MY FATHER'S OLD HALL.

MY FATHER'S OLD HALL.BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON.I.Though the dreams of ambition are faded and o'er,And the world with its glitter can charm us no more;Tho' the sunbeams of fancy less vividly play,And in reason's calm twilight are melting away;Still thought loves to wander, entranced in the mazeOf the joys and the hopes of those earlier days.Fond mem'ry delights life's best moments to callIn the scene of my childhood, my Father's Old Hall!II.Oh! light were the hearts which have met 'neath the domeOf that once gaily throng'd, but now desolate home;And light were the spirits that crowded the hearthOf social enjoyment and innocent mirth;When the laugh echo'd round at the wit-sparkling jest,And the roses of innocence bloom'd in each breast;Whose fragrance, once shed, Time can never recall,Like the garlands we wreath'd round my Father's Old Hall!III.Now scatter'd, dispers'd, 'mid the heartless and proud,Where wander the steps of that once happy crowd?Some have toil'd the steep rock towards the temple of Fame,To snatch from her altars a wreath and a name;Some have sought honour's death on the field or the wave;Some have found in the land of the strangera grave!The chain is now broken, the links sever'd all,That united the hearts in my Father's Old Hall!

BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON.

I.Though the dreams of ambition are faded and o'er,And the world with its glitter can charm us no more;Tho' the sunbeams of fancy less vividly play,And in reason's calm twilight are melting away;Still thought loves to wander, entranced in the mazeOf the joys and the hopes of those earlier days.Fond mem'ry delights life's best moments to callIn the scene of my childhood, my Father's Old Hall!II.Oh! light were the hearts which have met 'neath the domeOf that once gaily throng'd, but now desolate home;And light were the spirits that crowded the hearthOf social enjoyment and innocent mirth;When the laugh echo'd round at the wit-sparkling jest,And the roses of innocence bloom'd in each breast;Whose fragrance, once shed, Time can never recall,Like the garlands we wreath'd round my Father's Old Hall!III.Now scatter'd, dispers'd, 'mid the heartless and proud,Where wander the steps of that once happy crowd?Some have toil'd the steep rock towards the temple of Fame,To snatch from her altars a wreath and a name;Some have sought honour's death on the field or the wave;Some have found in the land of the strangera grave!The chain is now broken, the links sever'd all,That united the hearts in my Father's Old Hall!

Though the dreams of ambition are faded and o'er,And the world with its glitter can charm us no more;Tho' the sunbeams of fancy less vividly play,And in reason's calm twilight are melting away;Still thought loves to wander, entranced in the mazeOf the joys and the hopes of those earlier days.Fond mem'ry delights life's best moments to callIn the scene of my childhood, my Father's Old Hall!

Though the dreams of ambition are faded and o'er,

And the world with its glitter can charm us no more;

Tho' the sunbeams of fancy less vividly play,

And in reason's calm twilight are melting away;

Still thought loves to wander, entranced in the maze

Of the joys and the hopes of those earlier days.

Fond mem'ry delights life's best moments to call

In the scene of my childhood, my Father's Old Hall!

II.

Oh! light were the hearts which have met 'neath the domeOf that once gaily throng'd, but now desolate home;And light were the spirits that crowded the hearthOf social enjoyment and innocent mirth;When the laugh echo'd round at the wit-sparkling jest,And the roses of innocence bloom'd in each breast;Whose fragrance, once shed, Time can never recall,Like the garlands we wreath'd round my Father's Old Hall!

Oh! light were the hearts which have met 'neath the dome

Of that once gaily throng'd, but now desolate home;

And light were the spirits that crowded the hearth

Of social enjoyment and innocent mirth;

When the laugh echo'd round at the wit-sparkling jest,

And the roses of innocence bloom'd in each breast;

Whose fragrance, once shed, Time can never recall,

Like the garlands we wreath'd round my Father's Old Hall!

III.

Now scatter'd, dispers'd, 'mid the heartless and proud,Where wander the steps of that once happy crowd?Some have toil'd the steep rock towards the temple of Fame,To snatch from her altars a wreath and a name;Some have sought honour's death on the field or the wave;Some have found in the land of the strangera grave!The chain is now broken, the links sever'd all,That united the hearts in my Father's Old Hall!

Now scatter'd, dispers'd, 'mid the heartless and proud,

Where wander the steps of that once happy crowd?

Some have toil'd the steep rock towards the temple of Fame,

To snatch from her altars a wreath and a name;

Some have sought honour's death on the field or the wave;

Some have found in the land of the strangera grave!

The chain is now broken, the links sever'd all,

That united the hearts in my Father's Old Hall!

