Chapter III (1)

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

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

“O giorno felice!”
--_Italian._

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

“With venerable grandeur marks the scene,”

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

“All nature wears one universal grin.”

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

_Eaton Stannard Barrett._

_THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS
STRETCHED._[7]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DARBY DOYLE’S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a place,” siz Ned.

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

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

“An’ is there no other place?” siz I.

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

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

“Not a mother’s soul,” siz he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GREATEST WONDHER OF THE WORLD
TO BE SEEN HERE!

_A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver!_

He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey!!

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

_Admittance--Half a Dollar._

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

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

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

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

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

“Have ye any use for it?” siz I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I reckon in another week,” siz he.

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

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

_Thomas Ettingsall_ (17--–1850?).

_ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_William Maginn, LL.D._ (1793–1842).

_THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY._

A MOORE-ISH MELODY.

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

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

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

_William Maginn, LL.D._

_THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS._

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

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

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

⁂

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

_William Maginn, LL.D._

_THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS._

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

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

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

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

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

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

_William Maginn, LL.D._

_DANIEL O’ROURKE._

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

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

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

“It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. ‘I thank your honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll take your kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the thrick he was going to serve me. Up--up--up, God knows how far up he flew. ‘Why then,’ said I to him--thinking he did not know the right road home--very civilly, because why? I was in his power entirely; ‘sir,’ says I, ‘please your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.’

“‘_Arrah_, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up off a _cowld_ stone in a bog.’ ‘Bother you,’ said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. ‘Where in the world are you going, sir?’ says I to him. ‘Hold your tongue, Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and don’t be interfering with the business of other people.’ ‘Faith, this is my business, I think,’ says I. ‘Be quiet, Dan,’ says he; so I said no more.

“At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way [drawing the figure thus [image] on the ground with the end of his stick].

“‘Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘I’m tired with this long fly; I had no notion ’twas so far.’ ‘And, my lord, sir,’ said I, ‘who in the world _axed_ you to fly so far--was it I? did not I beg and pray and beseech you to stop half-an-hour ago?’ ‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’ says he; ‘I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘Is it sit down on the moon?’ said I; ‘is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I’d fall off in a minute, and be _kilt_ and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver, so you are.’ ‘Not at all, Dan,’ said he; ‘you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that’s sticking out of the side of the moon, and ’twill keep you up.’ ‘I won’t then,’ said I. ‘May be not,’ said he, quite quiet. ‘If you don’t, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a fine way,’ said I to myself, ‘ever to have come along with the likes of you;’ and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.

“When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, ‘Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he, ‘I think I’ve nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year’ (’twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say), ‘and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.’

“‘Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?’ says I. ‘You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard.’ ’Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this--sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before--I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there walks--who do you think, but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush.