now, would you even that same to me?--
Ye saw me! Well, well, if ye did, sure it’s true,
But I don’t want herself or her cows, and small blame to me
When I know you.

There now, _aroon_, put an ind to this strife o’ me
Poor frightened heart, my own Maureen, my duck;
Troth, till the day comes when you’ll be made wife o’ me,
Night, noon, and mornin’, my heart’ll be brack.
Kiss me, _acushla_! My darlin’! The life o’ me!
One more for luck!

_William Boyle_ (1853).

_HONIED PERSUASION._

“Terry O’Rourke, ’tis your presence that tazes me;
Haven’t I towld you so often before?
If you’ve the smallest regard for what plazes me,
Never come prowlin’ round here any more.
Why you persist in this game’s what amazes me;
Didn’t I tell you I’d beaus be the score?
There’s Rody Kearney would give twenty cows to me
Any fine day that I’d let him be spouse to me.”

“Biddy, _asthore_, an’ ’tis you that is hard on me,
Whin ’tis me two wicked legs are to blame;
Troth, I believe if you placed a strong guard on me,
They’d wandher back to this spot all the same.
Saving the gates of the prison are barr’d on me,
You might as well try to keep moths from the flame,
Ducks from the water, or bees from the flowers,
As thim same legs from your door, be the powers!

“Come now, me darlin’, ’tis no use to frown on me;
Tho’ I’ve no cows, but two mules an’ a car,
You wouldn’t know but I’d yet have the gown on me,
Ringing the tunes of me tongue at the Bar.
Whin I’ve won you, who despised and looked down on me,
Shure ’tis meself that might come to be Czar.
What are you smilin’ at? Give me the hand of you,
I’ll make the purtiest bride in the land of you.”

_J. De Quincey_ (185-).

_THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT._

(AS RELATED BY ANDREW GERAGHTY, PHILOMATH.)

“Essex,” said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in the back parlour of Buckingham Palace, “Essex, me haro, I’ve got a job that I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?”

“I’m no great fist at jografy,” says his lordship, “but I know the place you mane. Population, three million; exports, emigrants.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ve been reading the _Dublin Evening Mail_ and the _Telegraft_ for some time back, and sorra one o’ me can get at the trooth o’ how things is goin’, for the leadin’ articles is as conthradictory as if they wor husband and wife.”

“That’s the way wid papers all the world over,” says Essex; “Columbus told me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin’ and conthradictin’ each other at every turn--it’s the way they make their livin’. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon.”

“It’s addled they have me betune them,” says the Queen. “Not a know I know what’s goin’ on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to Ireland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand.”

“Is it me?” says Essex, leppin’ up off his chair. “It’s not in airnest ye are, ould lady. Sure it’s the hoight of the London saison. Every one’s in town, and Shake’s new fairy piece, ‘The Midsummer’s Night Mare,’ billed for next week.”

“You’ll go when ye’re tould,” says the Queen, fixin’ him with her eye, “if you know which side yer bread’s buttered on. See here, now,” says she, seein’ him chokin’ wid vexation and a slice o’ corned beef, “you ought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you’ll be at the top o’ the walk over there as vice-regent representin’ me.”

“I ought to have a title or two,” says Essex, pluckin’ up a bit. “His Gloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o’ that.”

“How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?” says Elizabeth.

“First class,” cries Essex. “Couldn’t be betther; it doesn’t mean much, but it’s allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall door.”

Well, boys, it didn’t take him long to pack his clothes and start away for the Island o’ Saints. It took him a good while to get there, though, through not knowin’ the road; but by means of a pocket compass and a tip to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey Island. Going up to an ould man who was sittin’ on a rock, he took off his hat, and says he--

“That’s great weather we’re havin’?”

“Good enough for the times that’s in it,” says the ould man, cockin’ one eye at him.

“Any divarshun goin’ on?” says Essex.

“You’re a sthranger in these parts, I’m thinkin’,” says the ould man, “or you’d know this was a ‘band night’ in Dalkey.”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” says Essex; “the fact is,” says he, “I only landed from England just this minute.”

“Ay,” says the ould man bitterly, “it’s little they know about us over there. I’ll hould you,” says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice, “that the Queen herself doesn’t know there is to be fireworks in the Sorrento Gardens this night.”