PORTRAIT GALLERY.—No. IV.CANNON FAMILY.—JOURNEY TO BOULOGNE.When Alexander the Great was gazetted commander-in-chief of the Macedonian forces, and was concocting the eighteen manœuvres at the Horse-guards of that celebrated country; when he was about fighting Darius, Xerxes, and Porus; when Cæsar was invading Gaul and Britain; when the Benedictine monks were compiling "L'Art de verifier les dates;" when Sterne was writing Tristram Shandy; when Burton was anatomizing melancholy; when the companions of Columbus were puzzling their brains to find out how an egg could stand on end; when Mrs. Glass was concocting her cookery-book, and Bayle his dictionary; their minds were as smooth and as calm as a fish-pond, a milk-bowl, a butter-boat, an oil-cruet, compared with the speculative and prospective anxieties of all the Cannons as they were rattled on towards Dover, on their way to the land of promise, where milk and honey were to be found flowing,—longevity in apothecaries' shops,—modesty purchased at milliners' counters,—and decorum taught by opera-dancers. In these Utopian dreams, England was considered an uninhabitable region of fogs, mists, tyranny, corruption, consumption, and chilblains; the fate of Nineveh was denounced on London,—the modern Babylon; and, had it been burning from Chelsea bun-house to Aldgate pump, and from the Elephant and Castle to the Wheatsheaf at Paddington, the Cannons would not have dared to cast "a lingering look behind them" without dreading the lot of the Lots.After their due share of impositions, thanks and curses, maledictions or valedictions, as they had been "genteel" or "shabby" with waiters, chambermaids, boots, porters, postilions, and hostlers on the road, the party arrived at Dover, and of course "put up," or rather, were "put down," at the Ship. But here fresh reasons for abhorring England were in store. When the waiters saw the arms of the Cannons on their panels, and the dragon, and the motto "Crepo," they all crowded round the travellers; but, like many apparently good things in this world, the inside of the fruit did not appear as attractive as its external bloom; and as the Cannons tumbled out, or jumped out, or rolled out, or staggered out of their vehicles, with all sorts of parcels and bundles, in brown and whity-brown paper, and pocket-handkerchiefs of silk and of cotton, without any of those neat and elegant cases containing all sorts of necessary articles for travellers in health or in sickness, and which form an invariable part of fashionable travellers' luggage, the waiters and the lookers-on seemed to consider the Cannons with looks that, without much knowledge of physiognomy, might have been interpreted "These people have no business here." They were reluctantly shown into a parlour, and to bed-rooms at the top of the house, with the usual formal apology, "Sorry, ma'am, we can't afford better accommodation; our house is quite full: the Duke of Scratchenburg and his suet is just come over from Germany, and the Prince of Hesse Humbuginstein is hourly looked for. Coming—going—coming—oh, Lord, what a life! going—going directly!"The Cannons were hungry; dinner was orderedimmediately. Now it was the height of presumption—nay, of impudence—on the part of a hungry citizen, without courier orvalet de chambre, or supporters to his arms, to make use of such an aristocratic adverb.Immediatelyimplies servitude, slavery, servility, at the nod of a master,—ay, and of an accidental master, an interloper in command. Is a free-born Englishman to run helter-skelter up and down stairs at the risk of breaking his neck, to hurry the cook, to expose himself to a forfeit of one shilling (not being a gentleman) by swearing and cursing in the teeth of the 19 Geo. 2. c. 21, when the cook tells the officious waiter not to bother him, or, if the weather is hot and the fire is fierce, bids him, by a natural association of ideas, to go to h—; and all this because an ex-tallow-chandler is hungry, and wants animmediatedinner! Forbid it, glorious constitution! forbid it, bill of rights!Old Commodus Cannon pulled the bell until the rope remained in his hand unconnected with its usual companion; for be it known for the information of impatient voyagers, that in modest apartments the said ropes are only attached by slender ties, which give way when vigorously jerked, that servants may not be disturbed. At last a waiter, bearing in his knitted brows the apprehension of a miserable shilling "tip" on departure, came in to inform the party that dinner would be served as soon as possible, but that the Duke of Scratchenburg and Prince Hesse Humbuginstein's dinners busied every hand in the house; but, if the gentlemenchose, there was a hot joint serving up in the coffee-room.Cannon was outrageous, and swore that he would go to another hotel."You are perfectly welcome to do so, sir, if you like.""I'll represent your behaviour to all our friends!" exclaimed Mrs. Cannon."None of our acquaintance shall ever put up in this house," added Miss Cannon."Then, ladies," replied the waiter, with a ludicrous heavy sigh, "we shall be obliged to shut up shop!"At last an apology for a dinner was served; beefsteaks, potatoes, and a gooseberry tart. No oyster sauce!—the last oyster had been served to his Grace! No fish!—the last turbot had been served to his Serene Highness!"Your port wine and your sherry are execrable!""His Grace thought them excellent."Cannon was bubbling over, but he philosophized over a glass of punch; and his family comforted themselves, over a cup of tea, with the thoughts of their speedy departure from "horrible England."Peter Cannon complained in the coffee-room of the treatment they had experienced, and he felt not a little annoyed when his interlocutor, a perfect stranger, observed that "they would have been much more comfortable had they put up at a second or third-rate hotel." They seemed created for wanton insult. Cornelius Cannon strolled out to inquire if there was anything to be seen in Dover; an insolent groom told him that, if he would go up to the Castle, he might see "arum cannon" that carried a ball to Calais. Had he been a gentleman, Cornelius must have called him out, for he fancied that the term "rum cannon" had been a personality.The next morning the packet was to sail. Here again fresh outrages were heaped upon them. They were asked for the keys of their trunks, to be examined at the custom-house!"Why, what the deuce do they fancy I can have to export?" exclaimed Commodus Cannon."Why, sir, perhaps it might be some machinery."There was something wantonly offensive in the insinuation that a man like Mr. Commodus Cannon should smuggle out a steam-engine, an improved loom, or a paper-mill, in his luggage! What could have been the cause of all these indignities? Simply this, as it was subsequently discovered: Sam Surly, being hungry, and not over nice, despite a brown and gold-laced red-collared livery, and military cockade, had gone to thetapto enjoy a pull of half-and-half; and, unaccustomed to travel, had gone into the kitchen for some "victuals," instead of joining the board of the other under-gentlemen in the house. On the other hand, Sukey Simper, both for the sake of comfort and economy, had brought with her a bottle of rum, and some loaf-sugar wrapped up in brown paper, and, having been shown to her attic quarters, forthwith prepared a potation to refresh herself after her journey: neither being aware that it is part and parcel of a servant's duty in a respectable family to run up a heavy score at their master's expense. Now, Sam Surly had also picked up an old Yorkshire acquaintance, with whom he repaired to another eating-house, where, over a bowl of generoushumpty-dumpty, Sam was prevailed upon to take charge of asmall parcelof little articles for a present at Boulogne, and, to avoid payingfreight, he was recommended to conceal the said trifles in his capacious corduroy unmentionables.As Messrs. Cannons were perambulating the streets of Dover, they observed sundry gentlemen, some of them lords, wearing sailors' jackets and hats, and they therefore determined to turn out in a marine costume; for which purpose they hied to a Jew slop-seller for their outfit. Mr. Cannon, senior, donned a pea-coatie, with a pair of ample blue trousers, and a glazed hat with a jaunty riband; while his sons soon strutted about the town in yacht-club uniforms, with their hands knowingly thrust in the pockets of their jackets, resplendent with anchored buttons. They felt satisfied that they had produced "the desired effect," for every one stared at them as they stalked along in "rank entire," Commodus Cannon leading the van, and the ladies—enraptured at the appearance of the male part of the family—bringing up the rear. They were certainly annoyed by the impertinent observations of the vulgar people, boys and girls, who, with the usual English bad taste, did not know better,—who would titter, and exclaim, "I say, there goes the horse-marines!""No, no," cried another; "it's the famous Sea Cook and his sons wot uncovered the Sandwich Islands!""I say, commodore, how are they all in theFleet?" roared out a costermonger."Poor old gentleman! his eyebrows are worn out, looking out for squalls through agrating?" said a fourth.While a boatswain sang out, and whistled in Cannon's ear,"Yer, yer! man the sides! there's the flying Dutchman coming on board!""Sing out for Captain Yokell, cockswain!" bellowed an impertinent sailor.Now, strange to say, these observations, which might have offended some sensitive persons, highly gratified our travellers. They had already obtained what they so ardently desired—notoriety, and had a chance of seeing their names inprint; for, even when a man is abused and ridiculed, if it is inprint, the sting carries with it its own antidote. He becomes public property; he is something; "There goes that confounded ass, Mr. Such-a-one! there goes that rum cove, Mr. What's-his-name!" Then, if he can but get himself caricatured, he is a made man. Were it not for the gratification derived from such publicity, would so many people walk, and talk, and dress, or undress, in the absurd manner we daily witness in our lounges? A certain lord was honoured with an hebdomadary flare-up by a certain weekly paper as regularly as church-bells are rung on the sabbath. It was expected that his lordship would have purchased the editor's silence,—absurd expectation! One might as well expect that a jolly prebend would decline sitting in half-a-dozen stalls at the same time. No, no; the editor abused on until he was tired of abusinggratis; when his lordship was so much annoyed that he paid to have scurrilous articles inserted, forwarded by himself.Two packets were about starting, a French one and an English one. The Cannons were resolved to punish their ungrateful countrymen, and embarked under the colours of France. A numerous French family were repairing on board; and, as the gentlemen wore a red riband in their button-holes, our party concluded they were noblemen. The two families were grouped near each other; and the French, with their usual condescension, honoured the Cannons with their countenance, conversing as well as persons scarcely acquainted with each other's language can conveniently converse.The morning was fine; but lowering clouds and a white sun would have induced experienced mariners to expect a fresh breeze. With great volubility of execrations the Gaul got under weigh, and paddled on slowly, while the English packet shot by like a dart. The French captain smiled at this swiftness, and, shrugging up his shoulders, exclaimed,"Ces Anglais! ça n'a pas d'expérience!—nous verrons tout à l'heure!" he added, rubbing his hands with delight.The influence of dress is wonderful. A certain costume seems to impart to the wearer, ideas pertaining to the class of society which he then personates. A lawyer's wig and gown make a man fancy that he could plead, and he regrets that he was not brought up to the bar. A civilian, who attends a fancy ball in a splendid uniform, is inspired with courageous ideas, which a free potation ofrefreshmentfans into a martial ardour. Now the Cannons did truly consider themselves sailors. The young men walked up and down the deck boldly, endeavouring to show how they could tread a plank or a seam on "sea legs" without staggering, although there was no more motion than under Kew-bridge; and then they would cast a knowing eye at the compass as they passed the binnacle, to ascertain if the helmsman steered judiciously, although the compass was as little known to them as the Koran. Then they would suddenly stop, and look at the sky; then suck their fingers, and hold them up, toseewhich way the wind blew; and, when their cigars were out they would whistle or hum "Rule Britannia!" or, "You gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease," while they were lighting other havannahs.Old Cannon was equally busy; but he was seated amongst the ladies,encouragingthem against sea-sickness, which he said was all nonsense, and, if they wereverysick, recommended them most particularly to turn their faces to the wind, and to keep their veils before them not toseethesea. Then to the French gentlemen he endeavoured to describe the battles of the Nile and of Trafalgar; and the Frenchmen of course concluded from his age, language, and appearance, that he was at least an admiral.A "cat's-paw," as the sailors call it, had now ruffled the surface of the water, and the vessel commenced heaving; ere long, most of the passengers assisted the packet in conjugating the verb "heave;" when, strange to say, the powers of the pea-jacket and the anchor-buttons were exhausted, and all the Cannons were drawn out,—a broadside of unutterable misery. Old Cannon roared out "he was a-dying," and begged they would send for a doctor; and while he was rolling, and twisting, and twining upon the deck in agony, the cabin-boy was cleansing him with a wet swab. As to the Miss Cannons, they were assisted below,—not by their brothers, who, with dismay in their countenances, were "holding on" at every thing and every one they could catch, until a sudden regurgitation made them rush in desperation to the bulwark, with closed eyes and extended arms. Strange to say, the French gentlemen were not sick! possibly their red riband was more effectual than blue jackets; but they indulged their mirth at the expense of old Cannon, exclaiming,"Mais, voyez donc, ce pauvre Monsieur de Trafalgar!"It now was blowing fresh, and, to add to their misery, the paddles, by some mismanagement of the engineer, got obstructed, and the vessel was completely water-logged.The French passengers got frightened, and began shaking old Cannon, roaring out,"Monsieur de Trafalgar, à la manœuvre! à la manœuvre!""Oh Lord! oh Lord!" exclaimed the old man in a piteous tone, "are we arrived?""No, sare! we sall all arriver down to de bottom. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!""Monsieur de Trafalgar, you do see! vat is de matter!" exclaimed a poor Frenchwoman, who had rolled over him.The captain swore that it all arose from their having an English steam-engine, which his owner had insisted upon. Fortunately for the party, there happened to be an English sailor on board, who had all the while been sleeping on the bows, and who started at the uproar and the loud curses of the French crew: every one giving an advice which no one followed and all contradicted. He jumped down below, and in a few moments all was right again. When he returned upon deck, the captain, with a smile of importance, observed,"I do suppose, sare, dat you have been vere long time in France; dat is de metod of which we do make use in circonstances similar.""Circumstances similar!" exclaimed Jack, as he thrust a quid inhis cheek, "then, why the h—didn't you do it yourself, you beggar?" and off he went to roost, as the Frenchman, pale with rage, muttered a "sacré Godam!"Soon, however, the harbour of Boulogne was made, and the crowd of its idle inhabitants were congregated as usual on the pier, to variegate the sameness of their amusements by the arrival of fresh food for curiosity and gossip regularly supplied by the packets. Unfortunately it was low water, and the steamer could not get in; it therefore became necessary that the passengers should be landed on the backs of fisherwomen, who are always ready saddled on these occasions for the carriage of voyagers. Great were the cries and the shrieks of the Miss Cannons and their mamma when thus mounted; but old Cannon, recovered from his sickness, seemed quite delighted. He jumped upon the shoulders of a fat old woman, who staggered under the weight, with a "'Cré chien, qu'il est lourd!" But Mr. Cannon was not satisfied with his natural weight, and, wishing to show the natives that he could rideà l'Anglaise, he stuck his knees in the sides of his biped steed, and began rising in his saddle, despite the totteringBoulonnaire, who was roaring out, "'Cré Dieu, Monsieur l'Anglais! est-ce que vous étes enragé! Nom d'un Dieu! vous m'ereintes! Ah Jesus, je n'en puis plus!" and, suiting the action to the word, down she rolled in the mud, pitching her rider head over heels, amidst convulsive roars of international laughter.This accident did not halt the cavalcade, and Cannon's affectionate spouse and children endeavoured in vain to rein in their chargers. On they trotted until they landed them at the pier, leaving Cannon in the hands of the fisherwoman, who not only insisted upon her fare in the most vehement language, but on compensation for the damage occasioned by her fall, which she justly attributed to his bad riding.The old gentleman, soused to the skin, was most anxious to reach some hotel where he could put on dry clothes; but he was in France,—and plans of comfort are not of easy execution in that land of freedom. He was stopped with his whole generation at the custom-house, where fresh annoyances awaited them. It had never occurred to him that in pacific times a passport was required, and he had neglected this necessary measure. In vain he roared out that his name was Cannon. "Were you the pope's park of artillery," replied the insolent scrivener of the police, "you must been règle." While this warm discussion was going on, Commodus heard loud shrieks in a room into which his wife and daughters had been politely pushed. He asked for admittance in vain, bawling out that they were the Miss Cannons. It was indeed his astonished young ladies, whom a custom-house female official insisted upon searching. Another more terrific alarm shook his nerves; a terriblefracastook place at the door, and he thought he heard the voice of Sam Surly cursing the entire French nation in the most eloquent Yorkshire dialect. Alas! it was he; but in what a degraded situation,—what a disgraceful condition for a free-born British yeoman! and yet we are at peace with the Gaul! Sam was stretched upon the ground, surrounded by what appeared to Cannon to be soldiers, with drawn swords, threatening his life, while he was emphatically denouncing their limbs. But, oh, horror! another soldier was pulling off his corduroys in presence of the multitude; while another, and another, and another were drawing outof them about two hundred yards of bobbinet! This operation over, thedouanierproceeded to draw out a specification, orprocès verbal, not only regarding the seizure, but a black eye and a bloody nose that Sam had inflicted on "des soldats Français," for which his life alone could atone; but an English gentleman standing by, assured Cannon that a napoleon would manage thesebraves, if they had been half kicked to death. Money settled the business, and all the party proceeded toward the town, surrounded by a crowd of curious people in roars of laughter; the male part of the family were swearing most copiously, the ladies crying most piteously, and Sam Surly offering to box any one for a pot of porter.The name of Cannon had passed from mouth to mouth, and had reached Stubb's corner before the party. This celebrated laboratory of reputation and crucible of character is simply the front of a circulating library,—a very emporium of works of fiction. A group of idlers were, as usual, assembled at this saluting battery, who loaded so soon as the approach of what a wag called thebattering trainwas announced.This spot proved to the Cannon family a second baptismal fount, for, as they passed by, they all received cognominations according to their external appearance, which ever after have stuck to them. Commodus Cannon, a short, plump, dapper man, was called the Mortar; Mrs. Cannon, also of respectableembonpoint, and of atournurebetween an apple dumpling and a raspberry bolster-pudding, was named the Howitzer; Miss Molly, a tall slight figure, was favoured with the appellation of the Culverin; Biddy, a squat cherub-looking girl, was basely named the Pateraro; Lucy, who had rather a cast in each eye, which had induced the wits of Muckford to christen her Miss Wednesday (as they pretended that she looked both ways to Sunday,)—Miss Lucy, those pernicious sponsors called the Swivel; Kitty, a stout, short, beautiful creature, in whose form graceful undulations made up for length, they nicknamed the Carronade. The senior of the junior Cannons was a Short Nine; George, a Four Pounder; Cornelius, a Cohorn; Peter, a Long Six; and Oliver, a Pétard, the most horrible and degrading patronymic that could be bestowed upon any poor traveller in France.At last, after passing under this volley from Fort Stubb, they all arrived, more dead than alive, at a hotel. Here, to their additional comfort, they were informed that half of the ladies' things that had not been made up were seized, or, in other words, made over to thedouaniers. Exhausted and despairing, they asked for some soup, expecting a bowl of mock-turtle or of gravy. Apotage de vermicellewas served up, the sight of which was not very encouraging for digestive organs just recovering from an inverted peristaltic motion. Cannon tasted it, and swore it was nothing but "hot water and worms." Miss Molly told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, before strangers, not to know wermichelly. Cannon swore lustily that they might swallow the wormy-jelly themselves, and asked for some otherpotage. Asoupe maigre, made of sorrel and chervil, followed. Cannon had scarcely tasted the sour mixture, when he swore he was poisoned with oxalic acid, and roared out for a doctor, when he was informed to his utter dismay that all the doctors in the town had struck.Doctors strike!—never heard of such a thing. To be sure, they may strike a death-blow now and then; but doctors striking was a new sort of a conspiracy. The French waiters only shrugged up their shoulders with a "Que voulez vous, monsieur!" a most tantalizing reply to a man who cannot get anything that he wants.An English resident in the room explained matters. "We have, sir," he said, "several British practitioners in this place: many of them are men of considerable merit; but the learned body have just been thrown into a revolution by a Scotch physician, a Dr. M'Crusoe. The usual fee here, is a five-franc piece, or four shillings and twopence English; a sum so very small that many English are ashamed to tender it. M'Crusoe therefore proposed to his brethren that they should claim a higher remuneration.""Jantlemen," he said, "it's dero-gatory tul the deegnety of a pheeseecian like huz, who hae received a leeberal eeducation, mare aspeecially mysel', wha grauduated at Mo-dern Authens, tul accep' sic a pautry fee as four an' tippence. No maun intertains mare contemp' for siller than aw do; but the varry least we aught tul expec' is ten fraunks for day veesits, an' eleven fraunks for nighet calls; fare from the varry heegh price of oil and caundles, at the varry lowest caulculation, it costs me mare than tenbaubees per noctemto keep my noghcturnal lamp in pro-per trim. An' aw therefore houp in this deceesion we wull support each eather ho-nestly and leeberally. Aw need na remind jantlemen of yere erudeetion of the wee bit deformed body Æsop's fable, o' the bundle o' stucks, or o' the faucees of the Ro-man leectors, union cone-stitutes straingth. Therefore aw repeat it, aw trust ye wull enforce this raigulation like men o' indepaindence, an' conscious of the deegnity o' science."All the doctors acquiesced in the expediency of his project, and to that effect signed a resolution, with which M'Crusoe walked off, and read the document with a loud and audible voice, as sternly as a magistrate could read the riot act, at Stubb's corner. The indignation of the community knew no bounds; their wrath foamed and bubbled like the falls of Niagara; they swore by the heads of Galen and Esculapius that they would rather die of the pip, expire in all the agonies of hepatitis, gastritis, enteritis, and all theitisesthat were ever known, than give onecentimemore than five francs; nay, in their fury, they swore they would throw themselves into the hands of French doctors, and swallow a gallon oftisanea day for a fifteen-pence fee; and hundreds of letters were sent off to Scotland for cheap doctors.This was what Dr. M'Crusoe wanted: he immediately circulated himself in every hole and corner to inform the public that,"In consequence of illeeberality o' ma breethren, under exusting cercumstaunces, aw feel mysel' called upon by pheelauntropy and humaunity to tak' whatever ma patients can afford to gie me."Such was the state of the faculty of Boulogne when Cannon swore he was poisoned. A French doctor came and ordered him four grains of tartar emetic in a gallon of hot water; and as French doctors are very kind and attentive to their patients, acting both as physicians and nurses, Cannon's attendant had the extreme benevolence to remain with him until he had not only swallowed, but restored, everyminimof this bounteous potation, which really amounted to the full capacity that Cannon possessed of containing fluids.Whether there was anything deleterious or not in thesoupe à l'oreille, it is difficult to say; but the ladies were afflicted all night with what physicians calltormina, andtenesmus, andintus-susceptio, andiliac passion, andborborygmain theirepigastricand theirhypochondriacregions; for all and several of which, the French doctor duly irrigated them with hot water and syrup of gum, threatening them with acuirasse de sangsuesif they were not better in the morning, as he said that they all laboured under anentero-epiplo-hydromphalo-gastrite: while poor Cannon, writhing under the effect ofl'eau émétiséewas denounced as being threatened withentero-epiplomphale,entero-merocèle,entero-sarcocèle, andentero-ischiocèle. Sick as they all were, they looked upon the native practitioner as a very learned man, and gladly gave thirty sousa headfor so much information, when an impudent English quack would have asked them ten francs for merely telling them that they had what is vulgarly called the mulligrubs.After an intolerable night, Morpheus was shedding his poppies over the exhausted travellers, when they were all roused by the most alarming cries; and Miss Lucy Cannon and Molly Cannon were dragged out of their beds by two French gentlemen, who had just jumped out of theirs, and, clasped in their arms, were forthwith carried out into the court-yard.

