BELLEWSTOWN HILL.

“HE KEM HOME IN THE EVENIN’, AFTHER SPENDIN’ EVERY RAP HE HAD.”

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

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

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

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

“Well, it’s nat dirty,” says she.

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

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

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

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

“Let them go play marvels,” says he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A what?” says she.

“A knight arriant, woman.”

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

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

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

“I’M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,

THAT KILL’D THREESCORE AND TIN

AT A BLOW.”

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

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

“Sartinly,” says he, “for a knight arriant should always havea weight an his brain.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Your sarvint, ma’am,” says he; and off he set.

Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by, where the miller’s horse was grazin’, that used to carry the ground corn round the counthry. “This is the idintical horse for me,” says the waiver; “he is used to carryin’ flour and male, and what am I but theflowero’ shovelry in a coat o’mail; so that the horse won’t be put out iv his way in the laste.”

But as he was ridin’ him out o’ the field, who should see him but the miller. “Is it stalin’ my horse you are, honest man?” says the miller.

“No,” says the waiver; “I’m only goin’ to exercise him,” says he, “in the cool o’ the evenin’; it will be good for his health.”

“Thank you kindly,” says the miller; “but lave him where he is, and you’ll obleege me.”

“I can’t afford it,” says the waiver, runnin’ the horse at the ditch.

“Bad luck to your impidince,” says the miller, “you’ve as much tin about you as a thravellin’ tinker, but you’ve more brass. Come back here, you vagabone,” says he. But he was too late; away galloped the waiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing he could do was to go to the King o’ Dublin (for Dublin was a grate place thin, and had a king iv its own). Well, he was four days goin’ to Dublin, for the baste was not the best, and the roads worse, not all as one as now; but there was no turnpikes then, glory be to God! When he got to Dublin, he wint sthrait to the palace, and whin he got into the coortyard he let his horse go and graze about the place, for the grass was growin’ out betune the stones; everything was flourishin’ thin in Dublin, you see. Well, the king was lookin’ out of his dhrawin’-room windy for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but the waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sate, undher the windy—for, you see, there was stone sates all round about the place, for the accommodation o’ the people—for the king was a dacent obleeging man; well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay down an one o’ the sates, just undher the king’s windy, and purtended to go asleep; but he took care to turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an it. Well, my dear, with that, the king calls out to one of the lords of his coort that was standin’ behind him, howldin’ up the skirt of his coat, accordin’ to rayson, and says he: “Look here,” says he, “what do you think of a vagabone like that, comin’ undher my very nose to sleep? It is thrue I’m a good king,” says he, “and I ’commodate the people by havin’ sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and contimplation of seein’ me here, lookin’ out o’ my dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin; but that is no rayson they are tomake a hotelo’ the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at all?” says the king.

“Not a one o’ me knows, plaze your majesty.”

“I think he must be a furriner,” says the king, “bekase his dhress is outlandish.”

“And doesn’t know manners, more betoken,” says the lord.

“I’ll go down andcircumspecthim myself,” says the king; “folly me,” says he to the lord, wavin’ his hand at the same time in the most dignacious manner.

Down he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and when he wint over to where the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his shield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord, “Bedad,” says he, “this is the very man I want.”

“For what, plaze your majesty?” says the lord.

“To kill the vagabone dhraggin, to be sure,” says the king.

“Sure, do you think he could kill him,” says the lord, “whin all the stoutest knights in the land wasn’t aiquil to it, but never kem back, and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver?”

“Sure, don’t you see there,” says the king, pointin’ at the shield, “that he killed threescore and tin at one blow; and the man that donethat, I think, is a match for anything.”

So, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shoulder for to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and the king says to him, “God save you,” says he.

“God save you kindly,” says the waiver,purtendin’ he was quite onknownst who he was spakin’ to.

“Do you know who I am,” says the king, “that you make so free, good man?”

“No, indeed,” says the waiver, “you have the advantage o’ me.”