Well, when Essex heard that, he disremembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found plenty of them--thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day--one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord Montaigle, a play-boy like himself. I’ll read you the one to the Queen first:--

“DAME STHREET, _April 16th, 1599_.

“FAIR ENCHANTRESS,--I wish I was back in London,
baskin’ in your sweet smiles and listenin’ to your melodious
voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the
post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin’ lookin’
for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O’Neil or his men can
I find. A policemin at the corner o’ Nassau Street told me they
wor hidin’ in Wicklow. So I am makin’ up a party to explore the
Dargle on Easter Monda’. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and
every minute o’ the day I do be wishin’ it was your good-lookin’
self I was gazin’ at instead o’ these ignorant scarecrows.
Hopin’ soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin’
subjec’,

“ESSEX.

“P.S.--I hear Hugh O’Neil was seen on the top o’ the Donnybrook
tram yesterday mornin’. If I have any luck the head ’ll be off
him before you get this.

“E.”

The other letter read this way--

“DEAR MONTY--This is a great place all out. Come over
here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and
the girls--oh! don’t be talkin’--’pon me secret honour you’ll
see more loveliness at a tay and supper ball in Rathmines than
there is in the whole of England. Tell Ned Spenser to send me
a love-song to sing to a young girl who seems taken wid my
appearance. Her name’s Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, so he
oughtent to find it hard. I hear Hugh O’Neil’s a terror, and
hits a powerful welt, especially when you’re not lookin’. If he
tries any of his games on wid me, I’ll give him in charge. No
brawlin’ for yours truly,

“ESSEX.”

Well, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months in Dublin, purtendin’ to be very busy subjugatin’ the country, but all the time only losin’ his time and money widout doin’ a hand’s turn, and doin’ his best to avoid a ruction with “Fighting Hugh.” If a messenger came to tell him that O’Neil was campin’ out on the North Bull, Essex would up stick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin’ the forty-foot hole, he’d write off to Elizabeth, saying that “owing to their suparior knowledge of the country, the dastard foe had once more eluded him.”

The Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always ended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Essex to finish up his business and not be makin’ a fool of himself.

“Oh, that’s the talk, is it,” says Essex; “very well, me ould sauce-box” (that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him the clip on the ear for turnin’ his back on her), “very well, me ould sauce-box,” says he, “I’ll write off to O’Neil this very minute, and tell him to send in his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.”

Well, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one--the terms being--

1. Hugh O’Neil to be King of Great Britain.

2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of England.

3. The O’Neil family to be supported by Government, with free passes to all theatres and places of entertainment.

4. The London markets to buy only from Irish dealers.

5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelope, directed to H. O’Neil, and marked “private.” Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O’Neil. Terms cash.

Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he’d have seen it was of too graspin’ a nature to pass with any sort of a respectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document in the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for England.

“Is the Queen widin?” says he to the butler, when he opened the door o’ the palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid travellin’ all night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was for not littin’ him in at the first go off, so says he very grand: “Her Meejesty is abow stairs and can’t be seen till she’s had her breakwhist.”

“Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an enterview,” says Essex.

“Oh, beg pardon, me lord,” says the butler, steppin’ to one side, “I didn’t know ’twas yourself was in it; come inside, sir; the Queen’s in the dhrawin’-room.”

Well, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin’-room wid him, muddy boots and all; but not a sight of Elizabeth was to be seen.

“Where’s your missis?” says he to one of the maids-of-honour that was dustin’ the chimbley-piece.

“She’s not out of her bed yet,” says the maid with a toss of her head; “but if you write your message on the slate beyant, I’ll see”--but before she had finished, Essex was up the second flight and knockin’ at the Queen’s bedroom door.

“Is that the hot wather?” says the Queen.

“No, it’s me,--Essex. Can you see me?”

“Faith, I can’t,” says the Queen. “Hould on till I draw the bed-curtains. Come in now,” says she, “and say your say, for I can’t have you stoppin’ long--you young Lutharian.”

“Bedad, yer Majesty,” says Essex, droppin’ on his knees before her (the delutherer he was), “small blame to me if I am a Lutharian, for you have a face on you that would charm a bird off a bush.”

“Hould your tongue, you young reprobate,” says the Queen, blushin’ up to her curl-papers wid delight, “and tell me what improvements you med in Ireland.”