When Alexander the Great was gazetted commander-in-chief of the Macedonian forces, and was concocting the eighteen manœuvres at the Horse-guards of that celebrated country; when he was about fighting Darius, Xerxes, and Porus; when Cæsar was invading Gaul and Britain; when the Benedictine monks were compiling "L'Art de verifier les dates;" when Sterne was writing Tristram Shandy; when Burton was anatomizing melancholy; when the companions of Columbus were puzzling their brains to find out how an egg could stand on end; when Mrs. Glass was concocting her cookery-book, and Bayle his dictionary; their minds were as smooth and as calm as a fish-pond, a milk-bowl, a butter-boat, an oil-cruet, compared with the speculative and prospective anxieties of all the Cannons as they were rattled on towards Dover, on their way to the land of promise, where milk and honey were to be found flowing,—longevity in apothecaries' shops,—modesty purchased at milliners' counters,—and decorum taught by opera-dancers. In these Utopian dreams, England was considered an uninhabitable region of fogs, mists, tyranny, corruption, consumption, and chilblains; the fate of Nineveh was denounced on London,—the modern Babylon; and, had it been burning from Chelsea bun-house to Aldgate pump, and from the Elephant and Castle to the Wheatsheaf at Paddington, the Cannons would not have dared to cast "a lingering look behind them" without dreading the lot of the Lots.

After their due share of impositions, thanks and curses, maledictions or valedictions, as they had been "genteel" or "shabby" with waiters, chambermaids, boots, porters, postilions, and hostlers on the road, the party arrived at Dover, and of course "put up," or rather, were "put down," at the Ship. But here fresh reasons for abhorring England were in store. When the waiters saw the arms of the Cannons on their panels, and the dragon, and the motto "Crepo," they all crowded round the travellers; but, like many apparently good things in this world, the inside of the fruit did not appear as attractive as its external bloom; and as the Cannons tumbled out, or jumped out, or rolled out, or staggered out of their vehicles, with all sorts of parcels and bundles, in brown and whity-brown paper, and pocket-handkerchiefs of silk and of cotton, without any of those neat and elegant cases containing all sorts of necessary articles for travellers in health or in sickness, and which form an invariable part of fashionable travellers' luggage, the waiters and the lookers-on seemed to consider the Cannons with looks that, without much knowledge of physiognomy, might have been interpreted "These people have no business here." They were reluctantly shown into a parlour, and to bed-rooms at the top of the house, with the usual formal apology, "Sorry, ma'am, we can't afford better accommodation; our house is quite full: the Duke of Scratchenburg and his suet is just come over from Germany, and the Prince of Hesse Humbuginstein is hourly looked for. Coming—going—coming—oh, Lord, what a life! going—going directly!"

The Cannons were hungry; dinner was orderedimmediately. Now it was the height of presumption—nay, of impudence—on the part of a hungry citizen, without courier orvalet de chambre, or supporters to his arms, to make use of such an aristocratic adverb.Immediatelyimplies servitude, slavery, servility, at the nod of a master,—ay, and of an accidental master, an interloper in command. Is a free-born Englishman to run helter-skelter up and down stairs at the risk of breaking his neck, to hurry the cook, to expose himself to a forfeit of one shilling (not being a gentleman) by swearing and cursing in the teeth of the 19 Geo. 2. c. 21, when the cook tells the officious waiter not to bother him, or, if the weather is hot and the fire is fierce, bids him, by a natural association of ideas, to go to h—; and all this because an ex-tallow-chandler is hungry, and wants animmediatedinner! Forbid it, glorious constitution! forbid it, bill of rights!

Old Commodus Cannon pulled the bell until the rope remained in his hand unconnected with its usual companion; for be it known for the information of impatient voyagers, that in modest apartments the said ropes are only attached by slender ties, which give way when vigorously jerked, that servants may not be disturbed. At last a waiter, bearing in his knitted brows the apprehension of a miserable shilling "tip" on departure, came in to inform the party that dinner would be served as soon as possible, but that the Duke of Scratchenburg and Prince Hesse Humbuginstein's dinners busied every hand in the house; but, if the gentlemenchose, there was a hot joint serving up in the coffee-room.

Cannon was outrageous, and swore that he would go to another hotel.

"You are perfectly welcome to do so, sir, if you like."

"I'll represent your behaviour to all our friends!" exclaimed Mrs. Cannon.

"None of our acquaintance shall ever put up in this house," added Miss Cannon.

"Then, ladies," replied the waiter, with a ludicrous heavy sigh, "we shall be obliged to shut up shop!"

At last an apology for a dinner was served; beefsteaks, potatoes, and a gooseberry tart. No oyster sauce!—the last oyster had been served to his Grace! No fish!—the last turbot had been served to his Serene Highness!

"Your port wine and your sherry are execrable!"

"His Grace thought them excellent."

Cannon was bubbling over, but he philosophized over a glass of punch; and his family comforted themselves, over a cup of tea, with the thoughts of their speedy departure from "horrible England."

Peter Cannon complained in the coffee-room of the treatment they had experienced, and he felt not a little annoyed when his interlocutor, a perfect stranger, observed that "they would have been much more comfortable had they put up at a second or third-rate hotel." They seemed created for wanton insult. Cornelius Cannon strolled out to inquire if there was anything to be seen in Dover; an insolent groom told him that, if he would go up to the Castle, he might see "arum cannon" that carried a ball to Calais. Had he been a gentleman, Cornelius must have called him out, for he fancied that the term "rum cannon" had been a personality.

The next morning the packet was to sail. Here again fresh outrages were heaped upon them. They were asked for the keys of their trunks, to be examined at the custom-house!

"Why, what the deuce do they fancy I can have to export?" exclaimed Commodus Cannon.

"Why, sir, perhaps it might be some machinery."

There was something wantonly offensive in the insinuation that a man like Mr. Commodus Cannon should smuggle out a steam-engine, an improved loom, or a paper-mill, in his luggage! What could have been the cause of all these indignities? Simply this, as it was subsequently discovered: Sam Surly, being hungry, and not over nice, despite a brown and gold-laced red-collared livery, and military cockade, had gone to thetapto enjoy a pull of half-and-half; and, unaccustomed to travel, had gone into the kitchen for some "victuals," instead of joining the board of the other under-gentlemen in the house. On the other hand, Sukey Simper, both for the sake of comfort and economy, had brought with her a bottle of rum, and some loaf-sugar wrapped up in brown paper, and, having been shown to her attic quarters, forthwith prepared a potation to refresh herself after her journey: neither being aware that it is part and parcel of a servant's duty in a respectable family to run up a heavy score at their master's expense. Now, Sam Surly had also picked up an old Yorkshire acquaintance, with whom he repaired to another eating-house, where, over a bowl of generoushumpty-dumpty, Sam was prevailed upon to take charge of asmall parcelof little articles for a present at Boulogne, and, to avoid payingfreight, he was recommended to conceal the said trifles in his capacious corduroy unmentionables.

As Messrs. Cannons were perambulating the streets of Dover, they observed sundry gentlemen, some of them lords, wearing sailors' jackets and hats, and they therefore determined to turn out in a marine costume; for which purpose they hied to a Jew slop-seller for their outfit. Mr. Cannon, senior, donned a pea-coatie, with a pair of ample blue trousers, and a glazed hat with a jaunty riband; while his sons soon strutted about the town in yacht-club uniforms, with their hands knowingly thrust in the pockets of their jackets, resplendent with anchored buttons. They felt satisfied that they had produced "the desired effect," for every one stared at them as they stalked along in "rank entire," Commodus Cannon leading the van, and the ladies—enraptured at the appearance of the male part of the family—bringing up the rear. They were certainly annoyed by the impertinent observations of the vulgar people, boys and girls, who, with the usual English bad taste, did not know better,—who would titter, and exclaim, "I say, there goes the horse-marines!"

"No, no," cried another; "it's the famous Sea Cook and his sons wot uncovered the Sandwich Islands!"

"I say, commodore, how are they all in theFleet?" roared out a costermonger.

"Poor old gentleman! his eyebrows are worn out, looking out for squalls through agrating?" said a fourth.

While a boatswain sang out, and whistled in Cannon's ear,

"Yer, yer! man the sides! there's the flying Dutchman coming on board!"

"Sing out for Captain Yokell, cockswain!" bellowed an impertinent sailor.

Now, strange to say, these observations, which might have offended some sensitive persons, highly gratified our travellers. They had already obtained what they so ardently desired—notoriety, and had a chance of seeing their names inprint; for, even when a man is abused and ridiculed, if it is inprint, the sting carries with it its own antidote. He becomes public property; he is something; "There goes that confounded ass, Mr. Such-a-one! there goes that rum cove, Mr. What's-his-name!" Then, if he can but get himself caricatured, he is a made man. Were it not for the gratification derived from such publicity, would so many people walk, and talk, and dress, or undress, in the absurd manner we daily witness in our lounges? A certain lord was honoured with an hebdomadary flare-up by a certain weekly paper as regularly as church-bells are rung on the sabbath. It was expected that his lordship would have purchased the editor's silence,—absurd expectation! One might as well expect that a jolly prebend would decline sitting in half-a-dozen stalls at the same time. No, no; the editor abused on until he was tired of abusinggratis; when his lordship was so much annoyed that he paid to have scurrilous articles inserted, forwarded by himself.

Two packets were about starting, a French one and an English one. The Cannons were resolved to punish their ungrateful countrymen, and embarked under the colours of France. A numerous French family were repairing on board; and, as the gentlemen wore a red riband in their button-holes, our party concluded they were noblemen. The two families were grouped near each other; and the French, with their usual condescension, honoured the Cannons with their countenance, conversing as well as persons scarcely acquainted with each other's language can conveniently converse.

The morning was fine; but lowering clouds and a white sun would have induced experienced mariners to expect a fresh breeze. With great volubility of execrations the Gaul got under weigh, and paddled on slowly, while the English packet shot by like a dart. The French captain smiled at this swiftness, and, shrugging up his shoulders, exclaimed,

"Ces Anglais! ça n'a pas d'expérience!—nous verrons tout à l'heure!" he added, rubbing his hands with delight.

The influence of dress is wonderful. A certain costume seems to impart to the wearer, ideas pertaining to the class of society which he then personates. A lawyer's wig and gown make a man fancy that he could plead, and he regrets that he was not brought up to the bar. A civilian, who attends a fancy ball in a splendid uniform, is inspired with courageous ideas, which a free potation ofrefreshmentfans into a martial ardour. Now the Cannons did truly consider themselves sailors. The young men walked up and down the deck boldly, endeavouring to show how they could tread a plank or a seam on "sea legs" without staggering, although there was no more motion than under Kew-bridge; and then they would cast a knowing eye at the compass as they passed the binnacle, to ascertain if the helmsman steered judiciously, although the compass was as little known to them as the Koran. Then they would suddenly stop, and look at the sky; then suck their fingers, and hold them up, toseewhich way the wind blew; and, when their cigars were out they would whistle or hum "Rule Britannia!" or, "You gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease," while they were lighting other havannahs.

Old Cannon was equally busy; but he was seated amongst the ladies,encouragingthem against sea-sickness, which he said was all nonsense, and, if they wereverysick, recommended them most particularly to turn their faces to the wind, and to keep their veils before them not toseethesea. Then to the French gentlemen he endeavoured to describe the battles of the Nile and of Trafalgar; and the Frenchmen of course concluded from his age, language, and appearance, that he was at least an admiral.

A "cat's-paw," as the sailors call it, had now ruffled the surface of the water, and the vessel commenced heaving; ere long, most of the passengers assisted the packet in conjugating the verb "heave;" when, strange to say, the powers of the pea-jacket and the anchor-buttons were exhausted, and all the Cannons were drawn out,—a broadside of unutterable misery. Old Cannon roared out "he was a-dying," and begged they would send for a doctor; and while he was rolling, and twisting, and twining upon the deck in agony, the cabin-boy was cleansing him with a wet swab. As to the Miss Cannons, they were assisted below,—not by their brothers, who, with dismay in their countenances, were "holding on" at every thing and every one they could catch, until a sudden regurgitation made them rush in desperation to the bulwark, with closed eyes and extended arms. Strange to say, the French gentlemen were not sick! possibly their red riband was more effectual than blue jackets; but they indulged their mirth at the expense of old Cannon, exclaiming,

"Mais, voyez donc, ce pauvre Monsieur de Trafalgar!"

It now was blowing fresh, and, to add to their misery, the paddles, by some mismanagement of the engineer, got obstructed, and the vessel was completely water-logged.

The French passengers got frightened, and began shaking old Cannon, roaring out,

"Monsieur de Trafalgar, à la manœuvre! à la manœuvre!"

"Oh Lord! oh Lord!" exclaimed the old man in a piteous tone, "are we arrived?"

"No, sare! we sall all arriver down to de bottom. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"

"Monsieur de Trafalgar, you do see! vat is de matter!" exclaimed a poor Frenchwoman, who had rolled over him.

The captain swore that it all arose from their having an English steam-engine, which his owner had insisted upon. Fortunately for the party, there happened to be an English sailor on board, who had all the while been sleeping on the bows, and who started at the uproar and the loud curses of the French crew: every one giving an advice which no one followed and all contradicted. He jumped down below, and in a few moments all was right again. When he returned upon deck, the captain, with a smile of importance, observed,

"I do suppose, sare, dat you have been vere long time in France; dat is de metod of which we do make use in circonstances similar."

"Circumstances similar!" exclaimed Jack, as he thrust a quid inhis cheek, "then, why the h—didn't you do it yourself, you beggar?" and off he went to roost, as the Frenchman, pale with rage, muttered a "sacré Godam!"

Soon, however, the harbour of Boulogne was made, and the crowd of its idle inhabitants were congregated as usual on the pier, to variegate the sameness of their amusements by the arrival of fresh food for curiosity and gossip regularly supplied by the packets. Unfortunately it was low water, and the steamer could not get in; it therefore became necessary that the passengers should be landed on the backs of fisherwomen, who are always ready saddled on these occasions for the carriage of voyagers. Great were the cries and the shrieks of the Miss Cannons and their mamma when thus mounted; but old Cannon, recovered from his sickness, seemed quite delighted. He jumped upon the shoulders of a fat old woman, who staggered under the weight, with a "'Cré chien, qu'il est lourd!" But Mr. Cannon was not satisfied with his natural weight, and, wishing to show the natives that he could rideà l'Anglaise, he stuck his knees in the sides of his biped steed, and began rising in his saddle, despite the totteringBoulonnaire, who was roaring out, "'Cré Dieu, Monsieur l'Anglais! est-ce que vous étes enragé! Nom d'un Dieu! vous m'ereintes! Ah Jesus, je n'en puis plus!" and, suiting the action to the word, down she rolled in the mud, pitching her rider head over heels, amidst convulsive roars of international laughter.

This accident did not halt the cavalcade, and Cannon's affectionate spouse and children endeavoured in vain to rein in their chargers. On they trotted until they landed them at the pier, leaving Cannon in the hands of the fisherwoman, who not only insisted upon her fare in the most vehement language, but on compensation for the damage occasioned by her fall, which she justly attributed to his bad riding.

The old gentleman, soused to the skin, was most anxious to reach some hotel where he could put on dry clothes; but he was in France,—and plans of comfort are not of easy execution in that land of freedom. He was stopped with his whole generation at the custom-house, where fresh annoyances awaited them. It had never occurred to him that in pacific times a passport was required, and he had neglected this necessary measure. In vain he roared out that his name was Cannon. "Were you the pope's park of artillery," replied the insolent scrivener of the police, "you must been règle." While this warm discussion was going on, Commodus heard loud shrieks in a room into which his wife and daughters had been politely pushed. He asked for admittance in vain, bawling out that they were the Miss Cannons. It was indeed his astonished young ladies, whom a custom-house female official insisted upon searching. Another more terrific alarm shook his nerves; a terriblefracastook place at the door, and he thought he heard the voice of Sam Surly cursing the entire French nation in the most eloquent Yorkshire dialect. Alas! it was he; but in what a degraded situation,—what a disgraceful condition for a free-born British yeoman! and yet we are at peace with the Gaul! Sam was stretched upon the ground, surrounded by what appeared to Cannon to be soldiers, with drawn swords, threatening his life, while he was emphatically denouncing their limbs. But, oh, horror! another soldier was pulling off his corduroys in presence of the multitude; while another, and another, and another were drawing outof them about two hundred yards of bobbinet! This operation over, thedouanierproceeded to draw out a specification, orprocès verbal, not only regarding the seizure, but a black eye and a bloody nose that Sam had inflicted on "des soldats Français," for which his life alone could atone; but an English gentleman standing by, assured Cannon that a napoleon would manage thesebraves, if they had been half kicked to death. Money settled the business, and all the party proceeded toward the town, surrounded by a crowd of curious people in roars of laughter; the male part of the family were swearing most copiously, the ladies crying most piteously, and Sam Surly offering to box any one for a pot of porter.

The name of Cannon had passed from mouth to mouth, and had reached Stubb's corner before the party. This celebrated laboratory of reputation and crucible of character is simply the front of a circulating library,—a very emporium of works of fiction. A group of idlers were, as usual, assembled at this saluting battery, who loaded so soon as the approach of what a wag called thebattering trainwas announced.

This spot proved to the Cannon family a second baptismal fount, for, as they passed by, they all received cognominations according to their external appearance, which ever after have stuck to them. Commodus Cannon, a short, plump, dapper man, was called the Mortar; Mrs. Cannon, also of respectableembonpoint, and of atournurebetween an apple dumpling and a raspberry bolster-pudding, was named the Howitzer; Miss Molly, a tall slight figure, was favoured with the appellation of the Culverin; Biddy, a squat cherub-looking girl, was basely named the Pateraro; Lucy, who had rather a cast in each eye, which had induced the wits of Muckford to christen her Miss Wednesday (as they pretended that she looked both ways to Sunday,)—Miss Lucy, those pernicious sponsors called the Swivel; Kitty, a stout, short, beautiful creature, in whose form graceful undulations made up for length, they nicknamed the Carronade. The senior of the junior Cannons was a Short Nine; George, a Four Pounder; Cornelius, a Cohorn; Peter, a Long Six; and Oliver, a Pétard, the most horrible and degrading patronymic that could be bestowed upon any poor traveller in France.

At last, after passing under this volley from Fort Stubb, they all arrived, more dead than alive, at a hotel. Here, to their additional comfort, they were informed that half of the ladies' things that had not been made up were seized, or, in other words, made over to thedouaniers. Exhausted and despairing, they asked for some soup, expecting a bowl of mock-turtle or of gravy. Apotage de vermicellewas served up, the sight of which was not very encouraging for digestive organs just recovering from an inverted peristaltic motion. Cannon tasted it, and swore it was nothing but "hot water and worms." Miss Molly told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, before strangers, not to know wermichelly. Cannon swore lustily that they might swallow the wormy-jelly themselves, and asked for some otherpotage. Asoupe maigre, made of sorrel and chervil, followed. Cannon had scarcely tasted the sour mixture, when he swore he was poisoned with oxalic acid, and roared out for a doctor, when he was informed to his utter dismay that all the doctors in the town had struck.

Doctors strike!—never heard of such a thing. To be sure, they may strike a death-blow now and then; but doctors striking was a new sort of a conspiracy. The French waiters only shrugged up their shoulders with a "Que voulez vous, monsieur!" a most tantalizing reply to a man who cannot get anything that he wants.

An English resident in the room explained matters. "We have, sir," he said, "several British practitioners in this place: many of them are men of considerable merit; but the learned body have just been thrown into a revolution by a Scotch physician, a Dr. M'Crusoe. The usual fee here, is a five-franc piece, or four shillings and twopence English; a sum so very small that many English are ashamed to tender it. M'Crusoe therefore proposed to his brethren that they should claim a higher remuneration."

"Jantlemen," he said, "it's dero-gatory tul the deegnety of a pheeseecian like huz, who hae received a leeberal eeducation, mare aspeecially mysel', wha grauduated at Mo-dern Authens, tul accep' sic a pautry fee as four an' tippence. No maun intertains mare contemp' for siller than aw do; but the varry least we aught tul expec' is ten fraunks for day veesits, an' eleven fraunks for nighet calls; fare from the varry heegh price of oil and caundles, at the varry lowest caulculation, it costs me mare than tenbaubees per noctemto keep my noghcturnal lamp in pro-per trim. An' aw therefore houp in this deceesion we wull support each eather ho-nestly and leeberally. Aw need na remind jantlemen of yere erudeetion of the wee bit deformed body Æsop's fable, o' the bundle o' stucks, or o' the faucees of the Ro-man leectors, union cone-stitutes straingth. Therefore aw repeat it, aw trust ye wull enforce this raigulation like men o' indepaindence, an' conscious of the deegnity o' science."

All the doctors acquiesced in the expediency of his project, and to that effect signed a resolution, with which M'Crusoe walked off, and read the document with a loud and audible voice, as sternly as a magistrate could read the riot act, at Stubb's corner. The indignation of the community knew no bounds; their wrath foamed and bubbled like the falls of Niagara; they swore by the heads of Galen and Esculapius that they would rather die of the pip, expire in all the agonies of hepatitis, gastritis, enteritis, and all theitisesthat were ever known, than give onecentimemore than five francs; nay, in their fury, they swore they would throw themselves into the hands of French doctors, and swallow a gallon oftisanea day for a fifteen-pence fee; and hundreds of letters were sent off to Scotland for cheap doctors.

This was what Dr. M'Crusoe wanted: he immediately circulated himself in every hole and corner to inform the public that,

"In consequence of illeeberality o' ma breethren, under exusting cercumstaunces, aw feel mysel' called upon by pheelauntropy and humaunity to tak' whatever ma patients can afford to gie me."

Such was the state of the faculty of Boulogne when Cannon swore he was poisoned. A French doctor came and ordered him four grains of tartar emetic in a gallon of hot water; and as French doctors are very kind and attentive to their patients, acting both as physicians and nurses, Cannon's attendant had the extreme benevolence to remain with him until he had not only swallowed, but restored, everyminimof this bounteous potation, which really amounted to the full capacity that Cannon possessed of containing fluids.

Whether there was anything deleterious or not in thesoupe à l'oreille, it is difficult to say; but the ladies were afflicted all night with what physicians calltormina, andtenesmus, andintus-susceptio, andiliac passion, andborborygmain theirepigastricand theirhypochondriacregions; for all and several of which, the French doctor duly irrigated them with hot water and syrup of gum, threatening them with acuirasse de sangsuesif they were not better in the morning, as he said that they all laboured under anentero-epiplo-hydromphalo-gastrite: while poor Cannon, writhing under the effect ofl'eau émétiséewas denounced as being threatened withentero-epiplomphale,entero-merocèle,entero-sarcocèle, andentero-ischiocèle. Sick as they all were, they looked upon the native practitioner as a very learned man, and gladly gave thirty sousa headfor so much information, when an impudent English quack would have asked them ten francs for merely telling them that they had what is vulgarly called the mulligrubs.

After an intolerable night, Morpheus was shedding his poppies over the exhausted travellers, when they were all roused by the most alarming cries; and Miss Lucy Cannon and Molly Cannon were dragged out of their beds by two French gentlemen, who had just jumped out of theirs, and, clasped in their arms, were forthwith carried out into the court-yard.

THE RELICS OF ST. PIUS.Saint Pius was a holy man,And held in detestationThe wicked course that others ran,So lived upon starvation.He thought the world so bad a placeThat decent folks should fly it;And, dreaming of a life of grace,Determin'd straight to try it.A cavern was his only house,Of limited expansion,And not a solitary mouseDurst venture near his mansion.He told his beads from morn to night,Nor gave a thought to dinner;And, while his faith absorb'd him quite,He ev'ry day grew thinner.Vain ev'ry hint by Nature given,His saintship would not mind her;At length his soul flew back to heaven,And left her bones behind her.Some centuries were gone and past,And all forgot his story,Until a sisterhood at lastReviv'd his fame and glory.To Rome was sent a handsome fee,And pious letter fitted,Requesting that his bones might beWithout delay transmitted.The holy see with sacred zealTheir relic hoards turn'd over,The skeleton, from head to heel,Of Pius to discover;And having sought with caution deep,To pious tears affected,They recognised the blessed heapSo anxiously expected.And now the town, that would be madeIllustrious beyond measure,Was all alive with gay paradeTo welcome such a treasure.The bishop, in his robes of state,Each monk and priest attending,Stood rev'rently within the gateTo view the train descending;The holy train that far had goneTo meet the sacred relic,And now with joyous hymns came on,Most like a band angelic.The nuns the splendid robes prepare,Each chain, and flower, and feather;And now they claim the surgeon's careTo join the bones together.The head, the arms, the trunk, he found,And placed in due rotation;But, when the legs he reached, aroundHe stared in consternation!In vain he twirl'd them both about,Took one, and then took t'other,For one turn'd in, and one turn'd out,Still following his brother.Two odd left legs alone he saw,Two left legs! 'tis amazing!"Two left legs!" cried the nuns, with aweAnd anxious wonder gazing.The wonder reach'd the listening crowd,And all the cry repeated;While some press'd on with laughter loud,And some in fear retreated.The bishop scarce a smile repress'd,The pilgrims stood astounded;The mob, with many a gibe and jest,The holy bones surrounded.The abbess and her vestal train,The blest Annunciation,With horror saw the threaten'd stainOn Pius' reputation."Cease, cease! ungrateful race!" cried she,"This tumult and derision,And know the truth has been to meRevealed in a vision!"The saint who now, enthron'd in heav'n,Bestows on us such glory,Hadtwoleft legs by Nature given,And, lo! they are before ye!"Then let us hope he will no moreHis blessed prayers deny us,While we, with zeal elate, adoreThe left legs of St. Pius."C.S.L.

Saint Pius was a holy man,And held in detestationThe wicked course that others ran,So lived upon starvation.He thought the world so bad a placeThat decent folks should fly it;And, dreaming of a life of grace,Determin'd straight to try it.A cavern was his only house,Of limited expansion,And not a solitary mouseDurst venture near his mansion.He told his beads from morn to night,Nor gave a thought to dinner;And, while his faith absorb'd him quite,He ev'ry day grew thinner.Vain ev'ry hint by Nature given,His saintship would not mind her;At length his soul flew back to heaven,And left her bones behind her.Some centuries were gone and past,And all forgot his story,Until a sisterhood at lastReviv'd his fame and glory.To Rome was sent a handsome fee,And pious letter fitted,Requesting that his bones might beWithout delay transmitted.The holy see with sacred zealTheir relic hoards turn'd over,The skeleton, from head to heel,Of Pius to discover;And having sought with caution deep,To pious tears affected,They recognised the blessed heapSo anxiously expected.And now the town, that would be madeIllustrious beyond measure,Was all alive with gay paradeTo welcome such a treasure.The bishop, in his robes of state,Each monk and priest attending,Stood rev'rently within the gateTo view the train descending;The holy train that far had goneTo meet the sacred relic,And now with joyous hymns came on,Most like a band angelic.The nuns the splendid robes prepare,Each chain, and flower, and feather;And now they claim the surgeon's careTo join the bones together.The head, the arms, the trunk, he found,And placed in due rotation;But, when the legs he reached, aroundHe stared in consternation!In vain he twirl'd them both about,Took one, and then took t'other,For one turn'd in, and one turn'd out,Still following his brother.Two odd left legs alone he saw,Two left legs! 'tis amazing!"Two left legs!" cried the nuns, with aweAnd anxious wonder gazing.The wonder reach'd the listening crowd,And all the cry repeated;While some press'd on with laughter loud,And some in fear retreated.The bishop scarce a smile repress'd,The pilgrims stood astounded;The mob, with many a gibe and jest,The holy bones surrounded.The abbess and her vestal train,The blest Annunciation,With horror saw the threaten'd stainOn Pius' reputation."Cease, cease! ungrateful race!" cried she,"This tumult and derision,And know the truth has been to meRevealed in a vision!"The saint who now, enthron'd in heav'n,Bestows on us such glory,Hadtwoleft legs by Nature given,And, lo! they are before ye!"Then let us hope he will no moreHis blessed prayers deny us,While we, with zeal elate, adoreThe left legs of St. Pius."

Saint Pius was a holy man,And held in detestationThe wicked course that others ran,So lived upon starvation.

Saint Pius was a holy man,

And held in detestation

The wicked course that others ran,

So lived upon starvation.

He thought the world so bad a placeThat decent folks should fly it;And, dreaming of a life of grace,Determin'd straight to try it.