“To be sure I have,” says the king,moighty high; “sure ain’t I the King o’ Dublin?” says he.

“‘SURE, DON’T YOU SEE THERE,’ SAYS THE KING, ‘THAT HE KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT ONE BLOW.’”

The waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the king, and says he, “I beg God’s pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk; plaze your holiness, I hope you’ll excuse it.”

“No offince,” says the king; “get up, good man. And what brings you here?” says he.

“I’m in want o’ work, plaze your riverence,” says the waiver.

“Well, suppose I give you work?” says the king.

“I’ll be proud to sarve you, my lord,” says the waiver.

“Very well,” says the king. “You killed threescore and tin at one blow, I undherstan’,” says the king.

“Yis,” says the waiver; “that was the last thrifle o’ work I done, and I’m afeard my hand ’ll go out o’ practice if I don’t get some job to do at wanst.”

“You shall have a job immediately,” says the king. “It is not threescore and tin or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin’ the counthry and ruinatin’ my tinanthry wid aitin’ their powlthry, and I’m lost for want of eggs,” says the king.

“Throth, thin, plaze your worship,” says the waiver, “you look as yellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.”

“Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,” says the king. “It will be no throuble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn’t betther worth your while, for he isn’t worth fearin’ at all; only I must tell you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage in that.”

“Oh, I don’t value it in the laste,” says the waiver, “for the last threescore and tin I killed was in asoft place.”

“When will you undhertake the job, thin?” says the king.

“Let me be at him at wanst,” says the waiver.

“That’s what I like,” says the king; “you’re the very man for my money,” says he.

“Talkin’ of money,” says the waiver, “by the same token, I’ll want a thrifle o’ change from you for my thravellin’ charges.”

“As much as you plaze,” says the king; and with the word he brought him into his closet, where there was an owld stockin’ in an oak chest, burstin’ wid goolden guineas.

“Take as many as you plaze,” says the king; and sure enough, my dear, the little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld with them.

“Now I’m ready for the road,” says the waiver.

“Very well,” says the king; “but you must have a fresh horse,” says he.

“With all my heart,” says the waiver, who thought he might as well exchange the miller’s owld garron for a betther.

And maybe it’s wondherin’ you are that the waiver would think of goin’ to fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him, when he was purtendin’ to be asleep, but he had no sich notion; all he intended was—to fob the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains and a good horse. But you see, cute as the waiver was, the king was cuter still; for these high quality, you see, is great desaivers; and so the horse the waiver was an was larned on purpose; and sure, the minit he was mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the divil a toe he’d go but right down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin’ evermore, until at last the waiver seen a crowd o’ people runnin’ as if owld Nick was at their heels, and they shoutin’ a thousand murdhers, and cryin’—“The dhraggin, the dhraggin!” and he couldn’t stop the horse nor make him turn back, but away he pelted right forninst the terrible baste that was comin’ up to him; and there was the mostnefaarioussmell o’ sulphur, savin’ your presence, enough to knock you down; and, faith, the waiver seen he had no time to lose; and so he threw himself off the horse andmade to a three that was growin’ nigh-hand, and away he clambered up into it as nimble as a cat; and not a minit had he to spare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and he devoured the horse body and bones, in less than no time; and then he began to sniffle and scent about for the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye an him, where he was, up in the three, and says he, “You might as well come down out o’ that,” says he, “for I’ll have you as sure as eggs is mate.”

“Divil a fut I’ll go down,” says the waiver.

“Sorra care I care,” says the dhraggin; “for you’re as good as ready money in my pocket this minit, for I’ll lie undher this three,” says he, “and sooner or later you must fall to my share;” and sure enough he sot down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail, afther the heavy brekquest he made that mornin’ (for he ate a whole village, let alone the horse), and he got dhrowsy at last, and fell asleep; but before he wint to sleep he wound himself all round about the three, all as one as a lady windin’ ribbon round her finger, so that the waiver could not escape.