“Faith, I taught manners to O’Neil,” cries Essex.

“He had a bad masther then,” says Elizabeth, lookin’ at his dirty boots; “couldn’t you wipe yer feet before ye desthroyed me carpets, young man?”

“Oh, now,” says Essex, “is it wastin’ me time shufflin’ about on a mat you’d have me, when I might be gazin’ on the loveliest faymale the world ever saw.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ll forgive you this time, as you’ve been so long away, but remimber in future that Kidderminster isn’t oilcloth. Tell me,” says she, “is Westland Row Station finished yet?”

“There’s a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,” says Essex.

“What about the Loop Line?” says she.

“Oh, they’re gettin’ on with that,” says he, “only some people think the girders a disfigurement to the city.”

“Is there any talk about that esplanade from Sandycove to Dunlary?”

“There’s talk about it, but that’s all,” says Essex; “’twould be an odious fine improvement to house property, and I hope they’ll see to it soon.”

“Sorra much you seem to have done, beyant spendin me men and me money. Let’s have a look at that threaty I see stickin’ out o’ your pocket.”

Well, when the Queen read the terms of Hugh O’Neil she just gev him one look, an’ jumpin’ from off the bed, put her head out of the window, and called out to the policeman on duty--

“Is the Head below?”

“I’ll tell him you want him, ma’am,” says the policeman.

“Do,” says the Queen. “Hello,” says she, as a slip o’ paper dhropped out o’ the dispatches. “What’s this? ‘Lines to Mary.’ Ho! ho! me gay fella, that’s what you’ve been up to, is it?”

“Mrs. Brady’s
A widow lady,
And she has a charmin’ daughter I adore;
I went to court her
Across the water,
And her mother keeps a little candy-store.
She’s such a darlin’,
She’s like a starlin’,
And in love with her I’m gettin’ more and more,
Her name is Mary,
She’s from Dunlary;
And her mother keeps a little candy-store.”

“That settles it,” says the Queen. “It’s the gaoler you’ll serenade next.”

When Essex heard that, he thrimbled so much that the button of his cuirass shook off and rowled under the dhressin’-table.

“Arrest that man,” says the Queen, when the Head-Constable came to the door; “arrest that thrater,” says she, “and never let me set eyes on him again.”

And indeed she never did, and soon after that he met with his death from the skelp of an axe he got when he was standin’ on Tower Hill.

_William Percy French_ (1854).

_THE AMERICAN WAKE._[43]

’Twas down at the Doherty’s “wake,”
(They were off to New York in the morning),
So we thought we’d a night of it make,
And gave all the countryside warning.
The girls came drest in their best,
The boys gathered too, every soul of them,
And Mary along with the rest----
’Tis she took the sway of the whole of them.

We’d a fiddler, the pipes, and a flute----
The three were enough sure to bother you,
But you danced to whichever might suit,
And tried not to think of the other two.
The frolic was soon at its height,
The small drop went round never chary,
The girls would dazzle your sight,
But all I could think of was Mary.

The first jig, faith, out she’d to go,
The piper played “Haste to the Wedding,”
And while I set to heel and toe,
You’d think ’twas on eggs she was treading.
So bright was her smile and her glance,
So dainty the modest head bowed of her,
’Tis she was the Queen of the Dance,
And wasn’t it I that was proud of her!

At last I looked out for a chair,
And off I led Mary in state to it;
But think of us when we got there,
The sorra the sign of a _sate_ to it!
Still, as there was no other free,
We thought we’d put up for a start with it--
Och, when she sat down on my knee
For an emperor’s throne I’d not part with it.

When Mary sat down on my lap
A tremor ran through every bit of me,
My heart ’gin my ribs gave a rap
As if it was going to be quit of me.
I tried just a few words to say
To show the delight and the pride of me,
But my tongue was as dry in a way
As if I’d a bonfire inside of me.

And there sat the _cailin_ as mild
As if nothing at all was gone wrong with me,
And I just as wake as a child,
To have her so cosy along with me.
My arm around her I passed
When I saw there was no one persaiving us--
“Don’t you wish, dear,” says I, at long last,
“The Dohertys always were laving us?”

The words weren’t out of my mouth
When the thieves of musicians stopped playing,
And the boys ruz a laugh and a shout,
When they listened to what I was saying.
Poor Mary as swift as a hare
Ran off ’mong the girls and hid herself,
And, except that I fell through the chair,
I fairly forget what I did myself.

The Dohertys scarce in New York
Were landed, I’m thinking, a week or more,
When a wedding took place in West Cork,
The like of it vainly you’d seek before.
Some day if my way you should pass,
Step in--I’ve a drop of the best of it;
And while Mary is mixing a glass,
I’ll try and I’ll tell you the rest of it.

_Francis A. Fahy_ (1854).

_HOW TO BECOME A POET._

Of all the sayings which have misled mankind from the days of Adam to Churchill, not one has been more harmful than the old Latin one, “A poet is born, not made.”

The human intellect, it is said, may, by patient toil and study, gather laurels in all fields of knowledge save one--that of poesy. You may, by dint of hard work, become a captain in the Salvation Army, a corporation crossing-sweeper--ay, even an unsuccessful Chief Secretary for Ireland; but no amount of labour or perseverance will win you the favour of the Muses unless those fickle-minded ladies have presided at your birth, wrapped you, so to speak, in the swaddling clothes of metre, and fashioned your first yells according to the laws of rhythm and rhyme.

Foolish, fatal fallacy! How many geniuses has it not nipped in the bud--how many vaulting ambitions has it not brought to grief, what treasures of melody has it not shut up for ever to mankind!

Hence the paucity of poetical contributions to the press, the eagerness of publishers to secure the slightest scrap of verse, the bashfulness and timidity of authors, who yet in their hearts are quite confident of their ability to transcend the best efforts of the “stars” of ancient or modern song.

Now the first thing that will strike you in reading poetical pieces is the fact that nearly all the lines end in rhymed words, or words ending in similar sounds, such as “kick, lick, stick,” “drink, ink, wink,” etc.

This constitutes the _real_ difference between prose and poetry. For instance, the phrase, “The dread monarch stood on his head,” is prose, but

“The monarch dread
Stood on his head”

is undeniable poetry.

Rhyme is, in fact, the chief or only feature in modern poetry. Get your endings to rhyme and you need trouble your head about little else. A certain amount of common sense is demanded by severe critics; the general public, however, never look for it, would be astonished to find it, and, as a matter of fact, seldom or never do find it.

By careful study of the best authors you will soon discover what words rhyme with each other, and these you should diligently record in a small note-book, procurable at any respectable stationers for the ridiculously small sum of one penny.

Few researches afford keener intellectual pleasure than the discovery of rhymes, in such words, say, as “cat, rat, Pat, scat”; “shed, head, said, dead,” and it is excellent elementary training for the young poet to combine such words into versed sentences, and even sing them to a popular operatic air.

For example----

“With that the cat
Sprang at the rat,
Whereat poor Pat
Yelled out ‘Iss-cat.’

The roof of the shed
Fell plop on his head,
No more he said,
But fell down dead.”

These first efforts of your muse are of high interest, and, although it would not be advisable to rush to press with them, they should be sedulously preserved for the use of future biographers, when fame, honours, and emoluments shall have showered in upon you.

A little caution is needed in the use of such rhymes as “fire, higher, Maria,” “Hannah, manner, dinner,” “fight, riot, quiet.” There is excellent authority for these, but it is well to recognise that an absurd prejudice does exist against them.

You will soon make the profitable discovery that there is a host of words, the members of which run, like beagles, in couples, the one invariably suggesting the other, such as “peeler, squealer”; “lick, stick”; “Ireland, sireland”; “ocean, commotion,” and so on.

“’Twas then my bold peeler
Made after the squealer;”
“He fetched him a lick
Of a murdering stick;”
“His shriek spread from Ireland,
My own beloved sireland;”
“And raised a commotion
Beyond the wide ocean.”

Were it not for such handy couplets as these, most of our modern bards would be forced to earn their bread honestly.

Of equal importance is “alliteration’s artful aid.” It consists in stringing together a number of words beginning with the same letter. A large school of our bards owe their fame to this figure. You should make a free use of it. How effective are such phrases as, “For Freedom, Faith, and Fatherland we fight or fall”; “Dear Dirty Dublin’s damp and dreary dungeons”; “Softly shone the setting sun in Summer splendour”; “Blow the blooming heather”; “Winter winds are wailing wildly.”

Of great effect at this stage of your progress will be the adroit and unstinted employment of such phrases as “I wis,” “I wot,” “I trow,” “In sooth,” “Methinks,” “Of yore,” “Erstwhile,” “Alack,” a plentiful sprinkling of which, like currants in a cake, will impart a quaint poetical flavour to your verses, making up for a total want of sense and sentiment. Observe their effect in the following admirable lines from Skott:--

“It were, I ween, a bootless task to tell
How here, of yore, in sooth, the foeman fell,
Erstwhile the Paynim sank with eerie yell,
Alack, in goodly guise, forsooth, to----.”

Of like value are words melodious in sound or poetical in suggestion, like “nightingale,” “moonlight,” “roundelay,” “trill,” “dreamy,” and so on, which, freely used, throw a glamour over the imagination and lull thought, the chiefest value of verse nowadays.

“There trills the nightingale his roundelay
In dreamy moonlight till the dawn of day.”

Note that in poetic diction you must by no means “call a spade a spade.” The statement of a plain fact is highly objectionable, and a roundabout expression has to be resorted to. For example, if a girl have red hair, describe it as

“Glowing with the glory of the golden God of Day,”

or, if Nature has blest her with a “pug-nose,” you should, like Tennyson, describe it as

“Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower”

For similar reasons words of mean significance have to be avoided. For instance, for “dead drunk,” use “spirituously disguised”; for “thirty days in quad,” “one moon in durance vile.” You may now be said to have mastered the rudiments of modern poetry, and your future course is easy.

You may now choose, although it is not at all essential, to write on a subject conveying some meaning to your reader’s mind. You would do well to try one of a familiar kind, or of personal or everyday interest, of which the following are specimens:--“Lines on beholding a dead rat in the street”; “Impromptu on being asked to have a drink”; “Reverie on being asked to stand one”; “Epitaph on my mother-in-law”; “Ode to my creditors”; “Morning soliloquy in a police cell”; “Acrostic on a shillelah.” Through pieces of this character the soul of the writer permeates. Hence their abiding value and permanency on second-hand bookstalls; Then you may seek “fresh woods and pastures new,” and weave garlands in fields untrod by the ordinary bard. One of these is “Spring.” Conceive the idea of that season in your mind. Winter gone, Summer coming, coughs being cured, overcoats put up the spout, streets dryer, coals cheaper, or--if you love nature--the strange facts of the leaves budding, winds surging, etc. Then probably the spirit (waterproof) of poesy will take possession of you, and you will blossom into song as follows:--

“’Tis the Spring! ’Tis the Spring!
Little birds begin to sing.
See! the lark is on the wing,
The sun shines out like anything;
And the sweet and tender lamb
Skips beside his great big dam,
While the rough and horny ram
Thinketh single life a sham.
Now the East is in the breeze,
Now old maids begin to sneeze,
Now the leaves are on the trees,
Now I cannot choose but sing:
Oh, ’tis Spring! ’tis Spring! ’tis Spring!”

Verses like the above have an intrinsic charm, but if you should think them too trivial, you may soar into the higher regions of thought, and expand your soul in epics on, say, “The Creation,” “The Deluge,” “The Fall of Rome,” “The Future of Man.” You possibly know nothing whatever of those subjects, but that is an advantage, as you will bring a fresh unhackneyed mind to bear upon them.

I need hardly tell you that there is one subject above all others whose most fitting garb is poetry, and that is--Love. Fall in love if you can. It is easy--nothing easier to a poet. He is mostly always in love, and with ten at a time. But if you cannot, or (hapless wretch!) if you find it an entirely one-sided affair--very little free trade, and no reciprocity--ay, even if you be a married man who walketh the floor of nights, and vainly seeketh to soothe the seventh olive-branch--despair not. To write of Love, needeth not to feel it. If not in love, imagine you are. Extol in unmeasured terms the beauty of your adored one--matchless, as the pipe-bearing stranger in the street--peerless, as the American House of Representatives. Safely call on mankind to produce her equal, and inform the world that you would give up all its honours and riches (of which you own none) for the sake of your Dulcinea; but tell them not the fact that you would not forego your nightly pipe and glass of rum punch for the best woman that ever breathed. Cultivate a melancholy mood. Call the fair one all sorts of names, heartless, cold, exacting--yourself, a miserable wight, hurrying hot haste to an early grave, and bid her come and shed unavailing tears there. At the same time keep your strength up, and don’t forget your four meals a day and a collation.