He thought the world so bad a place

That decent folks should fly it;

And, dreaming of a life of grace,

Determin'd straight to try it.

A cavern was his only house,Of limited expansion,And not a solitary mouseDurst venture near his mansion.

A cavern was his only house,

Of limited expansion,

And not a solitary mouse

Durst venture near his mansion.

He told his beads from morn to night,Nor gave a thought to dinner;And, while his faith absorb'd him quite,He ev'ry day grew thinner.

He told his beads from morn to night,

Nor gave a thought to dinner;

And, while his faith absorb'd him quite,

He ev'ry day grew thinner.

Vain ev'ry hint by Nature given,His saintship would not mind her;At length his soul flew back to heaven,And left her bones behind her.

Vain ev'ry hint by Nature given,

His saintship would not mind her;

At length his soul flew back to heaven,

And left her bones behind her.

Some centuries were gone and past,And all forgot his story,Until a sisterhood at lastReviv'd his fame and glory.

Some centuries were gone and past,

And all forgot his story,

Until a sisterhood at last

Reviv'd his fame and glory.

To Rome was sent a handsome fee,And pious letter fitted,Requesting that his bones might beWithout delay transmitted.

To Rome was sent a handsome fee,

And pious letter fitted,

Requesting that his bones might be

Without delay transmitted.

The holy see with sacred zealTheir relic hoards turn'd over,The skeleton, from head to heel,Of Pius to discover;

The holy see with sacred zeal

Their relic hoards turn'd over,

The skeleton, from head to heel,

Of Pius to discover;

And having sought with caution deep,To pious tears affected,They recognised the blessed heapSo anxiously expected.

And having sought with caution deep,

To pious tears affected,

They recognised the blessed heap

So anxiously expected.

And now the town, that would be madeIllustrious beyond measure,Was all alive with gay paradeTo welcome such a treasure.

And now the town, that would be made

Illustrious beyond measure,

Was all alive with gay parade

To welcome such a treasure.

The bishop, in his robes of state,Each monk and priest attending,Stood rev'rently within the gateTo view the train descending;

The bishop, in his robes of state,

Each monk and priest attending,

Stood rev'rently within the gate

To view the train descending;

The holy train that far had goneTo meet the sacred relic,And now with joyous hymns came on,Most like a band angelic.

The holy train that far had gone

To meet the sacred relic,

And now with joyous hymns came on,

Most like a band angelic.

The nuns the splendid robes prepare,Each chain, and flower, and feather;And now they claim the surgeon's careTo join the bones together.

The nuns the splendid robes prepare,

Each chain, and flower, and feather;

And now they claim the surgeon's care

To join the bones together.

The head, the arms, the trunk, he found,And placed in due rotation;But, when the legs he reached, aroundHe stared in consternation!

The head, the arms, the trunk, he found,

And placed in due rotation;

But, when the legs he reached, around

He stared in consternation!

In vain he twirl'd them both about,Took one, and then took t'other,For one turn'd in, and one turn'd out,Still following his brother.

In vain he twirl'd them both about,

Took one, and then took t'other,

For one turn'd in, and one turn'd out,

Still following his brother.

Two odd left legs alone he saw,Two left legs! 'tis amazing!"Two left legs!" cried the nuns, with aweAnd anxious wonder gazing.

Two odd left legs alone he saw,

Two left legs! 'tis amazing!

"Two left legs!" cried the nuns, with awe

And anxious wonder gazing.

The wonder reach'd the listening crowd,And all the cry repeated;While some press'd on with laughter loud,And some in fear retreated.

The wonder reach'd the listening crowd,

And all the cry repeated;

While some press'd on with laughter loud,

And some in fear retreated.

The bishop scarce a smile repress'd,The pilgrims stood astounded;The mob, with many a gibe and jest,The holy bones surrounded.

The bishop scarce a smile repress'd,

The pilgrims stood astounded;

The mob, with many a gibe and jest,

The holy bones surrounded.

The abbess and her vestal train,The blest Annunciation,With horror saw the threaten'd stainOn Pius' reputation.

The abbess and her vestal train,

The blest Annunciation,

With horror saw the threaten'd stain

On Pius' reputation.

"Cease, cease! ungrateful race!" cried she,"This tumult and derision,And know the truth has been to meRevealed in a vision!

"Cease, cease! ungrateful race!" cried she,

"This tumult and derision,

And know the truth has been to me

Revealed in a vision!

"The saint who now, enthron'd in heav'n,Bestows on us such glory,Hadtwoleft legs by Nature given,And, lo! they are before ye!

"The saint who now, enthron'd in heav'n,

Bestows on us such glory,

Hadtwoleft legs by Nature given,

And, lo! they are before ye!

"Then let us hope he will no moreHis blessed prayers deny us,While we, with zeal elate, adoreThe left legs of St. Pius."

"Then let us hope he will no more

His blessed prayers deny us,

While we, with zeal elate, adore

The left legs of St. Pius."

C.S.L.

DARBY THE SWIFT;OR,THE LONGEST WAY ROUND IS THE SHORTEST WAY HOME.CHAPTER III."Tipsy dance and jollity."—L'Allegro.A full hour after Darby's departure I ventured to open the little dog-eared volume which he had thrown upon my table. The title-page was a curious specimen of that lingual learning which is so often to be met with in the remotest districts of Ireland. Gentle reader, a description of it would only spoil it; I therefore lay it before you as it appeared to me then, with this slight difference,—that the printer informs me he has noletterthat can adequately express or imitate the rustic simplicity, the careless elegance both of the character and setting up. It was as follows:THE DARBIAD!A BACCHI-SALTANT EPIC. IN ONE BOOK.AUCTORE CLAUDICANTE KELLIO.Containing an Account of a Great Festival given at "The Three Blacks," by one Mr. Darby Ryan, on the occasion of his coming into his Fortune, and all the Songs an' Dances as perform'd there in honor to him.Dulce est desipere in loco.Printed by Mary Brady, Xher mark, at the sign of the Cross Quills in Monk's Lane, opposit the Friary. Price sixpence; and to be had of all Flyin' Stationers, and Dancin' Masthers.I could not but admire the classical taste and ingenuity with which Mr. Kelly, the author, had Latinized his name. He had read, no doubt, that Ovid was called Naso from the excessive size of his nose; and, with a delicacy peculiar to himself, had elegantly concealed the vulgar cognomen ofLameKelly,—by which he was known,—in the more pompous-sounding Roman appellation ofClaudicante!Kellio, too, was another "curiosa felicitas;" for, while it was in perfect accordance with grammatical accuracy, it sounded like an ingenious anagram of O'Kelly, an ancient Irish name. But, to the poem itself.INVOCATION.Inspireme, Phœbus! in the song I sing,And to my aid the nine twin-sisters bring;No common deeds I celebrate or praise—Darby the Swiftis hero of my lays!Aftera hurling-match by Darby won,Although his nose bad suffered in the fun,He, with his rivals, now no longer foes,To the Three Blacks in peaceful triumph goes!Two blacksalready had he in the fray,But whereabouts I won't presume to say:'T would spoil the beauty of a hero's mien,Though by the candles' glare they scarce were seen.Many were met; of sisters, brothers, cousins,Aunts, uncles, nieces, sweethearts, wives, some dozens.First, Widow Higgins, with her daughters three,Bedizen'd out as fine as fine could be,Came on her low-back'd car, with feather-bed,And ornamental quilt upon it spread.She look'd a queen from the luxurious EastReclining on an ottoman:—the beastThat drew her, chicks and all, drew seventy stone at least!And he to horse was what to man is monkey,In epics 't would bebathos, or I'd call him donkey.But (who can read the secret book of Fate?)Just as the party pass'd the inn-yard gate,A startled pig—a young and timorous thingThat in a puddle had been weltering—Woke from some rapturous dream, and in its frightRush'd 'tween the nag's forelegs, who, woful sight!Employ'd his hinder ones so wondrous well,That Widow Higgins, bed, and daughters, fell(Alas, my muse!) into the porker's bath!Oh, day turn'd night! oh, pleasure sour'd to wrath!But soon they did recover mirth, and jok'd,For 'twas the feather-bed alone that soak'dThe stagnant pool:—no stain's impurityDefil'd their rainbow-riband'd dimity,Save one; and that was on the widow'scrupper,Who said, "I wish they'dscaldthat pig for supper!"Next came Miss Duff, in a light pea-green plush,That beautifully show'd her blue-red blush.Miss Reeves soon follow'd, spite of summer weather,In pelerine of goose-down, and a feather.The two Miss Gallaghers, the four Miss Bradys,With I know not how many other ladies.Amongst them Nelly Jones, with her first child,That squeak'd and squall'd; then, cock-a-doodle, smiled.Reader! I tell this for your private list'ning,To have the clargy at his feast, a christ'ningOur Darby thought would be a trick with art inTonailthe presence of big Father Martin,Who was thebochel-bhuiof jolly sinners,At wakes or christ'nings, weddings, deaths, or dinners!Suppose Jack Falstaff had ta'en holy orders,And then I'll say your fancy somewhat bordersUpon the plumpy truth of this round priest,Who ne'er refus'd his blessing to a feast.One slender damsel, that seem'd not fifteen,With younger brother, in the throng was seen;Shy and confused, as when a violet,Suddenly snatch'd from its dark-green retreat,First meets the gaudy glaring of the day,And seems to close its beauty from the rayOf unaccustom'd light that rudely prysInto its gentle, modest, azure eyes.What led her thither I could never learn.But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne,All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast;—And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least,Contributes by her dress and portly mienTo swell the splendour of the joyous scene.Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air!A bright-blue band encircled her red hair,Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle!Her dress was gaudy,—though as coarse as huckle-[24]Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey,—flowingIn graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showingIt had been out for a more sylphid shape,As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape!But now the christ'ning's o'er: of wine and cakesFirst Father Martin, then each fair, partakes;The youths incline to porter and potcheen.Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen,Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea,Whose incense in one corner you might seeRising in volumes from four sacred stills,Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fillsWith boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless,That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless.But now the pipes are smoking both and playing:"Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying!Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne,And then we'll get a stave all round in turn."Tommy, obedient, put hisdudheen[25]inHis waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin:—Tune—"Alley Croker."I.Your furreners, that come abroadInto our Irish nation,Expectin' nothin' else but fraudAnd cut-throat dissertation;What is't they find on landin' firstBut hundredmillia-falthas,And kindness that we still have nurs'd?Tho' slav'ry near has spoilth us!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a weepin' story?II.Says one,—"You lazy pisant! whyParmit that pig so durtyTo sleep beside you, when a styHe'd find more clane and purty?"—They little know that gratitudeTo us was early sint, sir!And so we think no place too goodFor him that pays the rint, sir!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a dacent story?Here a loud squeak of grunting praise was heardFrom the new pig-house in the stable-yard:Th' applause awhile the minstrel's music drown'd;}But soon he did resume, and all around}Remark'd how much his voice of late improv'd in sound.}III.Another says,—"You idle dog,Why do ye lock your door up,And every sason quit your bogTo thravel into Europe?"Sure we would gladly stop at homeThe whole year round, and labour,But for the harvest-pence we roamTo pick up in the neighbour-Hood of England, wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a pleasant story?[I could not help laying the book down at this passage to reflect whether the imputation of idleness can be justly thrown upon the Irish. Men who year after year toil through the perils and privations of a journey into another land for the sake of a few shillings, can scarcely be termed lazy; and it is to be regretted that some mode of employment at home is not devised by those in whose power it is to meliorate and tranquillise their condition.]IV.St. Patrick (many days to him!)Thoughthekilt all the varminThat through the land did crawl or swim,But he left their cousins-giarmin!He never dreamt of two-legg'd snakes,Or toads that were toad-eathers,Or thosedartlukers[26]the law makesTo hunt our fellow-crathurs!(Chorus, boys!)Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Isn't Erin's glory,By sword and penOf wicked men,Made a dismal story?"Success, avourneen!" cried the jolly friar,"An' may yir whistle,'lanna!never tire!Now for a toast, my boys, or sentiment,An' here is one from me with your consent:'A saddle prickly as a porcupine,A pair of breeches like a cobweb fine,High-trottin' horse, and many a mile to go,For him that to ould Ireland proves a foe!'"Miss Biddy Reilly was the siren nextKnock'd down for melody: she seem'd perplext,And said: "Upon my conscience—ralely—now—I—Tommy, sing for me—well, anyhow,I've nothin' new to trate ye with—""No matther!"(From all parts of the room,) "singStoney Batther!"With that she hem'd to clear her pipe, and throughHer bright-red curls her radish fingers drew;Then looking round, and smiling as she look'd,(While many a heart upon her bait she hook'd,)Her ditty once, twice, she commenced too high,—At last she found the key;—then, with a sighLong-drawn and deep, her quivering voice she woke,Which rose and curl'd—ay, gracefully as smokeSeen at a distance—misty-wreathing—dimlyIssuing from some wood-bound cottagechimley.I.In Stoney BattherThere liv'd a man,By trade a hatther,And a good wan:The best of baverHe used to buy;Till a deceiver,Passing by,Said,—"For a crownI'll sell ye this.""Come in," says he,"Let's see what 'tis."II."The finest skin, sir,You ever saw;Without or in, sir,There's not a flaw!No hat or bonnetYou ever made,With gloss upon itOf such a shade!""Then put it down,"The hatther cried;"And here's yir crown,And thanks beside,"III.But, oh! what wondherWhen he did findThe wicked plundherThe rogue design'd!"My cat is missin',"(Says he,) "black Min,They've cut yir wizzin,—I've bought yir skin!Of neighbours' cats,"Then wild he swore,"I'll make my hatsFor evermore!"Miss Biddy Reilly ceased her pensive ditty,And, with a look that made his rivals jealous,She call'd upon our hero, who, quite witty,Express'd a hope they would excuse his bellows,As he had lately caughtcoldin the water,'Stead of aneelthat he was lookin' a'ter!A loud horse-laugh first trumpets Darby's praise.Then thus his low bass voice he high did raiseTune—"Young Charly Reilly."I.Beside a mountin,Where many a fountin,Beyant all countin',Ran swift and clear,A valley flourish'dThat Nature nourish'd,For shedhuc-a-dhurrish'd[27]Her last drop there!And said, at partin',To Father Martin,"There's more ofartinSomespots of earth;But, by this whiskey,That makes me frisky,In BallaniskyMyselfhad birth?"II.In this inclosure,With great composure,And hedge of osier,A cabin grew;And, sweeter in itThan any linnetCould sing, or spinnet,A maiden, too!Her time went gailyBoth night and daily,Till Rodhrick HalyPierc'd thro' her heart:Oh! if he'd spoken,Or giv'n one token,Sure 'twouldn't have brokenWith love's keen dart!III.She thought his fancyWas bent on NancyOr Judy Clancy,Two sisthers fair:Though in his bosom,You can't accuse him,Butshedid strew someLove-nettles there!For all that, neverCould he endeavourHis lip to sever,And say, "Dear Kate!"The lad was bashful,'Caze not being cashful;But she was rashful,As I'll relate.IV.One Sunday mornin',All danger scornin',Without a warnin'She left her home;And to a valleyShe forth did sallyThat lay in Bally-Hinch-a-dhrome!A while she wandher'd—And then she pondher'd—At last she squandher'dHerrason quite;And in a pool there,Like any fool there,She soon did cool thereHer burnin' spite!Our hero ceas'd; and from the multitude}The suck-tongue sounds of pity that ensued }Would warm a stoic in his coldest mood:}Ducks on a pond, when gobblin' up duck-meat,Ne'er smack'd a music half so sadly sweet!Miss Biddy Reilly's long-lash'd eyes of jetWere red (as rivalling her hair) and wet!Some inward feeling caus'd this outward woe;But what it was but love for Darby, I don't know!But nowtay-tayand coffee-tayare done,And of the night begins the raal fun:The dance is nam'd, and straightway on the floorTwo dozen couple start,—I might say more.But Darby interposes, and cries, "Stop!Afore we have a reel let's have a hop:First—boy an' girl; then girl relieve the girl,Next boy the boy, till all round have a whirl!Miss Reilly an' myself will lead the first;—Come, piper! squeeze yir bags until they burst!'Tatther Jack Welsh,' or 'Smash the Windows,' play,'The wind that shakes the barley,' 'Flow'rs in May,'Or any rantin' roarin' lilt ye know:What! 'Ligrum Cuss?' hurroo! then here we go!""He spake: and, to confirm his words," they allSate down obedient in the festive hall!None but himself and Biddy upward stood,All eyes were on them of the multitude!But how shall I describe the wondrous pair,Terpsichore!that worshipp'd thee then there?Such grace, such action, on a malt-house floor,Was never seen or heard of, e'en, before!O'Ryan's arms at stiff right angles toHis body were, which to the gazer's viewBetray'd no motion; while his legs belowSeem'd allSt. Vitus'nimblest shakes to know!With knees bent inward, heels turn'd out, and toesThat seem'd contending like two deadly foesFor one small spot of earth, he digg'd the ground,And sent the mortar pulveriz'd around!"Look at his feet!" was the admiring cry;"Hold down the light that we may closely spy:There's double-shuffle for ye! hoo! success!He'd dance upon a penny-piece, or less!"Meanwhile, Miss Reilly, with her hands aside,A varied change of steps and movements plied;Now bold advancing in her partner's face,Now shooting by a side-slip to a placeThe farthest on the floor:—at every turn,As round and graceful as a spinning churn!But, ah! not long was she the dance's queen;For youngKate Duff, who owed her long a spleen,Swift as the lightning from a cloud of gloom,Shot from a dim-lit corner of the room,And sent the frowning Biddy to her seat,Who mutter'd something that I can't repeat!Long Curlynext our hero's post relieves,AndKitty Duffgives place toNelly Reeves:Curly, the piper's son,Ned Joyce, supplants;The blind old father knows his step, and chantsThe lilt with double force:Miss HigginsnextSets downMiss Reeves;Ned Joyceretires, half vext,ForKnock-knee'd Phelim, who, despite hispins,Applause from all forheel-and-toeingwins!Thus did they trip it for a goodly hour;When, oh! what charm there is in music's pow'r!Old Joyce the piper seizes a short stayTo change his pipes:—and, what's the merry layThey now lilt up?—'The Priest in his Boots,' and lo!(Whether 'twas all concerted I don't know,)FatWidow Higgins, 'midst the general shout,ByFather Martinis led waddling out!Oh! how they tramp'd and stamp'd, and flounc'd and bounc'd!A mercy 'twas they trod on the ground-floor,For through a loft they surely would have pounc'd—As 'twas, the earth was trembling to its core:Sure suchflochoolahdancers ne'er were seen before!

"Tipsy dance and jollity."—L'Allegro.

A full hour after Darby's departure I ventured to open the little dog-eared volume which he had thrown upon my table. The title-page was a curious specimen of that lingual learning which is so often to be met with in the remotest districts of Ireland. Gentle reader, a description of it would only spoil it; I therefore lay it before you as it appeared to me then, with this slight difference,—that the printer informs me he has noletterthat can adequately express or imitate the rustic simplicity, the careless elegance both of the character and setting up. It was as follows:

THE DARBIAD!A BACCHI-SALTANT EPIC. IN ONE BOOK.AUCTORE CLAUDICANTE KELLIO.Containing an Account of a Great Festival given at "The Three Blacks," by one Mr. Darby Ryan, on the occasion of his coming into his Fortune, and all the Songs an' Dances as perform'd there in honor to him.Dulce est desipere in loco.Printed by Mary Brady, Xher mark, at the sign of the Cross Quills in Monk's Lane, opposit the Friary. Price sixpence; and to be had of all Flyin' Stationers, and Dancin' Masthers.

THE DARBIAD!

A BACCHI-SALTANT EPIC. IN ONE BOOK.AUCTORE CLAUDICANTE KELLIO.

Containing an Account of a Great Festival given at "The Three Blacks," by one Mr. Darby Ryan, on the occasion of his coming into his Fortune, and all the Songs an' Dances as perform'd there in honor to him.

Dulce est desipere in loco.

Printed by Mary Brady, Xher mark, at the sign of the Cross Quills in Monk's Lane, opposit the Friary. Price sixpence; and to be had of all Flyin' Stationers, and Dancin' Masthers.

I could not but admire the classical taste and ingenuity with which Mr. Kelly, the author, had Latinized his name. He had read, no doubt, that Ovid was called Naso from the excessive size of his nose; and, with a delicacy peculiar to himself, had elegantly concealed the vulgar cognomen ofLameKelly,—by which he was known,—in the more pompous-sounding Roman appellation ofClaudicante!Kellio, too, was another "curiosa felicitas;" for, while it was in perfect accordance with grammatical accuracy, it sounded like an ingenious anagram of O'Kelly, an ancient Irish name. But, to the poem itself.

INVOCATION.

Inspireme, Phœbus! in the song I sing,And to my aid the nine twin-sisters bring;No common deeds I celebrate or praise—Darby the Swiftis hero of my lays!Aftera hurling-match by Darby won,Although his nose bad suffered in the fun,He, with his rivals, now no longer foes,To the Three Blacks in peaceful triumph goes!Two blacksalready had he in the fray,But whereabouts I won't presume to say:'T would spoil the beauty of a hero's mien,Though by the candles' glare they scarce were seen.Many were met; of sisters, brothers, cousins,Aunts, uncles, nieces, sweethearts, wives, some dozens.First, Widow Higgins, with her daughters three,Bedizen'd out as fine as fine could be,Came on her low-back'd car, with feather-bed,And ornamental quilt upon it spread.She look'd a queen from the luxurious EastReclining on an ottoman:—the beastThat drew her, chicks and all, drew seventy stone at least!And he to horse was what to man is monkey,In epics 't would bebathos, or I'd call him donkey.But (who can read the secret book of Fate?)Just as the party pass'd the inn-yard gate,A startled pig—a young and timorous thingThat in a puddle had been weltering—Woke from some rapturous dream, and in its frightRush'd 'tween the nag's forelegs, who, woful sight!Employ'd his hinder ones so wondrous well,That Widow Higgins, bed, and daughters, fell(Alas, my muse!) into the porker's bath!Oh, day turn'd night! oh, pleasure sour'd to wrath!But soon they did recover mirth, and jok'd,For 'twas the feather-bed alone that soak'dThe stagnant pool:—no stain's impurityDefil'd their rainbow-riband'd dimity,Save one; and that was on the widow'scrupper,Who said, "I wish they'dscaldthat pig for supper!"Next came Miss Duff, in a light pea-green plush,That beautifully show'd her blue-red blush.Miss Reeves soon follow'd, spite of summer weather,In pelerine of goose-down, and a feather.The two Miss Gallaghers, the four Miss Bradys,With I know not how many other ladies.Amongst them Nelly Jones, with her first child,That squeak'd and squall'd; then, cock-a-doodle, smiled.Reader! I tell this for your private list'ning,To have the clargy at his feast, a christ'ningOur Darby thought would be a trick with art inTonailthe presence of big Father Martin,Who was thebochel-bhuiof jolly sinners,At wakes or christ'nings, weddings, deaths, or dinners!Suppose Jack Falstaff had ta'en holy orders,And then I'll say your fancy somewhat bordersUpon the plumpy truth of this round priest,Who ne'er refus'd his blessing to a feast.One slender damsel, that seem'd not fifteen,With younger brother, in the throng was seen;Shy and confused, as when a violet,Suddenly snatch'd from its dark-green retreat,First meets the gaudy glaring of the day,And seems to close its beauty from the rayOf unaccustom'd light that rudely prysInto its gentle, modest, azure eyes.What led her thither I could never learn.But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne,All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast;—And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least,Contributes by her dress and portly mienTo swell the splendour of the joyous scene.Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air!A bright-blue band encircled her red hair,Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle!Her dress was gaudy,—though as coarse as huckle-[24]Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey,—flowingIn graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showingIt had been out for a more sylphid shape,As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape!But now the christ'ning's o'er: of wine and cakesFirst Father Martin, then each fair, partakes;The youths incline to porter and potcheen.Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen,Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea,Whose incense in one corner you might seeRising in volumes from four sacred stills,Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fillsWith boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless,That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless.But now the pipes are smoking both and playing:"Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying!Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne,And then we'll get a stave all round in turn."Tommy, obedient, put hisdudheen[25]inHis waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin:—

Inspireme, Phœbus! in the song I sing,And to my aid the nine twin-sisters bring;No common deeds I celebrate or praise—Darby the Swiftis hero of my lays!

Inspireme, Phœbus! in the song I sing,

And to my aid the nine twin-sisters bring;

No common deeds I celebrate or praise—

Darby the Swiftis hero of my lays!

Aftera hurling-match by Darby won,Although his nose bad suffered in the fun,He, with his rivals, now no longer foes,To the Three Blacks in peaceful triumph goes!Two blacksalready had he in the fray,But whereabouts I won't presume to say:'T would spoil the beauty of a hero's mien,Though by the candles' glare they scarce were seen.

Aftera hurling-match by Darby won,

Although his nose bad suffered in the fun,

He, with his rivals, now no longer foes,

To the Three Blacks in peaceful triumph goes!

Two blacksalready had he in the fray,

But whereabouts I won't presume to say:

'T would spoil the beauty of a hero's mien,

Though by the candles' glare they scarce were seen.

Many were met; of sisters, brothers, cousins,Aunts, uncles, nieces, sweethearts, wives, some dozens.

Many were met; of sisters, brothers, cousins,

Aunts, uncles, nieces, sweethearts, wives, some dozens.

First, Widow Higgins, with her daughters three,Bedizen'd out as fine as fine could be,Came on her low-back'd car, with feather-bed,And ornamental quilt upon it spread.She look'd a queen from the luxurious EastReclining on an ottoman:—the beastThat drew her, chicks and all, drew seventy stone at least!And he to horse was what to man is monkey,In epics 't would bebathos, or I'd call him donkey.

First, Widow Higgins, with her daughters three,

Bedizen'd out as fine as fine could be,

Came on her low-back'd car, with feather-bed,

And ornamental quilt upon it spread.

She look'd a queen from the luxurious East

Reclining on an ottoman:—the beast

That drew her, chicks and all, drew seventy stone at least!

And he to horse was what to man is monkey,

In epics 't would bebathos, or I'd call him donkey.

But (who can read the secret book of Fate?)Just as the party pass'd the inn-yard gate,A startled pig—a young and timorous thingThat in a puddle had been weltering—Woke from some rapturous dream, and in its frightRush'd 'tween the nag's forelegs, who, woful sight!Employ'd his hinder ones so wondrous well,That Widow Higgins, bed, and daughters, fell(Alas, my muse!) into the porker's bath!Oh, day turn'd night! oh, pleasure sour'd to wrath!

But (who can read the secret book of Fate?)

Just as the party pass'd the inn-yard gate,

A startled pig—a young and timorous thing

That in a puddle had been weltering—

Woke from some rapturous dream, and in its fright

Rush'd 'tween the nag's forelegs, who, woful sight!

Employ'd his hinder ones so wondrous well,

That Widow Higgins, bed, and daughters, fell

(Alas, my muse!) into the porker's bath!

Oh, day turn'd night! oh, pleasure sour'd to wrath!

But soon they did recover mirth, and jok'd,For 'twas the feather-bed alone that soak'dThe stagnant pool:—no stain's impurityDefil'd their rainbow-riband'd dimity,Save one; and that was on the widow'scrupper,Who said, "I wish they'dscaldthat pig for supper!"

But soon they did recover mirth, and jok'd,

For 'twas the feather-bed alone that soak'd

The stagnant pool:—no stain's impurity

Defil'd their rainbow-riband'd dimity,

Save one; and that was on the widow'scrupper,

Who said, "I wish they'dscaldthat pig for supper!"

Next came Miss Duff, in a light pea-green plush,That beautifully show'd her blue-red blush.Miss Reeves soon follow'd, spite of summer weather,In pelerine of goose-down, and a feather.The two Miss Gallaghers, the four Miss Bradys,With I know not how many other ladies.Amongst them Nelly Jones, with her first child,That squeak'd and squall'd; then, cock-a-doodle, smiled.Reader! I tell this for your private list'ning,To have the clargy at his feast, a christ'ningOur Darby thought would be a trick with art inTonailthe presence of big Father Martin,Who was thebochel-bhuiof jolly sinners,At wakes or christ'nings, weddings, deaths, or dinners!Suppose Jack Falstaff had ta'en holy orders,And then I'll say your fancy somewhat bordersUpon the plumpy truth of this round priest,Who ne'er refus'd his blessing to a feast.

Next came Miss Duff, in a light pea-green plush,

That beautifully show'd her blue-red blush.

Miss Reeves soon follow'd, spite of summer weather,

In pelerine of goose-down, and a feather.

The two Miss Gallaghers, the four Miss Bradys,

With I know not how many other ladies.

Amongst them Nelly Jones, with her first child,

That squeak'd and squall'd; then, cock-a-doodle, smiled.

Reader! I tell this for your private list'ning,

To have the clargy at his feast, a christ'ning

Our Darby thought would be a trick with art in

Tonailthe presence of big Father Martin,

Who was thebochel-bhuiof jolly sinners,

At wakes or christ'nings, weddings, deaths, or dinners!

Suppose Jack Falstaff had ta'en holy orders,

And then I'll say your fancy somewhat borders

Upon the plumpy truth of this round priest,

Who ne'er refus'd his blessing to a feast.

One slender damsel, that seem'd not fifteen,With younger brother, in the throng was seen;Shy and confused, as when a violet,Suddenly snatch'd from its dark-green retreat,First meets the gaudy glaring of the day,And seems to close its beauty from the rayOf unaccustom'd light that rudely prysInto its gentle, modest, azure eyes.What led her thither I could never learn.But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne,All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast;—And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least,Contributes by her dress and portly mienTo swell the splendour of the joyous scene.Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air!A bright-blue band encircled her red hair,Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle!Her dress was gaudy,—though as coarse as huckle-[24]Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey,—flowingIn graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showingIt had been out for a more sylphid shape,As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape!

One slender damsel, that seem'd not fifteen,

With younger brother, in the throng was seen;

Shy and confused, as when a violet,

Suddenly snatch'd from its dark-green retreat,

First meets the gaudy glaring of the day,

And seems to close its beauty from the ray

Of unaccustom'd light that rudely prys

Into its gentle, modest, azure eyes.

What led her thither I could never learn.

But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne,

All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast;—

And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least,

Contributes by her dress and portly mien

To swell the splendour of the joyous scene.

Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air!

A bright-blue band encircled her red hair,

Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle!

Her dress was gaudy,—though as coarse as huckle-[24]

Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey,—flowing

In graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showing

It had been out for a more sylphid shape,

As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape!

But now the christ'ning's o'er: of wine and cakesFirst Father Martin, then each fair, partakes;The youths incline to porter and potcheen.Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen,Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea,Whose incense in one corner you might seeRising in volumes from four sacred stills,Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fillsWith boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless,That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless.

But now the christ'ning's o'er: of wine and cakes

First Father Martin, then each fair, partakes;

The youths incline to porter and potcheen.

Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen,

Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea,

Whose incense in one corner you might see

Rising in volumes from four sacred stills,

Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fills

With boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless,

That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless.

But now the pipes are smoking both and playing:"Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying!Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne,And then we'll get a stave all round in turn."Tommy, obedient, put hisdudheen[25]inHis waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin:—

But now the pipes are smoking both and playing:

"Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying!

Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne,

And then we'll get a stave all round in turn."

Tommy, obedient, put hisdudheen[25]in

His waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin:—

Tune—"Alley Croker."

I.Your furreners, that come abroadInto our Irish nation,Expectin' nothin' else but fraudAnd cut-throat dissertation;What is't they find on landin' firstBut hundredmillia-falthas,And kindness that we still have nurs'd?Tho' slav'ry near has spoilth us!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a weepin' story?II.Says one,—"You lazy pisant! whyParmit that pig so durtyTo sleep beside you, when a styHe'd find more clane and purty?"—They little know that gratitudeTo us was early sint, sir!And so we think no place too goodFor him that pays the rint, sir!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a dacent story?

Your furreners, that come abroadInto our Irish nation,Expectin' nothin' else but fraudAnd cut-throat dissertation;What is't they find on landin' firstBut hundredmillia-falthas,And kindness that we still have nurs'd?Tho' slav'ry near has spoilth us!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a weepin' story?

Your furreners, that come abroad

Into our Irish nation,

Expectin' nothin' else but fraud

And cut-throat dissertation;

What is't they find on landin' first

But hundredmillia-falthas,

And kindness that we still have nurs'd?

Tho' slav'ry near has spoilth us!

Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!

Wouldn't Erin's glory,

With the pen

Of clever men,

Make a weepin' story?

II.

Says one,—"You lazy pisant! whyParmit that pig so durtyTo sleep beside you, when a styHe'd find more clane and purty?"—They little know that gratitudeTo us was early sint, sir!And so we think no place too goodFor him that pays the rint, sir!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a dacent story?

Says one,—"You lazy pisant! why

Parmit that pig so durty

To sleep beside you, when a sty

He'd find more clane and purty?"—

They little know that gratitude

To us was early sint, sir!

And so we think no place too good

For him that pays the rint, sir!

Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!

Wouldn't Erin's glory,

With the pen

Of clever men,

Make a dacent story?

Here a loud squeak of grunting praise was heardFrom the new pig-house in the stable-yard:Th' applause awhile the minstrel's music drown'd;}But soon he did resume, and all around}Remark'd how much his voice of late improv'd in sound.}

Here a loud squeak of grunting praise was heard

From the new pig-house in the stable-yard:

Th' applause awhile the minstrel's music drown'd;}

But soon he did resume, and all around}

Remark'd how much his voice of late improv'd in sound.}

III.Another says,—"You idle dog,Why do ye lock your door up,And every sason quit your bogTo thravel into Europe?"Sure we would gladly stop at homeThe whole year round, and labour,But for the harvest-pence we roamTo pick up in the neighbour-Hood of England, wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a pleasant story?

III.

Another says,—"You idle dog,Why do ye lock your door up,And every sason quit your bogTo thravel into Europe?"Sure we would gladly stop at homeThe whole year round, and labour,But for the harvest-pence we roam

Another says,—"You idle dog,

Why do ye lock your door up,

And every sason quit your bog

To thravel into Europe?"

Sure we would gladly stop at home

The whole year round, and labour,

But for the harvest-pence we roam

To pick up in the neighbour-Hood of England, wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a pleasant story?

To pick up in the neighbour-

Hood of England, wirrasthrue!

Wouldn't Erin's glory,

With the pen

Of clever men,

Make a pleasant story?

[I could not help laying the book down at this passage to reflect whether the imputation of idleness can be justly thrown upon the Irish. Men who year after year toil through the perils and privations of a journey into another land for the sake of a few shillings, can scarcely be termed lazy; and it is to be regretted that some mode of employment at home is not devised by those in whose power it is to meliorate and tranquillise their condition.]

IV.St. Patrick (many days to him!)Thoughthekilt all the varminThat through the land did crawl or swim,But he left their cousins-giarmin!He never dreamt of two-legg'd snakes,Or toads that were toad-eathers,Or thosedartlukers[26]the law makesTo hunt our fellow-crathurs!(Chorus, boys!)Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Isn't Erin's glory,By sword and penOf wicked men,Made a dismal story?"Success, avourneen!" cried the jolly friar,"An' may yir whistle,'lanna!never tire!Now for a toast, my boys, or sentiment,An' here is one from me with your consent:'A saddle prickly as a porcupine,A pair of breeches like a cobweb fine,High-trottin' horse, and many a mile to go,For him that to ould Ireland proves a foe!'"Miss Biddy Reilly was the siren nextKnock'd down for melody: she seem'd perplext,And said: "Upon my conscience—ralely—now—I—Tommy, sing for me—well, anyhow,I've nothin' new to trate ye with—""No matther!"(From all parts of the room,) "singStoney Batther!"With that she hem'd to clear her pipe, and throughHer bright-red curls her radish fingers drew;Then looking round, and smiling as she look'd,(While many a heart upon her bait she hook'd,)Her ditty once, twice, she commenced too high,—At last she found the key;—then, with a sighLong-drawn and deep, her quivering voice she woke,Which rose and curl'd—ay, gracefully as smokeSeen at a distance—misty-wreathing—dimlyIssuing from some wood-bound cottagechimley.

IV.

St. Patrick (many days to him!)Thoughthekilt all the varminThat through the land did crawl or swim,But he left their cousins-giarmin!He never dreamt of two-legg'd snakes,Or toads that were toad-eathers,Or thosedartlukers[26]the law makesTo hunt our fellow-crathurs!(Chorus, boys!)Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Isn't Erin's glory,By sword and penOf wicked men,Made a dismal story?

St. Patrick (many days to him!)

Thoughthekilt all the varmin

That through the land did crawl or swim,

But he left their cousins-giarmin!

He never dreamt of two-legg'd snakes,

Or toads that were toad-eathers,

Or thosedartlukers[26]the law makes

To hunt our fellow-crathurs!

(Chorus, boys!)

Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!

Isn't Erin's glory,

By sword and pen

Of wicked men,

Made a dismal story?

"Success, avourneen!" cried the jolly friar,"An' may yir whistle,'lanna!never tire!Now for a toast, my boys, or sentiment,An' here is one from me with your consent:'A saddle prickly as a porcupine,A pair of breeches like a cobweb fine,High-trottin' horse, and many a mile to go,For him that to ould Ireland proves a foe!'"

"Success, avourneen!" cried the jolly friar,

"An' may yir whistle,'lanna!never tire!

Now for a toast, my boys, or sentiment,

An' here is one from me with your consent:

'A saddle prickly as a porcupine,

A pair of breeches like a cobweb fine,

High-trottin' horse, and many a mile to go,

For him that to ould Ireland proves a foe!'"

Miss Biddy Reilly was the siren nextKnock'd down for melody: she seem'd perplext,And said: "Upon my conscience—ralely—now—I—Tommy, sing for me—well, anyhow,I've nothin' new to trate ye with—"

Miss Biddy Reilly was the siren next

Knock'd down for melody: she seem'd perplext,

And said: "Upon my conscience—ralely—now—

I—Tommy, sing for me—well, anyhow,

I've nothin' new to trate ye with—"

"No matther!"(From all parts of the room,) "singStoney Batther!"

"No matther!"

(From all parts of the room,) "singStoney Batther!"

With that she hem'd to clear her pipe, and throughHer bright-red curls her radish fingers drew;Then looking round, and smiling as she look'd,(While many a heart upon her bait she hook'd,)Her ditty once, twice, she commenced too high,—At last she found the key;—then, with a sighLong-drawn and deep, her quivering voice she woke,Which rose and curl'd—ay, gracefully as smokeSeen at a distance—misty-wreathing—dimlyIssuing from some wood-bound cottagechimley.

With that she hem'd to clear her pipe, and through

Her bright-red curls her radish fingers drew;

Then looking round, and smiling as she look'd,

(While many a heart upon her bait she hook'd,)

Her ditty once, twice, she commenced too high,—

At last she found the key;—then, with a sigh

Long-drawn and deep, her quivering voice she woke,

Which rose and curl'd—ay, gracefully as smoke

Seen at a distance—misty-wreathing—dimly

Issuing from some wood-bound cottagechimley.

I.In Stoney BattherThere liv'd a man,By trade a hatther,And a good wan:The best of baverHe used to buy;Till a deceiver,Passing by,Said,—"For a crownI'll sell ye this.""Come in," says he,"Let's see what 'tis."II."The finest skin, sir,You ever saw;Without or in, sir,There's not a flaw!No hat or bonnetYou ever made,With gloss upon itOf such a shade!""Then put it down,"The hatther cried;"And here's yir crown,And thanks beside,"III.But, oh! what wondherWhen he did findThe wicked plundherThe rogue design'd!"My cat is missin',"(Says he,) "black Min,They've cut yir wizzin,—I've bought yir skin!Of neighbours' cats,"Then wild he swore,"I'll make my hatsFor evermore!"

I.In Stoney BattherThere liv'd a man,By trade a hatther,And a good wan:The best of baverHe used to buy;

In Stoney Batther

There liv'd a man,

By trade a hatther,

And a good wan:

The best of baver

He used to buy;

Till a deceiver,Passing by,Said,—"For a crownI'll sell ye this.""Come in," says he,"Let's see what 'tis."II.

Till a deceiver,

Passing by,

Said,—"For a crown

I'll sell ye this."

"Come in," says he,

"Let's see what 'tis."

II.

"The finest skin, sir,You ever saw;Without or in, sir,There's not a flaw!No hat or bonnetYou ever made,With gloss upon itOf such a shade!""Then put it down,"The hatther cried;"And here's yir crown,And thanks beside,"

"The finest skin, sir,

You ever saw;

Without or in, sir,

There's not a flaw!

No hat or bonnet

You ever made,

With gloss upon it

Of such a shade!"

"Then put it down,"

The hatther cried;

"And here's yir crown,

And thanks beside,"

III.

But, oh! what wondherWhen he did findThe wicked plundherThe rogue design'd!"My cat is missin',"(Says he,) "black Min,They've cut yir wizzin,—I've bought yir skin!Of neighbours' cats,"Then wild he swore,"I'll make my hatsFor evermore!"

But, oh! what wondher

When he did find

The wicked plundher

The rogue design'd!

"My cat is missin',"

(Says he,) "black Min,

They've cut yir wizzin,—

I've bought yir skin!

Of neighbours' cats,"

Then wild he swore,

"I'll make my hats

For evermore!"

Miss Biddy Reilly ceased her pensive ditty,And, with a look that made his rivals jealous,She call'd upon our hero, who, quite witty,Express'd a hope they would excuse his bellows,As he had lately caughtcoldin the water,'Stead of aneelthat he was lookin' a'ter!A loud horse-laugh first trumpets Darby's praise.Then thus his low bass voice he high did raise

Miss Biddy Reilly ceased her pensive ditty,

And, with a look that made his rivals jealous,

She call'd upon our hero, who, quite witty,

Express'd a hope they would excuse his bellows,

As he had lately caughtcoldin the water,

'Stead of aneelthat he was lookin' a'ter!