Well, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, by the snorin’ of him—and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o’ thunder—that minit the waiver began to creep down the three, as cautious as a fox; and he was very nigh hand the bottom, when a thievin’ branch he was dipindin’ an bruk, and down he fell right a top o’ the dhraggin; but if he did, good luck was an his side, for where should he fall but with his two legs right acrass the dhraggin’s neck, and, my jew’l, he laid howlt o’ the baste’s ears, and there he kept his grip, for the dhraggin wakened and endayvoured for to bite him; but, you see, by rayson the waiver was behind his ears he could not come at him, and, with that, he endayvoured for to shake him off; but not a stir could he stir the waiver; and though he shuk all the scales an his body, he could not turn the scale agin the waiver.

“‘I’LL GIVE YOU A RIDE THAT ’ILL ASTONISH YOUR SIVEN SMALL SENSES, MY BOY.’”

“Och, this is too bad intirely,” says the dhraggin; “but if you won’t let go,” says he, “by the powers o’ wildfire, I’ll give you a ride that ’ill astonish your siven small senses, my boy;” and, with that, away he flew like mad; and where do you think did he fly?—bedad, he flew sthraight for Dublin, divil a less. But the waiver bein’ an his neck was a great disthress to him, and he would rather have had him aninside passenger; but, anyway, he flew and he flew till he kemslapup agin the palace o’ the king; for, bein’ blind with the rage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains out—that is, the small thrifle he had, and down he fell spacheless. An’ you see, good luck would have it, that the King o’ Dublin was looking out iv his dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin, that day also, and whin he seen the waiver ridin’ an the fiery dhraggin (for he was blazin’ like a tar barrel), he called out to his coortyers to come and see the show.

“By the powdhers o’ war here comes the knight arriant,” says the king, “ridin’ the dhraggin that’s all a-fire, and if he getsinto the palace, yiz must be ready wid thefire ingines,” says he, “for toput him out.”

But when they seen the dhraggin fall outside, they all run downstairs and scampered into the palace-yard for to circumspect thecurosity; and by the time they got down, the waiver had got off o’ the dhraggin’s neck; and runnin’ up to the king, says he—

“Plaze your holiness, I did not think myself worthy of killin’ this facetious baste, so I brought him to yourself for to do him the honour of decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first, before I allowed him the liberty for todar’to appear in your royal prisince, and you’ll obleege me if you’ll just make your mark with your own hand upon the onruly baste’s neck.” And with that, the king, sure enough, dhrew out his swoord and took the head aff thedirtybrute, asclaneas a new pin.

Well, there was great rejoicin’ in the coort that the dhraggin was killed; and says the king to the little waiver, says he—

“You are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would be no use for to knight you over again; but I will make you a lord,” says he.

“O Lord!” says the waiver, thunderstruck like at his own good luck.

“I will,” says the king; “and as you are the first man I ever heer’d tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called LordMountDhraggin,” says he.

“And where’s my estates, plaze your holiness?” says the waiver, who always had a sharp look-out afther the main chance.

“Oh, I didn’t forget that,” says the king. “It is my royal pleasure to provide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of all the dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this out,” says he.

“Is that all?” says the waiver.

“All!” says the king. “Why, you ongrateful little vagabone, was the like ever given to any man before?”

“I b’lieve not, indeed,” says the waiver; “many thanks to your majesty.”

“But that is not all I’ll do for you,” says the king; “I’ll give you my daughter too, in marriage,” says he.

Now, you see, that was nothin’ more than what he promised the waiver in his first promise; for, by all accounts, the king’s daughter was the greatest dhraggin ever was seen....

Samuel Lover.

BELLEWSTOWN HILL.If a respite ye’d borrow from turmoil or sorrow,I’ll tell you the secret of how it is done;’Tis found in this statement of all the excitementThat Bellewstown knows when the races come on.Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion,It Banagher bangs, by the table o’ war!From the coach of the quality, down to the jollityJogging along on an ould jaunting-car.Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,Its jigging and jumping to mollify still;Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly,From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky,But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,—he’d jump up ecstatic,At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill.Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,In chattering groups that the quality dine;Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having”’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.All we read in the pages of pastoral agesTell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet,The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still;Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.But hark! there’s a shout—the horses are out,—’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!To oldCrock-a-Fatha, the people that dot theBroad plateau around are all for a view.“Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow!Success to the green! faith, we’ll stand by it still!”The uplands and hollows they’re skimming like swallows,Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.Anonymous.

If a respite ye’d borrow from turmoil or sorrow,I’ll tell you the secret of how it is done;’Tis found in this statement of all the excitementThat Bellewstown knows when the races come on.Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion,It Banagher bangs, by the table o’ war!From the coach of the quality, down to the jollityJogging along on an ould jaunting-car.Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,Its jigging and jumping to mollify still;Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly,From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky,But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,—he’d jump up ecstatic,At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill.Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,In chattering groups that the quality dine;Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having”’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.All we read in the pages of pastoral agesTell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet,The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still;Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.But hark! there’s a shout—the horses are out,—’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!To oldCrock-a-Fatha, the people that dot theBroad plateau around are all for a view.“Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow!Success to the green! faith, we’ll stand by it still!”The uplands and hollows they’re skimming like swallows,Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.Anonymous.

If a respite ye’d borrow from turmoil or sorrow,

I’ll tell you the secret of how it is done;

’Tis found in this statement of all the excitement

That Bellewstown knows when the races come on.

Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,

Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,

In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,

And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!

On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion,It Banagher bangs, by the table o’ war!From the coach of the quality, down to the jollityJogging along on an ould jaunting-car.Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,Its jigging and jumping to mollify still;Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly,From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.

On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion,

It Banagher bangs, by the table o’ war!

From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity

Jogging along on an ould jaunting-car.

Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,

Its jigging and jumping to mollify still;

Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly,

From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.

In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky,But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,—he’d jump up ecstatic,At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill.

In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,

Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;

While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,

Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.

More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky,

But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.

Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,—he’d jump up ecstatic,

At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill.

Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,In chattering groups that the quality dine;Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having”’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.All we read in the pages of pastoral agesTell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.

Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,

In chattering groups that the quality dine;

Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,

In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.

And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are “having”

’Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.

All we read in the pages of pastoral ages

Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.

Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet,The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still;Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.

Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,

From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,

There’s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!

To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.

And the soil ’neath your feet has a memory sweet,

The patriots’ deeds they hallow it still;

Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)

Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.

But hark! there’s a shout—the horses are out,—’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!To oldCrock-a-Fatha, the people that dot theBroad plateau around are all for a view.“Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow!Success to the green! faith, we’ll stand by it still!”The uplands and hollows they’re skimming like swallows,Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.Anonymous.

But hark! there’s a shout—the horses are out,—

’Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!

To oldCrock-a-Fatha, the people that dot the

Broad plateau around are all for a view.

“Come, Ned, my tight fellow, I’ll bet on the yellow!

Success to the green! faith, we’ll stand by it still!”

The uplands and hollows they’re skimming like swallows,

Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.

Anonymous.

“FROM THE COACH OF THE QUALITY, DOWN TO THE JOLLITY JOGGING ALONG ON AN OULD JAUNTING-CAR.”

THE PEELER AND THE GOAT.A Bansha Peeler wint wan nightOn duty and pathrollin, O,An’ met a goat upon the road,And tuck her for a sthroller, O.Wud bay’net fixed he sallied forth,And caught her by the wizzen, O,And then he swore a mighty oath,“I’ll send you off to prison, O.”GOAT.“Oh, mercy, sir!” the goat replied,“Pray let me tell my story, O!I am no Rogue, no Ribbonman,No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O;I’m guilty not of any crimeOf petty or high thraison, O,I’m badly wanted at this time,For this is the milking saison, O.”PEELER.It is in vain for to complainOr give your tongue such bridle, O;You’re absent from your dwelling-place,Disorderly and idle, O.Your hoary locks will not prevail,Nor your sublime oration, O,You’ll be thransported by Peel’s Act,Upon my information, O.GOAT.No penal law did I transgressBy deeds or combination, O,I have no certain place to rest,No home or habitation, O.But Bansha is my dwelling-place,Where I was bred and born, O,Descended from an honest race,That’s all the trade I’ve learned, O.PEELER.I will chastise your insolinceAnd violent behaviour, O;Well bound to Cashel you’ll be sint,Where you will gain no favour, O.The Magistrates will all consintTo sign your condemnation, O;From there to Cork you will be sintFor speedy thransportation, O.GOAT.This parish an’ this neighbourhoodAre paiceable an’ thranquil, O;There’s no disturbance here, thank God!And long may it continue so.I don’t regard your oath a pin,Or sign for my committal, O,My jury will be gintleminAnd grant me my acquittal, O.PEELER.The consequince be what it will,A peeler’s power I’ll let you know,I’ll handcuff you, at all events,And march you off to Bridewell, O.An’ sure, you rogue, you can’t denyBefore the judge or jury, O,Intimidation with your horns,And threatening me with fury, O.GOAT.I make no doubt but you are dhrunkWud whisky, rum, or brandy, O,Or you wouldn’t have such gallant spunkTo be so bould or manly, O.You readily would let me passIf I had money handy, O,To thrate you to a potheen glass—Oh! it’s thin I’d be the dandy, O.Jeremiah O’ Ryan(17— –1855).

A Bansha Peeler wint wan nightOn duty and pathrollin, O,An’ met a goat upon the road,And tuck her for a sthroller, O.Wud bay’net fixed he sallied forth,And caught her by the wizzen, O,And then he swore a mighty oath,“I’ll send you off to prison, O.”GOAT.“Oh, mercy, sir!” the goat replied,“Pray let me tell my story, O!I am no Rogue, no Ribbonman,No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O;I’m guilty not of any crimeOf petty or high thraison, O,I’m badly wanted at this time,For this is the milking saison, O.”PEELER.It is in vain for to complainOr give your tongue such bridle, O;You’re absent from your dwelling-place,Disorderly and idle, O.Your hoary locks will not prevail,Nor your sublime oration, O,You’ll be thransported by Peel’s Act,Upon my information, O.GOAT.No penal law did I transgressBy deeds or combination, O,I have no certain place to rest,No home or habitation, O.But Bansha is my dwelling-place,Where I was bred and born, O,Descended from an honest race,That’s all the trade I’ve learned, O.PEELER.I will chastise your insolinceAnd violent behaviour, O;Well bound to Cashel you’ll be sint,Where you will gain no favour, O.The Magistrates will all consintTo sign your condemnation, O;From there to Cork you will be sintFor speedy thransportation, O.GOAT.This parish an’ this neighbourhoodAre paiceable an’ thranquil, O;There’s no disturbance here, thank God!And long may it continue so.I don’t regard your oath a pin,Or sign for my committal, O,My jury will be gintleminAnd grant me my acquittal, O.PEELER.The consequince be what it will,A peeler’s power I’ll let you know,I’ll handcuff you, at all events,And march you off to Bridewell, O.An’ sure, you rogue, you can’t denyBefore the judge or jury, O,Intimidation with your horns,And threatening me with fury, O.GOAT.I make no doubt but you are dhrunkWud whisky, rum, or brandy, O,Or you wouldn’t have such gallant spunkTo be so bould or manly, O.You readily would let me passIf I had money handy, O,To thrate you to a potheen glass—Oh! it’s thin I’d be the dandy, O.Jeremiah O’ Ryan(17— –1855).

A Bansha Peeler wint wan night

On duty and pathrollin, O,

An’ met a goat upon the road,

And tuck her for a sthroller, O.

Wud bay’net fixed he sallied forth,

And caught her by the wizzen, O,

And then he swore a mighty oath,

“I’ll send you off to prison, O.”

GOAT.

“Oh, mercy, sir!” the goat replied,“Pray let me tell my story, O!I am no Rogue, no Ribbonman,No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O;I’m guilty not of any crimeOf petty or high thraison, O,I’m badly wanted at this time,For this is the milking saison, O.”

“Oh, mercy, sir!” the goat replied,

“Pray let me tell my story, O!

I am no Rogue, no Ribbonman,

No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O;

I’m guilty not of any crime

Of petty or high thraison, O,

I’m badly wanted at this time,

For this is the milking saison, O.”

PEELER.

It is in vain for to complainOr give your tongue such bridle, O;You’re absent from your dwelling-place,Disorderly and idle, O.Your hoary locks will not prevail,Nor your sublime oration, O,You’ll be thransported by Peel’s Act,Upon my information, O.

It is in vain for to complain

Or give your tongue such bridle, O;

You’re absent from your dwelling-place,

Disorderly and idle, O.

Your hoary locks will not prevail,

Nor your sublime oration, O,

You’ll be thransported by Peel’s Act,

Upon my information, O.

GOAT.

No penal law did I transgressBy deeds or combination, O,I have no certain place to rest,No home or habitation, O.But Bansha is my dwelling-place,Where I was bred and born, O,Descended from an honest race,That’s all the trade I’ve learned, O.

No penal law did I transgress

By deeds or combination, O,

I have no certain place to rest,

No home or habitation, O.

But Bansha is my dwelling-place,

Where I was bred and born, O,

Descended from an honest race,

That’s all the trade I’ve learned, O.

PEELER.

I will chastise your insolinceAnd violent behaviour, O;Well bound to Cashel you’ll be sint,Where you will gain no favour, O.The Magistrates will all consintTo sign your condemnation, O;From there to Cork you will be sintFor speedy thransportation, O.

I will chastise your insolince

And violent behaviour, O;

Well bound to Cashel you’ll be sint,

Where you will gain no favour, O.

The Magistrates will all consint

To sign your condemnation, O;

From there to Cork you will be sint

For speedy thransportation, O.

GOAT.

This parish an’ this neighbourhoodAre paiceable an’ thranquil, O;There’s no disturbance here, thank God!And long may it continue so.I don’t regard your oath a pin,Or sign for my committal, O,My jury will be gintleminAnd grant me my acquittal, O.

This parish an’ this neighbourhood

Are paiceable an’ thranquil, O;

There’s no disturbance here, thank God!

And long may it continue so.

I don’t regard your oath a pin,

Or sign for my committal, O,

My jury will be gintlemin

And grant me my acquittal, O.

PEELER.

The consequince be what it will,A peeler’s power I’ll let you know,I’ll handcuff you, at all events,And march you off to Bridewell, O.An’ sure, you rogue, you can’t denyBefore the judge or jury, O,Intimidation with your horns,And threatening me with fury, O.

The consequince be what it will,

A peeler’s power I’ll let you know,

I’ll handcuff you, at all events,

And march you off to Bridewell, O.

An’ sure, you rogue, you can’t deny

Before the judge or jury, O,

Intimidation with your horns,

And threatening me with fury, O.

GOAT.

I make no doubt but you are dhrunkWud whisky, rum, or brandy, O,Or you wouldn’t have such gallant spunkTo be so bould or manly, O.You readily would let me passIf I had money handy, O,To thrate you to a potheen glass—Oh! it’s thin I’d be the dandy, O.Jeremiah O’ Ryan(17— –1855).

I make no doubt but you are dhrunk

Wud whisky, rum, or brandy, O,

Or you wouldn’t have such gallant spunk

To be so bould or manly, O.

You readily would let me pass

If I had money handy, O,

To thrate you to a potheen glass—

Oh! it’s thin I’d be the dandy, O.