I need not touch on the number of feet required in the various kinds of verse, as if a verse lacks a foot anywhere you are almost sure to put yours in it.

And now to “cast your lines in pleasant places.”

Having fairly mastered the gamut of poetical composition, you will be open to a few hints as to the publication of your effusions. It is often suggested that the opinion of a friend should be consulted at the outset as to their value. Of course you may do so, but, as friends go nowadays, you must be prepared to ignore his verdict. It is now you will discover that even the judgment of your dearest and most intellectual friend is not alone untrustworthy, but really below contempt, and that what he styles his candour is nothing less than brutality. I have known the greatest coolnesses ascribable to this cause, and the noblest offspring of the muse consigned to oblivion in weak deference to a friendly opinion. On the other hand, it is often of great value to read aloud your longest epics to some one who is in any way indebted to you and cannot well resent it.

Where the poet’s corners of so many papers await you, the choice of a medium to convey your burning thoughts to the world will be easily made. You will scarcely be liable, I hope, to the confusion of mind of a friend of mine who, in mistake, sent his “Ode to Death” to the editor of a comic paper, and found it accepted as eminently suitable.

You should write your poem carefully on superfine paper with as little blotting, scratching, and bad spelling as you can manage.

To smooth the way to insertion, you might also write a conciliatory note to the editor, somewhat in this vein:--

“RESPECTED SIR,--It is with much diffidence that a
young poet of seventeen (_no mention of the wife and five
children_) begs to send you his first attempt to woo the
Muses (_it may be your eighty-first, but no matter_).
Hoping the same may be deemed worthy of insertion in the
widely-read columns of your admirable journal, with whose
opinions I have the great pleasure of being in thorough accord
(_you may have never read a line of it before_), I have the
honour to be, respected sir, your obedient, humble servant,

“HOMER.

“P.S.--If inserted, kindly affix my full name as A. B.; if not,
my _nom-de-plume_, ‘Homer.’

“N.B.--If inserted send me twenty copies of your valuable
paper.--HOMER.”

It will be vain to attempt to describe your feelings from the time you post that letter until you know the result of your venture. Your reason is unhinged; you cannot rest or sleep. You hang about that newspaper office for hours before the expected edition is out of the press. At last it appears. Trembling with eagerness you seize the coveted issue, and disregarding the “Double Murder and Suicide in----,” the “Collapse of the Bank of----,” the “Outbreak of War between France and Germany,” you dash to the poet’s corner and search with dazed eyes for your fate.

You may have vaguely heard, at some period of your life, of the mean, petty jealousies that befoul the clear current of journalism, and frown down new and aspiring talent, however promising, and you may have indignantly refused to believe such statements. Alas! now shall you feel the full force of their truth in your own person.

You look for your poem blindly, confusedly--amazed, bewildered, disgusted! You turn that paper inside out, upside down; you search in the Parliamentary debates, in the Money Market, in the Births, Deaths, and Marriages, in the advertisements--everywhere. No sign of it!

With your heart in your boots you turn to the “Answers to Correspondents,” there to find your _nom-de-plume_ heading some scurrilous inanity from the editorial chair, of one or other of the following patterns:--

“Homer--_Don’t_ try again!”

“Homer--Sweet seventeen. So young, so innocent. Hence we spare
you.”

“Homer--Have you no friends to look after you?”

“Homer--Do you really expect us to ruin this paper?”

“Homer--Send it to the _Telegraph_ man. We have a grudge
against him?”

“Homer--The 71st _Ode to Spring_ this year! And yet we
live.”

While it would be quite natural to indulge in any number of “cuss” words, your best plan will be to veil your wrath, and, refraining from smashing the editorial windows, write the editor a studiously polite letter, asking him to be good enough to point out for your benefit any errors or defects in the poem submitted to him. This will fairly corner him, and he will probably be driven to disclose his meanness in the next issue:--

“Homer--If you will engage to pay for the working of this
journal during the twelve months it would take us to explain the
defects in your poem, we are quite willing to undertake the job.”

Insults and disappointments like these are the ordinary lot of rising genius, and should only nerve you to greater efforts. Perseverance will ultimately win, though it may not deserve, success.