THE sun had gone down in a halo of glory,And cast, as it vanished, one lingering rayOn the dark field of battle where, silent and gory,The brave who had fallen for fatherland lay.Then close round the fires where the weary were sleeping,And the angel of death his stern vigil was keeping,We gathered together in sorrow and weepingFor the brave who had fallen for Erin Machree!From the first early dawn of the morn we had battled,Till the mantle of night hid the sun from our gaze;We shrank not, though balls in one leaden shower rattled,And the fire of the foe was an endless red blaze.Like waves ’gainst a rock on the hirelings before usWe charged side by side, with the green banner o’er us,While the boom of our guns pealed a thundering chorusThat spoke of the wrongs of our Erin Machree!But vainly our hot blood poured freely as water,Ah! vainly it crimsoned the emerald plains;When the bright sun sank down on that black scene of slaughter,’Twas to rise the next morn on a nation in chains!Oh! better be laid with the dead or the dying,The wild winds a requiem over us sighing,Than linger to see in the bloody dust lyingThe shot-shattered banner of Erin Machree!Yet weep not, though dark be the clouds of our sorrowWith slavery’s midnight surrounding us fast;Each cloud hath a bright side, each night hath a morrow—That morning must dawn on our island at last.Our hopes are undimmed, e’en in dying we breathe them;Our swords are untarnished, and so we bequeath themTo our sons, who some bright morn will proudly unsheathe themTo strike down the tyrants of Erin Machree!
THE sun had gone down in a halo of glory,And cast, as it vanished, one lingering rayOn the dark field of battle where, silent and gory,The brave who had fallen for fatherland lay.Then close round the fires where the weary were sleeping,And the angel of death his stern vigil was keeping,We gathered together in sorrow and weepingFor the brave who had fallen for Erin Machree!From the first early dawn of the morn we had battled,Till the mantle of night hid the sun from our gaze;We shrank not, though balls in one leaden shower rattled,And the fire of the foe was an endless red blaze.Like waves ’gainst a rock on the hirelings before usWe charged side by side, with the green banner o’er us,While the boom of our guns pealed a thundering chorusThat spoke of the wrongs of our Erin Machree!But vainly our hot blood poured freely as water,Ah! vainly it crimsoned the emerald plains;When the bright sun sank down on that black scene of slaughter,’Twas to rise the next morn on a nation in chains!Oh! better be laid with the dead or the dying,The wild winds a requiem over us sighing,Than linger to see in the bloody dust lyingThe shot-shattered banner of Erin Machree!Yet weep not, though dark be the clouds of our sorrowWith slavery’s midnight surrounding us fast;Each cloud hath a bright side, each night hath a morrow—That morning must dawn on our island at last.Our hopes are undimmed, e’en in dying we breathe them;Our swords are untarnished, and so we bequeath themTo our sons, who some bright morn will proudly unsheathe themTo strike down the tyrants of Erin Machree!
THE sun had gone down in a halo of glory,And cast, as it vanished, one lingering rayOn the dark field of battle where, silent and gory,The brave who had fallen for fatherland lay.Then close round the fires where the weary were sleeping,And the angel of death his stern vigil was keeping,We gathered together in sorrow and weepingFor the brave who had fallen for Erin Machree!
From the first early dawn of the morn we had battled,Till the mantle of night hid the sun from our gaze;We shrank not, though balls in one leaden shower rattled,And the fire of the foe was an endless red blaze.Like waves ’gainst a rock on the hirelings before usWe charged side by side, with the green banner o’er us,While the boom of our guns pealed a thundering chorusThat spoke of the wrongs of our Erin Machree!
But vainly our hot blood poured freely as water,Ah! vainly it crimsoned the emerald plains;When the bright sun sank down on that black scene of slaughter,’Twas to rise the next morn on a nation in chains!Oh! better be laid with the dead or the dying,The wild winds a requiem over us sighing,Than linger to see in the bloody dust lyingThe shot-shattered banner of Erin Machree!
Yet weep not, though dark be the clouds of our sorrowWith slavery’s midnight surrounding us fast;Each cloud hath a bright side, each night hath a morrow—That morning must dawn on our island at last.Our hopes are undimmed, e’en in dying we breathe them;Our swords are untarnished, and so we bequeath themTo our sons, who some bright morn will proudly unsheathe themTo strike down the tyrants of Erin Machree!
WHEN Earl Spencer accepted the lord-lieutenancy of Ireland, eight years ago, he did so with the avowed resolution to unearth every secret conspiracy, existing or contemplated. To accomplish this object, he decided on employing the services of trusty Bow Street runners and Scotland Yard spotters in addition to the staff of spies regularly attached to the castle. To Col. Brackenbury at first, and subsequently to Mr. Jenkinson, was entrusted the organization and control of the combined detective forces.
Among the experienced officers from Scotland Yard attached to the staff of the head inquisitor was that famous plain-clothes inspector, Joshua Timmins. Timmins by himself might have been an acquisition to Jenkinson’s battalion, but, alas! Timmins brought with him to Dublin his impressionable soul, and he was likewise accompanied by his wife, who is fully acquainted with his possession of the impressionable soulaforesaid. She is, in short, of a jealous disposition,—intensely jealous—the concentrated essence of sublimated jealousy—a Mount Vesuvius, patent torpedo, wild-cat, eighty-one-ton gun, cyclone-earthquake combination of suspicion and doubt.
She would lie awake all night to catch the ejaculations an occasional nightmare might wring from the dreaming Timmins; she would loosen all the buttons on his cuffs and collar, to ascertain if they would get a renewed tenure from any rival fingers; she would strengthen his constitution every morning by making him eat two or three strong onions, in the hope that their powerful odor would keep predatory bees in petticoats from sipping the honey off his lips; and she would affix surreptitious pins in the back of his waistcoat and round his coat-collar as a sort ofchevaux-de-friseto repel illegal embraces. Of course she Grahamized his letters, and when, now and then, the postman’s rat-tat aroused the happy pair from late slumbers, it was quite an exciting and picturesque, though rather chilling, spectacle, to witness the pair—he with one trousers’ leg on the wrong limb and the other thrown over his shoulder; she with her hair in curl-papers, and a miscellaneous collection of petticoats, blankets, and bed-quilts hanging promiscuously about her—careering down the stairs in a mad steeplechase to that winning post, the door.
Sometimes they would run a dead heat, and a confused mixture of night-dresses, and slippers, and bare arms, and loud voices would burst out upon the bewildered postman, and his whole delivery would besnatched from his hand, and, before he could recover his breath, the amazing kaleidoscope would disappear with a bang, and nothing would remain to remind him of it save perhaps the tail of a masculine robe of slumber which had been caught in the door, or some strange article of feminine toilet which had been shed upon the front steps.
Then the government messenger would awake the echoes with extra professional solos on the knocker and improvised overtures on the bell, but he had invariably to wait for his confiscated missives till one or other of the staircase competitors had donned the habiliments of civilization. The mail Mercury, half an hour behind time, would proceed on his route with official expressions of opinion not to be found in any postal manual.
Of course, the lady had some excuse for these symptoms of a weakness not phenomenal in her sex. In his bachelor days Timmins had been a sad fellow. Long before the term “masher” had been incorporated into our rich language, Constable Timmins had been a masher of the mashiest type. London constables are proverbially easy victims to Cupid’s darts and cold victuals, but Timmins was by far the most susceptible martyr to Love’s young dream in the entire A division.
He didn’t confine his amorous proclivities to cooks or housemaids either. A landlady was not beyond the range of his passionate ardor, and there is a romantic tradition in the force that he once proposed to a maiden lady of property, and was kicked down-stairs by her stony-hearted brother. He was madly smitten by anew object of adoration about every five minutes. He was a rejected and blighted being on an average twice a week. An introduction to any member of the fairer sex, from a school-girl to an octogenarian, was followed in a quarter of an hour or so by an offer of his hand and heart. He wasn’t in the least particular as to face, figure, fortune, rank, age, or color. If rejected, he loafed around for a couple of days, heaving out fog signals in the way of sighs, and looking as melancholy as an owl in a shower-bath. If accepted, he left the fair one with vows of eternal constancy, and forgot all about her before he had turned the first corner.
In this manner he had vowed undying love to two hundred and seventeen cooks, forty-three chambermaids, nineteen housekeepers, and four washerwomen, before he met his fate in Julia, the present Mrs. Timmins.
His rash matrimonial pledges forced him to change his beat at frequent intervals. Eleven spinsters were on the lookout for him in Berkeley Square, so that was forbidden territory to him. Sixteen breach of promise actions were threatened from Tottenham Court road, and he dare not pass that classic ground even on top of an omnibus, except on a wet day, when he could hide himself under an umbrella. A squadron of big brothers and a linked battalion of stern fathers around Sydenham wanted to know his intentions, and he could only venture through that popular London suburb in an effort to beat the record on a bicycle.
No wonder that he hailed with delight the chance of escape from all these horrors which a trip to Irelandafforded him. But, alas! he brought across the channel with him that inflammable bosom that had been kindled so often with the warmth of love’s flickering torch. He had not been in Dublin a week before he had pledged his no longer youthful affections to one of the lay figures on which the monster house of Todd, Burns & Co. display their unparalleled sacrifices—“Original price, 2 guineas; selling off for 17s. 6d.!!”
The evening was wet. It was also dusky. Timmins was arrayed to conquer in a swallow-tailed coat and a lavender cravat. This was one of the elaborate costumes by which the London detective fondly hoped to win the confidence of the Irish conspirators and worm himself into their secrets. To preserve this gorgeous get-up, he sheltered it from the pelting rain in the hospitable doorway of Todd, Burns & Co.
By and by he became aware of the presence of a female form divine. (It was the wirework arrangement on which the two-guinea sacrifice was hung, but it was too dark for Timmins to notice the label.) He could not see her face, but her figure was perfection. He felt an exquisite thrill under his left-hand waistcoat pocket.
He slid a little nearer to the charming stranger. He ventured a modest observation about the rain. No reply. “Sweet, shy, blushing creature!” he murmured, and approached a foot or so closer. Then he began to hold forth about weather in general, Italian sunsets, Swiss snow-storms, mists on the Scottish mountains, fogs in the London slums, moonlight effects on the helmets of the police, tempests, cyclones, tornadoes,water-spouts, frozen gas-meters, and other beauties of nature. Still no response.
“Ah, poor soul! She trembles at a voice which, no doubt, wakens reciprocal echoes in her bosom. Let me reassure her.” And he edged up alongside the silent object of his thoughts, and launched out into a disquisition about love at first sight, and sudden sympathies, and electric affinities, and he quoted Byron and Moore, and finally, in a stage whisper, asked, “Couldst thou, fair unknown, share with a kindred spirit the joys, the hopes, the aspirations, and all that sort of thing, of this brief life? Wouldst thou venture with a responsive soul to dare the scorn and sneers, the proud man’s hate, the rich man’s contumely, and the other goings on of the ’igh and ’aughty? Willest thou fly with me to sunnier climes?—we’ll take the tramcar to Harold’s Cross or Inchicore. Why art thou silent, beauteous being? Behold me, dearest Belinda, or Evangeline, or Kate, or Mary, or Jemima, or Sarah Jane, or whatever thy sweet name may be—behold me at thy feet!”
And he flopped down upon his knees, but in doing so knocked over the bemantled framework, and his head got entangled in the wire and tapes of which it was constructed, and he put one foot through a sheet of plate-glass and tied the other up in a “choice assortment of all-wool shirts at half a crown, reduced from four shillings.” When a policeman was called in, and he was given into custody for an audacious attempt at robbery, his cup of bitterness was so full that he spilled some of it in the shape of tears.
The incident became known. Jenkinson sent for thetender-hearted Timmins, and gave him to understand that dry goods stores were not the most likely places to find Invincibles, and that the dude who couldn’t tell the difference between a milliner’s dummy and a sprightly Irish colleen would be as likely as not to arrest a tobacconist’s negro on a charge of dynamite conspiracy. Under all the circumstances, he thought it better for the amorous Timmins to return to London, where drapers’ figures are less attractive than in the Irish metropolis.
This is the true and circumstantial history of the catastrophe which shortened the stay of the lynx-eyed Timmins in the Emerald Isle, albeit those wonderfully informed London journals, theStandardandDaily Telegraph, published paragraphs to the effect that Timmins’ unsleeping vigilance had made him such a marked man that it was deemed advisable to remove him from the sphere of danger. Mrs. T. knows better, and Timmins himself has registered an awful vow never to let loose the torrents of his policeman’s soul again except in the glare of broad noonday, or at least beneath the effulgence of a three-thousand-candle-power electric light.
WHEN members have taken their usual places,And, insult to Bradlaugh, the prayers have been read,The exiles of Erin, with pitiless faces,Fling queries by scores at the Sassenach’s head;And as, one by one, question follows on question,Lost Balfour, still farther and farther at sea,In agony mental that spoils his digestion,But murmurs, “I wish I were out in Fiji!”“Can you tell me,” asks one, in a deep tone of thunder,“How much buckshot is fatal, administered where?”“Don’t you know,” cries another, in accents of wonder,“The average size of potatoes in Clare?”A third seeks a legal opinion, withoutEven gratitude proffered by way of a fee,And a youth wants to know has the premier the gout,While Balfour would fain be exiled to Fiji.Affairs of the person, affairs of the State,Affairs of the church, and affairs of the bar,What should be a sub-constable’s average weight?Does he ever indulge in the national car?Is he properly versed in diseases of cattle?Is it whiskey he swigs when he’s out on a spree?And he moans as the queries about his ears rattle,“Great God, how I wish I were out in Fiji!”
WHEN members have taken their usual places,And, insult to Bradlaugh, the prayers have been read,The exiles of Erin, with pitiless faces,Fling queries by scores at the Sassenach’s head;And as, one by one, question follows on question,Lost Balfour, still farther and farther at sea,In agony mental that spoils his digestion,But murmurs, “I wish I were out in Fiji!”“Can you tell me,” asks one, in a deep tone of thunder,“How much buckshot is fatal, administered where?”“Don’t you know,” cries another, in accents of wonder,“The average size of potatoes in Clare?”A third seeks a legal opinion, withoutEven gratitude proffered by way of a fee,And a youth wants to know has the premier the gout,While Balfour would fain be exiled to Fiji.Affairs of the person, affairs of the State,Affairs of the church, and affairs of the bar,What should be a sub-constable’s average weight?Does he ever indulge in the national car?Is he properly versed in diseases of cattle?Is it whiskey he swigs when he’s out on a spree?And he moans as the queries about his ears rattle,“Great God, how I wish I were out in Fiji!”
WHEN members have taken their usual places,And, insult to Bradlaugh, the prayers have been read,The exiles of Erin, with pitiless faces,Fling queries by scores at the Sassenach’s head;And as, one by one, question follows on question,Lost Balfour, still farther and farther at sea,In agony mental that spoils his digestion,But murmurs, “I wish I were out in Fiji!”
“Can you tell me,” asks one, in a deep tone of thunder,“How much buckshot is fatal, administered where?”“Don’t you know,” cries another, in accents of wonder,“The average size of potatoes in Clare?”A third seeks a legal opinion, withoutEven gratitude proffered by way of a fee,And a youth wants to know has the premier the gout,While Balfour would fain be exiled to Fiji.
Affairs of the person, affairs of the State,Affairs of the church, and affairs of the bar,What should be a sub-constable’s average weight?Does he ever indulge in the national car?Is he properly versed in diseases of cattle?Is it whiskey he swigs when he’s out on a spree?And he moans as the queries about his ears rattle,“Great God, how I wish I were out in Fiji!”
SEVEN hundred years of blood and tears, of famine and of chains,Of outlaws on the mountain path and victims on the plains,Of blazing homes and bleeding hearts to glut a tyrant’s rage,Of every crime that ever time recorded in his page,Have failed to quench the burning sparks of freedom that illume,With radiance bright, the centuried night of fettered Ireland’s gloom:Nor guile nor force could stay its course beyond a moment’s pause,For ever still, through good or ill, marched on the glorious cause!Its heroes flung their naked breasts on Strongbow’s hireling spears,And Essex saw them shatter his proud line of cavaliers,And what though Cromwell’s fraud and craft had blunted Irish swords,They still could deal rude blows of steel on William’s German hordes.The after years beheld, ’tis true, the old green flag laid by,No gleaming of its sunburst flashed across the ambient sky,But yet in many a faithful breast, spite cruel penal laws,The love remained, undimmed, unstained, that glorified the cause.It sprang to life, in brief, stern strife, in storied Ninety-eight;It only slept when Erin wept o’er gallant Emmet’s fate;O’Connell’s accent broke the trance, and found the cause once moreStill burning in the nation’s soul as brightly as of yore.Hunger and fever stifled for an hour its thrilling tones,And paved the deep encircling seas with bleaching Irish bones;But, ah, the brave old race too well its inspiration draws,And how it flamed when Three brave lives were given for the cause.What is that cause that time nor change has ever known retreat,That smiles at persecution and that triumphs in defeat,That mingles with the ozone in the Irish infant’s breath,Whose memories soothe the pillow in the lonely exile’s death?’Tis mother Ireland’s liberty, expansive and complete,No aliens in her senate, in her armies or her fleet;Faithful to this the tribune gains the multitude’s applause,And the scaffold is a kingly throne ascended for the cause!
SEVEN hundred years of blood and tears, of famine and of chains,Of outlaws on the mountain path and victims on the plains,Of blazing homes and bleeding hearts to glut a tyrant’s rage,Of every crime that ever time recorded in his page,Have failed to quench the burning sparks of freedom that illume,With radiance bright, the centuried night of fettered Ireland’s gloom:Nor guile nor force could stay its course beyond a moment’s pause,For ever still, through good or ill, marched on the glorious cause!Its heroes flung their naked breasts on Strongbow’s hireling spears,And Essex saw them shatter his proud line of cavaliers,And what though Cromwell’s fraud and craft had blunted Irish swords,They still could deal rude blows of steel on William’s German hordes.The after years beheld, ’tis true, the old green flag laid by,No gleaming of its sunburst flashed across the ambient sky,But yet in many a faithful breast, spite cruel penal laws,The love remained, undimmed, unstained, that glorified the cause.It sprang to life, in brief, stern strife, in storied Ninety-eight;It only slept when Erin wept o’er gallant Emmet’s fate;O’Connell’s accent broke the trance, and found the cause once moreStill burning in the nation’s soul as brightly as of yore.Hunger and fever stifled for an hour its thrilling tones,And paved the deep encircling seas with bleaching Irish bones;But, ah, the brave old race too well its inspiration draws,And how it flamed when Three brave lives were given for the cause.What is that cause that time nor change has ever known retreat,That smiles at persecution and that triumphs in defeat,That mingles with the ozone in the Irish infant’s breath,Whose memories soothe the pillow in the lonely exile’s death?’Tis mother Ireland’s liberty, expansive and complete,No aliens in her senate, in her armies or her fleet;Faithful to this the tribune gains the multitude’s applause,And the scaffold is a kingly throne ascended for the cause!
SEVEN hundred years of blood and tears, of famine and of chains,Of outlaws on the mountain path and victims on the plains,Of blazing homes and bleeding hearts to glut a tyrant’s rage,Of every crime that ever time recorded in his page,Have failed to quench the burning sparks of freedom that illume,With radiance bright, the centuried night of fettered Ireland’s gloom:Nor guile nor force could stay its course beyond a moment’s pause,For ever still, through good or ill, marched on the glorious cause!
Its heroes flung their naked breasts on Strongbow’s hireling spears,And Essex saw them shatter his proud line of cavaliers,And what though Cromwell’s fraud and craft had blunted Irish swords,They still could deal rude blows of steel on William’s German hordes.The after years beheld, ’tis true, the old green flag laid by,No gleaming of its sunburst flashed across the ambient sky,But yet in many a faithful breast, spite cruel penal laws,The love remained, undimmed, unstained, that glorified the cause.
It sprang to life, in brief, stern strife, in storied Ninety-eight;It only slept when Erin wept o’er gallant Emmet’s fate;O’Connell’s accent broke the trance, and found the cause once moreStill burning in the nation’s soul as brightly as of yore.Hunger and fever stifled for an hour its thrilling tones,And paved the deep encircling seas with bleaching Irish bones;But, ah, the brave old race too well its inspiration draws,And how it flamed when Three brave lives were given for the cause.
What is that cause that time nor change has ever known retreat,That smiles at persecution and that triumphs in defeat,That mingles with the ozone in the Irish infant’s breath,Whose memories soothe the pillow in the lonely exile’s death?’Tis mother Ireland’s liberty, expansive and complete,No aliens in her senate, in her armies or her fleet;Faithful to this the tribune gains the multitude’s applause,And the scaffold is a kingly throne ascended for the cause!
[An Irish girl, hearing that her brother Pat had been killed in the Royal Irish, fighting against the Mahdi, said: “It served Pat right. He had no business going out there to fight those poor creatures (the Arabs). May God strengthen the Mahdi.”—London Graphic.]
[An Irish girl, hearing that her brother Pat had been killed in the Royal Irish, fighting against the Mahdi, said: “It served Pat right. He had no business going out there to fight those poor creatures (the Arabs). May God strengthen the Mahdi.”—London Graphic.]
IHAVE no tears for brother Pat,Though stark he lies, and stiff and gory,On the Egyptian desert, thatHe might assist in England’s glory.The foes he fought were not his own,Nor his the tyrant’s cause he aided;Then why should I his fate bemoan?O brother, faithless and degraded!He saw how Saxon laws at homeHad crushed his sires and banned his brothers,Why should he cross the ocean’s foamTo place that hated yoke on others?The Arabs slew him in a fightFor all by brave and free men cherished—Ay, for the cause of truth and right,For which his kith and kin had perished.No Arab chief in Ninety-eightPlaced foot on Erin’s shore as foeman;They lent no spears to swell the hateOf Hessian hound and Orange yeoman.But those who wrapt our homes in flameAnd trod us down like dumb-brute cattle—It was for them—oh, burning shame!My brother gave his life in battle.Sure, every memory of lateMust from his wretched heart have vanished;Our hills and valleys desolate,Our ruined homes, our people banished.And yet, God knows, he learned in youthThe gloomy story of his sireland—Drank in at mother’s knees the truthThat England is the scourge of Ireland.I cannot weep for brother Pat—I hate the hellish cause he died for;False traitor to the freedom thatHis brothers strove, his sisters sighed for;E’en when in tearful dreams I seeThe parching sands drift blood-stained o’er him,My grief is changed to anger. HeWas treacherous to the land that bore him!
IHAVE no tears for brother Pat,Though stark he lies, and stiff and gory,On the Egyptian desert, thatHe might assist in England’s glory.The foes he fought were not his own,Nor his the tyrant’s cause he aided;Then why should I his fate bemoan?O brother, faithless and degraded!He saw how Saxon laws at homeHad crushed his sires and banned his brothers,Why should he cross the ocean’s foamTo place that hated yoke on others?The Arabs slew him in a fightFor all by brave and free men cherished—Ay, for the cause of truth and right,For which his kith and kin had perished.No Arab chief in Ninety-eightPlaced foot on Erin’s shore as foeman;They lent no spears to swell the hateOf Hessian hound and Orange yeoman.But those who wrapt our homes in flameAnd trod us down like dumb-brute cattle—It was for them—oh, burning shame!My brother gave his life in battle.Sure, every memory of lateMust from his wretched heart have vanished;Our hills and valleys desolate,Our ruined homes, our people banished.And yet, God knows, he learned in youthThe gloomy story of his sireland—Drank in at mother’s knees the truthThat England is the scourge of Ireland.I cannot weep for brother Pat—I hate the hellish cause he died for;False traitor to the freedom thatHis brothers strove, his sisters sighed for;E’en when in tearful dreams I seeThe parching sands drift blood-stained o’er him,My grief is changed to anger. HeWas treacherous to the land that bore him!
IHAVE no tears for brother Pat,Though stark he lies, and stiff and gory,On the Egyptian desert, thatHe might assist in England’s glory.The foes he fought were not his own,Nor his the tyrant’s cause he aided;Then why should I his fate bemoan?O brother, faithless and degraded!
He saw how Saxon laws at homeHad crushed his sires and banned his brothers,Why should he cross the ocean’s foamTo place that hated yoke on others?The Arabs slew him in a fightFor all by brave and free men cherished—Ay, for the cause of truth and right,For which his kith and kin had perished.
No Arab chief in Ninety-eightPlaced foot on Erin’s shore as foeman;They lent no spears to swell the hateOf Hessian hound and Orange yeoman.But those who wrapt our homes in flameAnd trod us down like dumb-brute cattle—It was for them—oh, burning shame!My brother gave his life in battle.
Sure, every memory of lateMust from his wretched heart have vanished;Our hills and valleys desolate,Our ruined homes, our people banished.And yet, God knows, he learned in youthThe gloomy story of his sireland—Drank in at mother’s knees the truthThat England is the scourge of Ireland.
I cannot weep for brother Pat—I hate the hellish cause he died for;False traitor to the freedom thatHis brothers strove, his sisters sighed for;E’en when in tearful dreams I seeThe parching sands drift blood-stained o’er him,My grief is changed to anger. HeWas treacherous to the land that bore him!
COME up, comrades, up, see the night draweth on,And black shadows loom over fair Slieve-namon;The darkness is creeping o’er mountain and vale,And our footsteps are drowned in the roar of the gale.Our proud foemen rest in yon valley below,And their slumbering guards never dream of a foe:Then up, comrades, up, ere the bright sun appearsWe’ll have vengeance galore for the sufferings of years.They have plundered our homes and foredoomed us to dieOf famine and want ’neath the cold winter sky;Our roof-trees are blazing, our altars o’erthrown,And ’tis treason to ask or to hope for our own;Our kinsmen lie food for the ravens and crows—They craved but for bread, and were answered with blows;And because we won’t perish while feasting they be,Oh, robbers, and traitors, and cut-throats are we!We’re robbers to snatch back our own from their hand,We’re traitors because we are true to our land,And cut-throats, ha! ha! so the cowards can feelThat we, like themselves, carry points to our steel!They have hunted us down now for many a day;To-night they shall find us the hunters, not they;For we’ll bend to their foul yoke no longer, we’ll swear,Whilst we’ve arms that can strike, boys, or hearts that can dare.
COME up, comrades, up, see the night draweth on,And black shadows loom over fair Slieve-namon;The darkness is creeping o’er mountain and vale,And our footsteps are drowned in the roar of the gale.Our proud foemen rest in yon valley below,And their slumbering guards never dream of a foe:Then up, comrades, up, ere the bright sun appearsWe’ll have vengeance galore for the sufferings of years.They have plundered our homes and foredoomed us to dieOf famine and want ’neath the cold winter sky;Our roof-trees are blazing, our altars o’erthrown,And ’tis treason to ask or to hope for our own;Our kinsmen lie food for the ravens and crows—They craved but for bread, and were answered with blows;And because we won’t perish while feasting they be,Oh, robbers, and traitors, and cut-throats are we!We’re robbers to snatch back our own from their hand,We’re traitors because we are true to our land,And cut-throats, ha! ha! so the cowards can feelThat we, like themselves, carry points to our steel!They have hunted us down now for many a day;To-night they shall find us the hunters, not they;For we’ll bend to their foul yoke no longer, we’ll swear,Whilst we’ve arms that can strike, boys, or hearts that can dare.
COME up, comrades, up, see the night draweth on,And black shadows loom over fair Slieve-namon;The darkness is creeping o’er mountain and vale,And our footsteps are drowned in the roar of the gale.Our proud foemen rest in yon valley below,And their slumbering guards never dream of a foe:Then up, comrades, up, ere the bright sun appearsWe’ll have vengeance galore for the sufferings of years.
They have plundered our homes and foredoomed us to dieOf famine and want ’neath the cold winter sky;Our roof-trees are blazing, our altars o’erthrown,And ’tis treason to ask or to hope for our own;Our kinsmen lie food for the ravens and crows—They craved but for bread, and were answered with blows;And because we won’t perish while feasting they be,Oh, robbers, and traitors, and cut-throats are we!
We’re robbers to snatch back our own from their hand,We’re traitors because we are true to our land,And cut-throats, ha! ha! so the cowards can feelThat we, like themselves, carry points to our steel!They have hunted us down now for many a day;To-night they shall find us the hunters, not they;For we’ll bend to their foul yoke no longer, we’ll swear,Whilst we’ve arms that can strike, boys, or hearts that can dare.
YOU tendered us when famine cameThe pity of a thought,Bestowed to slaves whose sense of shameAnd hearts and souls you’d bought.Time’s wheel turns round—you’ve lost your place,And right into your tyrant face,Your jibes and sneersOf many yearsAt victims’ tearsAre thrown,And in God’s name,Our hearts aflame,To-day we claimOur own!Once for ye, skulking, lazy elves,Muscle and brain we wrought.Toiled, starved, and died—scarce for ourselvesThe crumbs of Lazarus sought;And when ye flung us out a crust,Our faces grovelling in the dust,We gave ye thanks—No prize, all blanksIn our poor ranksWas known;But now, thank God,We’ve spurned your rod,And claim this sodOur own!We lift our faces to the skyWhere once our heads were bowed,We breathe no more a timid sigh,But speak our thoughts aloud.From dizzy hill and peaceful plainOur voices join in this refrain:The seeds we sow,The crops we grow,The fields we mow,Alone,Without your aidIn cash or spadeAt last are madeOur own!
YOU tendered us when famine cameThe pity of a thought,Bestowed to slaves whose sense of shameAnd hearts and souls you’d bought.Time’s wheel turns round—you’ve lost your place,And right into your tyrant face,Your jibes and sneersOf many yearsAt victims’ tearsAre thrown,And in God’s name,Our hearts aflame,To-day we claimOur own!Once for ye, skulking, lazy elves,Muscle and brain we wrought.Toiled, starved, and died—scarce for ourselvesThe crumbs of Lazarus sought;And when ye flung us out a crust,Our faces grovelling in the dust,We gave ye thanks—No prize, all blanksIn our poor ranksWas known;But now, thank God,We’ve spurned your rod,And claim this sodOur own!We lift our faces to the skyWhere once our heads were bowed,We breathe no more a timid sigh,But speak our thoughts aloud.From dizzy hill and peaceful plainOur voices join in this refrain:The seeds we sow,The crops we grow,The fields we mow,Alone,Without your aidIn cash or spadeAt last are madeOur own!
YOU tendered us when famine cameThe pity of a thought,Bestowed to slaves whose sense of shameAnd hearts and souls you’d bought.Time’s wheel turns round—you’ve lost your place,And right into your tyrant face,Your jibes and sneersOf many yearsAt victims’ tearsAre thrown,And in God’s name,Our hearts aflame,To-day we claimOur own!
Once for ye, skulking, lazy elves,Muscle and brain we wrought.Toiled, starved, and died—scarce for ourselvesThe crumbs of Lazarus sought;And when ye flung us out a crust,Our faces grovelling in the dust,We gave ye thanks—No prize, all blanksIn our poor ranksWas known;But now, thank God,We’ve spurned your rod,And claim this sodOur own!
We lift our faces to the skyWhere once our heads were bowed,We breathe no more a timid sigh,But speak our thoughts aloud.From dizzy hill and peaceful plainOur voices join in this refrain:The seeds we sow,The crops we grow,The fields we mow,Alone,Without your aidIn cash or spadeAt last are madeOur own!
SO the toil of the session is over,My woes for a period cease,And hey for a journey by DoverTo latitudes promising peace;Away to recuperate vigor—Away from obstruction’s mad spell—Away from the questions of Biggar—Away from the taunts of Parnell.No more my poor head shall be achingWith night after night of debate—No more shall my soul feel a quakingAt bald, irrepressible prate.And, though ocean attack me with rigor,While sea-sick, with joy I will dwellOn the fact that I’m leaving Joe Biggar,And getting away from Parnell.No more to be quizzed on each captureOf priest or of peasant by night—I could dance the can-can in my rapture,Or stand on my head with delight.Play the banjo and sing like a nigger,Or like a wild Irishman yellHurroo! I am free from Joe Biggar,And don’t give—ahem—for Parnell!Yet I feel an occasional spasmAt thoughts of returning at all,’Twere better to leap down a chasmOr under an avalanche fall;Or, fingers embracing the trigger,Let the pistol’s report loudly tellHow I hated the queries of BiggarAnd the dolorous talk of Parnell.
SO the toil of the session is over,My woes for a period cease,And hey for a journey by DoverTo latitudes promising peace;Away to recuperate vigor—Away from obstruction’s mad spell—Away from the questions of Biggar—Away from the taunts of Parnell.No more my poor head shall be achingWith night after night of debate—No more shall my soul feel a quakingAt bald, irrepressible prate.And, though ocean attack me with rigor,While sea-sick, with joy I will dwellOn the fact that I’m leaving Joe Biggar,And getting away from Parnell.No more to be quizzed on each captureOf priest or of peasant by night—I could dance the can-can in my rapture,Or stand on my head with delight.Play the banjo and sing like a nigger,Or like a wild Irishman yellHurroo! I am free from Joe Biggar,And don’t give—ahem—for Parnell!Yet I feel an occasional spasmAt thoughts of returning at all,’Twere better to leap down a chasmOr under an avalanche fall;Or, fingers embracing the trigger,Let the pistol’s report loudly tellHow I hated the queries of BiggarAnd the dolorous talk of Parnell.
SO the toil of the session is over,My woes for a period cease,And hey for a journey by DoverTo latitudes promising peace;Away to recuperate vigor—Away from obstruction’s mad spell—Away from the questions of Biggar—Away from the taunts of Parnell.
No more my poor head shall be achingWith night after night of debate—No more shall my soul feel a quakingAt bald, irrepressible prate.And, though ocean attack me with rigor,While sea-sick, with joy I will dwellOn the fact that I’m leaving Joe Biggar,And getting away from Parnell.
No more to be quizzed on each captureOf priest or of peasant by night—I could dance the can-can in my rapture,Or stand on my head with delight.Play the banjo and sing like a nigger,Or like a wild Irishman yellHurroo! I am free from Joe Biggar,And don’t give—ahem—for Parnell!
Yet I feel an occasional spasmAt thoughts of returning at all,’Twere better to leap down a chasmOr under an avalanche fall;Or, fingers embracing the trigger,Let the pistol’s report loudly tellHow I hated the queries of BiggarAnd the dolorous talk of Parnell.
THERE may be some miserable beings to whom the existence of that powerful organ of public opinion, the StretchvilleSparrow, is a sealed volume, or, more correctly, an unopened newspaper. Should such be the melancholy fact, I hasten to inform them that the StretchvilleSparrow(videits own circular) is a power, a forty-horse power, in the universe. Circulating, as it does, among the three hundred adults of Stretchville and vicinity, it wields an influence that inspires awe and creates astonishment. As befits a journal with responsibilities so tremendous, and a status so imposing, it aims to keep abreast of the times. So when the Land League agitation had brought Ireland and the Irish prominently forward, and such lesser luminaries as the New YorkHeraldandTribuneandTimesand the BostonHeraldand a score of other dailies had their specials over in the sorrowful country, theSparrowfelt imperatively called upon to bestow its approval by following the example. Stubbs, the head reporter, bookkeeper, advertisement canvasser, and proof-reader, was therefore ordered to hold himself in readiness to embark on a perilous journey (via the editorial back room) through the wilds of Connemara and the mountains of Kerry. He was equipped for the expedition with a school map of Ireland and an old copy of Thom’s Dublin Directory, which contained a list of all the landed gentry of the country.
His instructions were brief, but they covered a lot ofground. “You know as much about the country now,” observed his chief, “as if you were there. We’ve got to lick the New YorkHeraldand the rest of ’em. Whenever you see an Irish murder in another paper, let us have two. There’s nearly two thousand names in that directory. With judicious management they ought to last till this Irish boom pegs out. You’d better tick each landlord off when you telegraph his demise. It won’t do to shoot one fellow three or four times. People want variety. You might skin a bailiff or scalp a policeman now and then. Go ahead at once, and give us some lively telegrams.”
Well, itwaslively for a few weeks after that in theSparrow. One day we had: “Fearful Murders in Ireland—Seven Landlords Shot!” The next there was a six-inch heading, “Cannibalism in Connemara—Six Agents Stewed and a Sub-Inspector Fricasseed!” Then when theTribunecame out with a summary of three months’ Irish outrages, and showed that there had been fourteen murders of agents and landlords, and one hundred and seven assaults upon bailiffs and process servers, that conscientious reporter, who had been told to double every crime reported elsewhere, and who didn’t grasp the fact that theTribune’swas a three-months’ record, paralyzed the readers of theSparrowwith a blood-curdling telegram to the effect that there had been a horrible night’s battue in the Emerald Isle, twenty-eight landlords and agents having handed in their checks, and two hundred and fourteen officers of the law having suffered every conceivable indignity, from swallowing writs and processes on the half-shell,to being stripped naked and turned loose for light recreation in nettle beds or around wasps’ nests. By this time the special had got half through his directory, and the list of names eligible for assassination was rapidly dwindling down, so he had to improvise a few. His boss, too, complained that there was a lack of variety in his telegrams. He had wiped out four or five hundred land-owners in pretty nearly the same sentences every time. He should diversify the details. He diversified. Here’s his style:—
“Galway, Tuesday.—A man named M’Swilkin took a farm last week from which the previous tenant had been evicted. He was waited upon yesterday evening by a few neighbors. It is estimated that he weighed forty pounds heavier after the interview. The surgeons have been three days excavating for lead, and haven’t done striking new veins yet.”“At a land-meeting near Castlebar last week, Michael Moolannigan boasted that he had paid his rent. His widow complains that she can’t hold a decent wake on a pair of braces and two buttons. She wants more of him, to give the funeral a respectable appearance.”
“Galway, Tuesday.—A man named M’Swilkin took a farm last week from which the previous tenant had been evicted. He was waited upon yesterday evening by a few neighbors. It is estimated that he weighed forty pounds heavier after the interview. The surgeons have been three days excavating for lead, and haven’t done striking new veins yet.”
“At a land-meeting near Castlebar last week, Michael Moolannigan boasted that he had paid his rent. His widow complains that she can’t hold a decent wake on a pair of braces and two buttons. She wants more of him, to give the funeral a respectable appearance.”
This special correspondence continued to be telegraphed from the editorial sanctum, and dated Sligo or Cahirciveen or Letterkenny, according to the scene of the last big thing in murders, until readers began to get kind of hardened to it, and didn’t mind half-a-dozen murders in Ireland quarter as much as they would the same number of errors in a base-ball match. Under the circumstances, it was thought as well to drop the Irish agency. “You had better return,” observed the chief, as they sat smoking together at the hospitablebar next door. “We’ll wind up your Irish tour with an interview. I’ll interview you. Just throw us in a few spicy maimings or strangulations for this issue, and you can be home next Saturday, and your interviewing will be handy for Sunday’s edition.” I give the interview as it appeared in theSparrow, to show how scrupulously truthful was that Irish correspondent:—
“Yesterday, the gentleman who has represented us in Ireland, and whose energy enabled us to publish information which no other journal was in a position to obtain at that period or at any other, visited Stretchville. As we had not seen Mr. Blank before his departure for Hibernian shores, and were anxious to notice for ourselves what manner of man this was who for the past four months has been carrying his life in one hand, his repeater in the other, and his note-book and pencil in ——. But to abbreviate.
“We found him a pale, calm, intellectual-looking gentleman, upon whose brow the impress of truth and candor were stamped in Nature’s indelible marking-ink. He was accompanied by a miserable anatomy of a greyhound, whose spectral leanness was a miracle. It had no tail. The thin elongation of its body was so superlative that it seemed as if Nature had given up in despair the task of adding a caudal appendage in shadowy proportion to the other outlines. Our curiosity was excited, and we asked him how he came into possession of the canine ghost.
“‘I do not like telling the story,’ he answered; ‘I have a horror of being suspected of giving utterance to an untruth. But this mute witness will corroboratemy tale by the want of his own. You remember I was down in the West of Ireland during the recent famine. My mission brought me into Ballykill—something or somebody. I never witnessed anything like the destitution among the landlords there in my life before. They were worn to threads.
“‘I was informed that on a moonlight night it took three of them to make a shadow. I would not have believed myself that less than a dozen could produce anything like a respectable shade.
“‘Well, one landlord, who had been master of the hounds, had only two of the pack left. He and his family had lived during the winter upon the others.
“‘The first of these two dogs, poor creature, fell to pieces trying to bark at me—just collapsed like a house of cards.
“‘The second animal you see with me. His sagacity was remarkable. He felt it his duty to bark at the stranger, but the fate of his companion warned him of the danger. So he leaned carefully against a wall, and succeeded in emitting a howl. I was struck by his extraordinary instinct. I bought him from his skeleton owner, a poor lath of a fellow you could blow out with a puff like a rush-light.
“‘I gave the man a shilling for him—in two sixpences, so that he could balance himself. If he had got the shilling to carry in either side pocket, it would have brought him down.
“‘I shall always take credit to myself for preserving that poor man’s centre of gravity.
“‘I brought the dog to my hotel. I left him in thedining-room, but, fearing he might slip under the door, I tied a double knot on his tail. In my brief temporary absence he smelt some scraps of meat in the bottom of a cupboard. He got through the keyhole as far as his tail. He couldn’t get the double knot through but he was able to reach the meat. He fed. You see the result. He could get no farther in, and after his feed he couldn’t get back past his stomach. I found him in that position when I returned. To save him from a lingering death, I had to vivisect his tail.’
“We ventured to hint that there might be a mistake about the double knot. The dog was of a breed whose tails are naturally short; so much so, that it would require hydraulic pressure to squeeze a double knot out of one. Our special was too virtuously indignant to reply for a moment, but, coming to, he explained that, going to rest supperless, the Irish landlords’ dogs had acquired a habit of sleeping with their tails in their mouths, which filled their minds with dreams of food. This had a tendency to lengthen out the canine latter end. ‘And, at any rate,’ concluded our contributor, ‘I would scorn to tell a lie for the sake of a knot on a dog’s tail!’”
WHEN in sorrow and darkness they left their lov’d home,They won, far away, o’er the ocean’s salt foam,A bright wreath of laurels that never shall fade.A welcome they found from fair France and proud Spain,Whose honor and glory they fought to maintain;And wherever the Sassenach showed his false face,’Twas to meet the avengers of Erin’s disgrace,And front the bright steel of the Irish Brigade!Oh wild was their rush and exultant their shout,When the signal to charge from the bugle rang out,—The fire of their hearts seemed to temper each blade.They thought of the land they had left o’er the sea,And the brave who had perished, dear Erin, for thee,Then one cheer for Old Ireland, a curse on her foes,Like the peal of the thunder to heaven aroseFrom the lips and the souls of the Irish Brigade!When France, torn and bleeding, her chivalry slain,Lay gasping and faint upon Fontenoy’s plain,Not vain the appeal that her proud monarch made;The war-cry of Erin, a wild slogan, rangO’er the clamor of battle, as swiftly they sprangFrom their feet to the charge, and with avalanche mightSwept down on the victors, who scattered in flight,Borne back by the steel of the Irish Brigade!Then, hurrah! for the fame of our faithful and brave,Unforgotten they rest, though across the deep wave,In far distant lands, are their weary bones laid.Long, long be remembered the lesson they taught,They loved the green island, and died where they fought;With face to the foeman unconquered they fell.May we fight the battle of freedom as wellFor the flag and the cause of the Irish Brigade!
WHEN in sorrow and darkness they left their lov’d home,They won, far away, o’er the ocean’s salt foam,A bright wreath of laurels that never shall fade.A welcome they found from fair France and proud Spain,Whose honor and glory they fought to maintain;And wherever the Sassenach showed his false face,’Twas to meet the avengers of Erin’s disgrace,And front the bright steel of the Irish Brigade!Oh wild was their rush and exultant their shout,When the signal to charge from the bugle rang out,—The fire of their hearts seemed to temper each blade.They thought of the land they had left o’er the sea,And the brave who had perished, dear Erin, for thee,Then one cheer for Old Ireland, a curse on her foes,Like the peal of the thunder to heaven aroseFrom the lips and the souls of the Irish Brigade!When France, torn and bleeding, her chivalry slain,Lay gasping and faint upon Fontenoy’s plain,Not vain the appeal that her proud monarch made;The war-cry of Erin, a wild slogan, rangO’er the clamor of battle, as swiftly they sprangFrom their feet to the charge, and with avalanche mightSwept down on the victors, who scattered in flight,Borne back by the steel of the Irish Brigade!Then, hurrah! for the fame of our faithful and brave,Unforgotten they rest, though across the deep wave,In far distant lands, are their weary bones laid.Long, long be remembered the lesson they taught,They loved the green island, and died where they fought;With face to the foeman unconquered they fell.May we fight the battle of freedom as wellFor the flag and the cause of the Irish Brigade!
WHEN in sorrow and darkness they left their lov’d home,They won, far away, o’er the ocean’s salt foam,A bright wreath of laurels that never shall fade.A welcome they found from fair France and proud Spain,Whose honor and glory they fought to maintain;And wherever the Sassenach showed his false face,’Twas to meet the avengers of Erin’s disgrace,And front the bright steel of the Irish Brigade!
Oh wild was their rush and exultant their shout,When the signal to charge from the bugle rang out,—The fire of their hearts seemed to temper each blade.They thought of the land they had left o’er the sea,And the brave who had perished, dear Erin, for thee,Then one cheer for Old Ireland, a curse on her foes,Like the peal of the thunder to heaven aroseFrom the lips and the souls of the Irish Brigade!
When France, torn and bleeding, her chivalry slain,Lay gasping and faint upon Fontenoy’s plain,Not vain the appeal that her proud monarch made;The war-cry of Erin, a wild slogan, rangO’er the clamor of battle, as swiftly they sprangFrom their feet to the charge, and with avalanche mightSwept down on the victors, who scattered in flight,Borne back by the steel of the Irish Brigade!
Then, hurrah! for the fame of our faithful and brave,Unforgotten they rest, though across the deep wave,In far distant lands, are their weary bones laid.Long, long be remembered the lesson they taught,They loved the green island, and died where they fought;With face to the foeman unconquered they fell.May we fight the battle of freedom as wellFor the flag and the cause of the Irish Brigade!
JUSTICE in Ireland, as administered by those awful instruments of the law, the omniscient J. P.’s, is a profoundly solemn thing. The high priest of the Jewish sanctuary, the sacred Brahmin of the Buddhist temple, the Sheikh-ul-Islam of the Mohammedan faith, has only about one-tenth the idea of his own stupendous importance that a West British honorary magistrate possesses. They believe themselves to be not only pillars and ornaments of the glorious English Constitution, but its very corner-stones. Therefore, when one of these Olympic deities condescends to unbend to our more humble level, and actually makes a joke, we should be grateful to his Mightiness for letting us know that, great as he is, he is but human after all. Such an incident is worthy of imperishable record, and we eagerly copy the following from an Irish exchange:—
“In giving his decision at the Abbeyfeale quarter sessions relative to an alleged insult to a sub-constable, which insult consisted of the defendant’s whistling ‘Harvey Duff,’ the chairman said: ‘There is a difference between a policeman and an ordinary individual. When a policeman is hooted or whistled at, it is the office he holds is held up to contempt. It is not Sub-Constable Snooks [laughter] that is insulted, but it is the office that is held by Snooks.’ [Laughter.]”
“In giving his decision at the Abbeyfeale quarter sessions relative to an alleged insult to a sub-constable, which insult consisted of the defendant’s whistling ‘Harvey Duff,’ the chairman said: ‘There is a difference between a policeman and an ordinary individual. When a policeman is hooted or whistled at, it is the office he holds is held up to contempt. It is not Sub-Constable Snooks [laughter] that is insulted, but it is the office that is held by Snooks.’ [Laughter.]”
Who but an Irish J. P. could have emitted from his brilliant intellect that bright sparkle about Snooks? The delicacy and yet the pungency of the wit, added to the simplicity and yet profundity of the reasoning,deserve immortalizing in glowing verse, and with feelings of deepest admiration I dedicate this rhythmic paraphrase of his wonderful ideas to that gorgeous Abbeyfeale chairman:—
IF you notice a policeman at the corner of a streetIn an energetic struggle with a pair of erring feet,A decided inclination to lie down upon his beat,And confusion quite apparent in his looks,An odor floating round him you’d no reason to expect,You have not got the slightest cause to cavil or object;The law is oft mysterious, and, stranger, recollect,’Tis the law’s inebriated, and not Snooks.A policeman is no ordinary mortal; so supposeIt unfortunately happens, as it might do, that there growsA pimple at the end of 27’s Roman nose,Which his dignity but very little brooks.You must not, at your peril, venture carelessly to laugh,And avoid like trichinosis any tendency to chaff,Unless you wish to seek the rude acquaintance of his staff—’Tis the law that has that pimple, and not Snooks!
IF you notice a policeman at the corner of a streetIn an energetic struggle with a pair of erring feet,A decided inclination to lie down upon his beat,And confusion quite apparent in his looks,An odor floating round him you’d no reason to expect,You have not got the slightest cause to cavil or object;The law is oft mysterious, and, stranger, recollect,’Tis the law’s inebriated, and not Snooks.A policeman is no ordinary mortal; so supposeIt unfortunately happens, as it might do, that there growsA pimple at the end of 27’s Roman nose,Which his dignity but very little brooks.You must not, at your peril, venture carelessly to laugh,And avoid like trichinosis any tendency to chaff,Unless you wish to seek the rude acquaintance of his staff—’Tis the law that has that pimple, and not Snooks!
IF you notice a policeman at the corner of a streetIn an energetic struggle with a pair of erring feet,A decided inclination to lie down upon his beat,And confusion quite apparent in his looks,An odor floating round him you’d no reason to expect,You have not got the slightest cause to cavil or object;The law is oft mysterious, and, stranger, recollect,’Tis the law’s inebriated, and not Snooks.
A policeman is no ordinary mortal; so supposeIt unfortunately happens, as it might do, that there growsA pimple at the end of 27’s Roman nose,Which his dignity but very little brooks.You must not, at your peril, venture carelessly to laugh,And avoid like trichinosis any tendency to chaff,Unless you wish to seek the rude acquaintance of his staff—’Tis the law that has that pimple, and not Snooks!
TOWARDS the close of the year 1867, that mighty empire, the drum-beat of whose soldiers welcomes the sun all round the world, was plunged into one of those periodical visitations of panic which have afflicted her like an intermittent nightmare since the naughtypranks of Fenianism first disturbed the digestions of her statesmen. Three brave men had just been hanged in the city of Manchester for the rescue of two rebel leaders, and Ireland mourned them as martyrs, while the guilty conscience of England quaked in hourly fear of a retribution which was felt to be deserved, and of which more than one indication had been foreshadowed. For, to say nothing of the terrible explosion at Clerkenwell, London, by which some twenty people were killed and hundreds more or less seriously wounded, every metropolitan and provincial paper shrieked forth dire warnings of mysterious plots, awful conspiracies, and blood-curdling revelations. A red-headed Irishman had been discovered prowling round the Warrington Gas Works. That smoky Lancashire town was instantly declared in a state of siege. The volunteers were called out, every male between the ages of twelve and eighty was sworn in as a special constable, and in the terrible confusion of the time many of the sturdy Anglo-Saxons so far lost their presence of mind as to beat other fellows’ wives instead of their own, while some of them became such hopeless imbeciles as to behave like Christians for a whole week. Soon after the bodies of two dead cats were seen in the canal at Crewe, within a hundred yards of the mayor’s residence. So convinced was that functionary that they were stuffed with nitro-glycerine or fulminate of mercury that he took the first express for London, and thence telegraphed to the chief constable to seize the suspicious feline carcasses. With the assistance of a detachment of engineers and the entire police force of Crewe, the remains of the defuncttabbies were brought to land, but there wasn’t a chemist in England’s borders would undertake a post-mortem examination, so they were carefully conveyed far out into St. George’s channel, and committed to the depths of the silent waters.
It was in Manchester, however, that the most abject state of alarm existed. The military guards were trebled, the police force was augmented by all the men that could be spared from the county constabulary, the Irish population was placed under the closest surveillance; watchmen patrolled the neighborhood of all public buildings and important warehouses, which were amply supplied with bags of sand and buckets of water in view of any possible conflagration, the sand being for the especial contingency of Greek-fire, which is like Irish eloquence in one respect, that it can’t be quenched by cold water, and must therefore be smothered. So overwhelmed was the superintendent of the Manchester police, Capt. Palin, by his responsibilities, that he ran away from them along with the wife of the resident magistrate, Mr. Fowler. In his absence, the duty of guarding the city from the Fenian bombs, dynamite, powder, bullets, daggers, and shillelaghs devolved upon the commandant of the Ninety-second Highlanders, who were then in garrison at Manchester. It is easy to imagine the horror of this officer when, a few days after his appointment, he received a letter containing the details of a diabolical plot to destroy the city and annihilate the troops. On a given night the gas mains were to be severed, and in the ensuing darkness the town was to be fired in a hundred places, the barracks attackedby a few thousand wild Irishmen, armed with pikes, bowie-knives, hand grenades, bottles of vitriol, Remington rifles, sledge-hammers, and revolvers, and the devoted Cameron men chopped into as many fragments as the squares of their tartans.
Their chief at first was overwhelmed. He swallowed three mutchkins of Glenlivat and consumed a quarter-pound of snuff in two minutes without knowing it. Recovering somewhat, he summoned a hasty council of the Macintoshes and the Mackenzies and the Macgregors of those various ilks, and after many applications of the barley bree and sundry inhalations of Lundyfoot, a plan of defence was agreed upon. The sentries were doubled, and the remainder of the garrison ordered to sleep upon their arms. Sand-bags were piled in every convenient corner, barrels and buckets and tubs of water ranged on every staircase, and, greatest effort of the entire strategy, each kilted warrior was provided with two tallow candles and a box of matches. Unfortunately, they received no orders as to how the illuminating agents were to be utilized in the event of an Egyptian darkness suddenly enshrouding them in gloom. Consequently they were much divided in opinion as to whether one Highlander was to hold the candles while the other did the shooting; or should each Highlander carry his own candle in his bonnet or his kilt; or were they to pile the candles in a pyramid on the ground, and form a square around them; or was it possible the candles were intended for rations, should the siege last any time. Luckily no occasion arose for testing the brilliancy of the candleidea or of the candles themselves, but for days afterwards a doughty mountaineer from Inverness or Aberfeldy would be surprised, when at the friendly fireside of some hospitable countryman in Manchester, to find Niagaras of grease rolling impetuously down his nether limbs, and would learn too late that he had forgotten to take his strange munitions of war out of his pocket, and was consequently indulging in a warm tallow bath. In time the story oozed out, and until this day that battalion of the Ninety-second is known to the gamins of Manchester as the Caledonian Candlesticks.