A loud horse-laugh first trumpets Darby's praise.

Then thus his low bass voice he high did raise

Tune—"Young Charly Reilly."

I.Beside a mountin,Where many a fountin,Beyant all countin',Ran swift and clear,A valley flourish'dThat Nature nourish'd,For shedhuc-a-dhurrish'd[27]Her last drop there!And said, at partin',To Father Martin,"There's more ofartinSomespots of earth;But, by this whiskey,That makes me frisky,In BallaniskyMyselfhad birth?"II.In this inclosure,With great composure,And hedge of osier,A cabin grew;And, sweeter in itThan any linnetCould sing, or spinnet,A maiden, too!Her time went gailyBoth night and daily,Till Rodhrick HalyPierc'd thro' her heart:Oh! if he'd spoken,Or giv'n one token,Sure 'twouldn't have brokenWith love's keen dart!III.She thought his fancyWas bent on NancyOr Judy Clancy,Two sisthers fair:Though in his bosom,You can't accuse him,Butshedid strew someLove-nettles there!For all that, neverCould he endeavourHis lip to sever,And say, "Dear Kate!"The lad was bashful,'Caze not being cashful;But she was rashful,As I'll relate.IV.One Sunday mornin',All danger scornin',Without a warnin'She left her home;And to a valleyShe forth did sallyThat lay in Bally-Hinch-a-dhrome!A while she wandher'd—And then she pondher'd—At last she squandher'dHerrason quite;And in a pool there,Like any fool there,She soon did cool thereHer burnin' spite!

Beside a mountin,Where many a fountin,Beyant all countin',Ran swift and clear,A valley flourish'dThat Nature nourish'd,For shedhuc-a-dhurrish'd[27]Her last drop there!And said, at partin',To Father Martin,"There's more ofartinSomespots of earth;But, by this whiskey,That makes me frisky,In BallaniskyMyselfhad birth?"

Beside a mountin,

Where many a fountin,

Beyant all countin',

Ran swift and clear,

A valley flourish'd

That Nature nourish'd,

For shedhuc-a-dhurrish'd[27]

Her last drop there!

And said, at partin',

To Father Martin,

"There's more ofartin

Somespots of earth;

But, by this whiskey,

That makes me frisky,

In Ballanisky

Myselfhad birth?"

II.

In this inclosure,With great composure,And hedge of osier,A cabin grew;And, sweeter in itThan any linnetCould sing, or spinnet,A maiden, too!Her time went gailyBoth night and daily,Till Rodhrick HalyPierc'd thro' her heart:Oh! if he'd spoken,Or giv'n one token,Sure 'twouldn't have brokenWith love's keen dart!

In this inclosure,

With great composure,

And hedge of osier,

A cabin grew;

And, sweeter in it

Than any linnet

Could sing, or spinnet,

A maiden, too!

Her time went gaily

Both night and daily,

Till Rodhrick Haly

Pierc'd thro' her heart:

Oh! if he'd spoken,

Or giv'n one token,

Sure 'twouldn't have broken

With love's keen dart!

III.

She thought his fancyWas bent on NancyOr Judy Clancy,Two sisthers fair:Though in his bosom,You can't accuse him,Butshedid strew someLove-nettles there!For all that, neverCould he endeavourHis lip to sever,And say, "Dear Kate!"The lad was bashful,'Caze not being cashful;But she was rashful,As I'll relate.

She thought his fancy

Was bent on Nancy

Or Judy Clancy,

Two sisthers fair:

Though in his bosom,

You can't accuse him,

Butshedid strew some

Love-nettles there!

For all that, never

Could he endeavour

His lip to sever,

And say, "Dear Kate!"

The lad was bashful,

'Caze not being cashful;

But she was rashful,

As I'll relate.

IV.

One Sunday mornin',All danger scornin',Without a warnin'She left her home;And to a valleyShe forth did sallyThat lay in Bally-Hinch-a-dhrome!A while she wandher'd—And then she pondher'd—At last she squandher'dHerrason quite;And in a pool there,Like any fool there,She soon did cool thereHer burnin' spite!

One Sunday mornin',

All danger scornin',

Without a warnin'

She left her home;

And to a valley

She forth did sally

That lay in Bally-

Hinch-a-dhrome!

A while she wandher'd—

And then she pondher'd—

At last she squandher'd

Herrason quite;

And in a pool there,

Like any fool there,

She soon did cool there

Her burnin' spite!

Our hero ceas'd; and from the multitude}The suck-tongue sounds of pity that ensued }Would warm a stoic in his coldest mood:}

Our hero ceas'd; and from the multitude}

The suck-tongue sounds of pity that ensued }

Would warm a stoic in his coldest mood:}

Ducks on a pond, when gobblin' up duck-meat,Ne'er smack'd a music half so sadly sweet!Miss Biddy Reilly's long-lash'd eyes of jetWere red (as rivalling her hair) and wet!Some inward feeling caus'd this outward woe;But what it was but love for Darby, I don't know!But nowtay-tayand coffee-tayare done,And of the night begins the raal fun:The dance is nam'd, and straightway on the floorTwo dozen couple start,—I might say more.But Darby interposes, and cries, "Stop!Afore we have a reel let's have a hop:First—boy an' girl; then girl relieve the girl,Next boy the boy, till all round have a whirl!Miss Reilly an' myself will lead the first;—Come, piper! squeeze yir bags until they burst!'Tatther Jack Welsh,' or 'Smash the Windows,' play,'The wind that shakes the barley,' 'Flow'rs in May,'Or any rantin' roarin' lilt ye know:What! 'Ligrum Cuss?' hurroo! then here we go!""He spake: and, to confirm his words," they allSate down obedient in the festive hall!None but himself and Biddy upward stood,All eyes were on them of the multitude!But how shall I describe the wondrous pair,Terpsichore!that worshipp'd thee then there?Such grace, such action, on a malt-house floor,Was never seen or heard of, e'en, before!O'Ryan's arms at stiff right angles toHis body were, which to the gazer's viewBetray'd no motion; while his legs belowSeem'd allSt. Vitus'nimblest shakes to know!With knees bent inward, heels turn'd out, and toesThat seem'd contending like two deadly foesFor one small spot of earth, he digg'd the ground,And sent the mortar pulveriz'd around!"Look at his feet!" was the admiring cry;"Hold down the light that we may closely spy:There's double-shuffle for ye! hoo! success!He'd dance upon a penny-piece, or less!"Meanwhile, Miss Reilly, with her hands aside,A varied change of steps and movements plied;Now bold advancing in her partner's face,Now shooting by a side-slip to a placeThe farthest on the floor:—at every turn,As round and graceful as a spinning churn!But, ah! not long was she the dance's queen;For youngKate Duff, who owed her long a spleen,Swift as the lightning from a cloud of gloom,Shot from a dim-lit corner of the room,And sent the frowning Biddy to her seat,Who mutter'd something that I can't repeat!Long Curlynext our hero's post relieves,AndKitty Duffgives place toNelly Reeves:Curly, the piper's son,Ned Joyce, supplants;The blind old father knows his step, and chantsThe lilt with double force:Miss HigginsnextSets downMiss Reeves;Ned Joyceretires, half vext,ForKnock-knee'd Phelim, who, despite hispins,Applause from all forheel-and-toeingwins!Thus did they trip it for a goodly hour;When, oh! what charm there is in music's pow'r!Old Joyce the piper seizes a short stayTo change his pipes:—and, what's the merry layThey now lilt up?—'The Priest in his Boots,' and lo!(Whether 'twas all concerted I don't know,)FatWidow Higgins, 'midst the general shout,ByFather Martinis led waddling out!Oh! how they tramp'd and stamp'd, and flounc'd and bounc'd!A mercy 'twas they trod on the ground-floor,For through a loft they surely would have pounc'd—As 'twas, the earth was trembling to its core:Sure suchflochoolahdancers ne'er were seen before!

Ducks on a pond, when gobblin' up duck-meat,

Ne'er smack'd a music half so sadly sweet!

Miss Biddy Reilly's long-lash'd eyes of jet

Were red (as rivalling her hair) and wet!

Some inward feeling caus'd this outward woe;

But what it was but love for Darby, I don't know!

But nowtay-tayand coffee-tayare done,And of the night begins the raal fun:The dance is nam'd, and straightway on the floorTwo dozen couple start,—I might say more.But Darby interposes, and cries, "Stop!Afore we have a reel let's have a hop:First—boy an' girl; then girl relieve the girl,Next boy the boy, till all round have a whirl!Miss Reilly an' myself will lead the first;—Come, piper! squeeze yir bags until they burst!'Tatther Jack Welsh,' or 'Smash the Windows,' play,'The wind that shakes the barley,' 'Flow'rs in May,'Or any rantin' roarin' lilt ye know:What! 'Ligrum Cuss?' hurroo! then here we go!"

But nowtay-tayand coffee-tayare done,

And of the night begins the raal fun:

The dance is nam'd, and straightway on the floor

Two dozen couple start,—I might say more.

But Darby interposes, and cries, "Stop!

Afore we have a reel let's have a hop:

First—boy an' girl; then girl relieve the girl,

Next boy the boy, till all round have a whirl!

Miss Reilly an' myself will lead the first;—

Come, piper! squeeze yir bags until they burst!

'Tatther Jack Welsh,' or 'Smash the Windows,' play,

'The wind that shakes the barley,' 'Flow'rs in May,'

Or any rantin' roarin' lilt ye know:

What! 'Ligrum Cuss?' hurroo! then here we go!"

"He spake: and, to confirm his words," they allSate down obedient in the festive hall!None but himself and Biddy upward stood,All eyes were on them of the multitude!But how shall I describe the wondrous pair,Terpsichore!that worshipp'd thee then there?Such grace, such action, on a malt-house floor,Was never seen or heard of, e'en, before!O'Ryan's arms at stiff right angles toHis body were, which to the gazer's viewBetray'd no motion; while his legs belowSeem'd allSt. Vitus'nimblest shakes to know!With knees bent inward, heels turn'd out, and toesThat seem'd contending like two deadly foesFor one small spot of earth, he digg'd the ground,And sent the mortar pulveriz'd around!"Look at his feet!" was the admiring cry;"Hold down the light that we may closely spy:There's double-shuffle for ye! hoo! success!He'd dance upon a penny-piece, or less!"

"He spake: and, to confirm his words," they all

Sate down obedient in the festive hall!

None but himself and Biddy upward stood,

All eyes were on them of the multitude!

But how shall I describe the wondrous pair,

Terpsichore!that worshipp'd thee then there?

Such grace, such action, on a malt-house floor,

Was never seen or heard of, e'en, before!

O'Ryan's arms at stiff right angles to

His body were, which to the gazer's view

Betray'd no motion; while his legs below

Seem'd allSt. Vitus'nimblest shakes to know!

With knees bent inward, heels turn'd out, and toes

That seem'd contending like two deadly foes

For one small spot of earth, he digg'd the ground,

And sent the mortar pulveriz'd around!

"Look at his feet!" was the admiring cry;

"Hold down the light that we may closely spy:

There's double-shuffle for ye! hoo! success!

He'd dance upon a penny-piece, or less!"

Meanwhile, Miss Reilly, with her hands aside,A varied change of steps and movements plied;Now bold advancing in her partner's face,Now shooting by a side-slip to a placeThe farthest on the floor:—at every turn,As round and graceful as a spinning churn!

Meanwhile, Miss Reilly, with her hands aside,

A varied change of steps and movements plied;

Now bold advancing in her partner's face,

Now shooting by a side-slip to a place

The farthest on the floor:—at every turn,

As round and graceful as a spinning churn!

But, ah! not long was she the dance's queen;For youngKate Duff, who owed her long a spleen,Swift as the lightning from a cloud of gloom,Shot from a dim-lit corner of the room,And sent the frowning Biddy to her seat,Who mutter'd something that I can't repeat!

But, ah! not long was she the dance's queen;

For youngKate Duff, who owed her long a spleen,

Swift as the lightning from a cloud of gloom,

Shot from a dim-lit corner of the room,

And sent the frowning Biddy to her seat,

Who mutter'd something that I can't repeat!

Long Curlynext our hero's post relieves,AndKitty Duffgives place toNelly Reeves:Curly, the piper's son,Ned Joyce, supplants;The blind old father knows his step, and chantsThe lilt with double force:Miss HigginsnextSets downMiss Reeves;Ned Joyceretires, half vext,ForKnock-knee'd Phelim, who, despite hispins,Applause from all forheel-and-toeingwins!

Long Curlynext our hero's post relieves,

AndKitty Duffgives place toNelly Reeves:

Curly, the piper's son,Ned Joyce, supplants;

The blind old father knows his step, and chants

The lilt with double force:Miss Higginsnext

Sets downMiss Reeves;Ned Joyceretires, half vext,

ForKnock-knee'd Phelim, who, despite hispins,

Applause from all forheel-and-toeingwins!

Thus did they trip it for a goodly hour;When, oh! what charm there is in music's pow'r!Old Joyce the piper seizes a short stayTo change his pipes:—and, what's the merry layThey now lilt up?—'The Priest in his Boots,' and lo!(Whether 'twas all concerted I don't know,)FatWidow Higgins, 'midst the general shout,ByFather Martinis led waddling out!

Thus did they trip it for a goodly hour;

When, oh! what charm there is in music's pow'r!

Old Joyce the piper seizes a short stay

To change his pipes:—and, what's the merry lay

They now lilt up?—'The Priest in his Boots,' and lo!

(Whether 'twas all concerted I don't know,)

FatWidow Higgins, 'midst the general shout,

ByFather Martinis led waddling out!

Oh! how they tramp'd and stamp'd, and flounc'd and bounc'd!A mercy 'twas they trod on the ground-floor,For through a loft they surely would have pounc'd—As 'twas, the earth was trembling to its core:Sure suchflochoolahdancers ne'er were seen before!

Oh! how they tramp'd and stamp'd, and flounc'd and bounc'd!

A mercy 'twas they trod on the ground-floor,

For through a loft they surely would have pounc'd—

As 'twas, the earth was trembling to its core:

Sure suchflochoolahdancers ne'er were seen before!

Back to Index Next