Jeremiah O’ Ryan(17— –1855).

He had scarcely taken his seat before the toilet, when a soft tap at the door, and the sound of a small squeaking voice, announced the arrival of the hair-cutter. On looking round him, Hardress beheld a small, thin-faced, red-haired little man, with a tailor’s shears dangling from his finger, bowing and smiling with a timid and conciliating air. In an evil hour for his patience, Hardress consented that he should commence operations.

“The piatez were very airly this year, sir,” he modestly began, after he had wrapped a check apron about the neck of Hardress, and made the other necessary arrangements.

“Very early, indeed. You needn’t cut so fast.”

“Very airly, sir—the white-eyes especially. Them white-eyes are fine piatez. For the first four months I wouldn’t ax a better piatie than a white-eye, with a bit o’ bacon, if one had it; but after that the meal goes out of ’em, and they gets wet and bad. The cups arn’t so good in the beginnin’ o’ the saison, but they hould better. Turn your head more to the light, sir, if you plase. The cups, indeed, are a fine substantial, lasting piatie. There’s great nutriment in’em for poor people, that would have nothin’ else with them but themselves, or a grain o’ salt. There’s no piatie that eats better, when you have nothin’ but a bit o’ the little one (as they say) to eat with a bit o’ the big. No piatie that eats so sweet with point.”

“With point?” Hardress repeated, a little amused by this fluent discussion of the poor hair-cutter upon the varieties of a dish which, from his childhood, had formed almost his only article of nutriment, and on which he expatiated with as much cognoscence and satisfaction as afashionable gourmand might do on the culinary productions of Eustache Ude. “What is point?”

“ON LOOKING ROUND HIM, HARDRESS BEHELD A SMALL, THIN-FACED, RED-HAIRED LITTLE MAN.”

“Don’t you know what that is, sir? I’ll tell you in a minute. A joke that them that has nothin’ to do, an’ plenty to eat, make upon the poor people that has nothin’ to eat, and plenty to do. That is, when there’s dry piatez on the table, and enough of hungry people about it, and the family would have, maybe, only one bit o’ bacon hanging up above their heads, they’d peel a piatie first, and then they’dpointit up at the bacon, and they’d fancy that it would have the taste o’ the mait when they’d be aitin’ it after. That’s what they call point, sir. A cheap sort o’ diet it is (Lord help us!) that’s plenty enough among the poor people in this country. A great plan for making a small bit o’ pork go a long way in a large family.”

“Indeed it is but a slender sort of food. Those scissors you have are dreadful ones.”

“Terrible, sir. I sent my own over to the forge before I left home, to have an eye put in it; only for that, I’d be smarter a deal. Slender food it is, indeed. There’s a deal o’ poor people here in Ireland, sir, that are run so hard at times, that the wind of a bit o’ mait is as good to ’em as the mait itself to them that would be used to it. The piatez are everythin’; thekitchen[14]little or nothin’. But there’s a sort o’ piatez (I don’t know did your honour ever taste ’em) that’s gettin’ greatly in vogue now among ’em, an’ is killin’ half the country,—the white piatez, a piatie that has great produce, an’ requires but little manure, and will grow in very poor land; but has no more strength nor nourishment in it than if you had boiled a handful o’ sawdust and made gruel of it, or put a bit of a deal board between your teeth and thought to make a breakfast of it. The black bulls themselves are better; indeed, the black bulls are a deala better piatie than they’re thought. When you’d peel ’em, they look as black as indigo, an’ you’d have no mind to ’em at all; but I declare they’re very sweet in the mouth, an’ very strengthenin’. The English reds are a nate piatie, too; and the apple piatie (I don’t know what made ’em be given up), an’ the kidney (though delicate o’ rearing); but give me the cups for all, that will hould the meal in ’em to the last, and won’t require any inthricket tillage. Let a man have a middling-sized pit o’ cups again the winter, a smallcaish[15]to pay his rent, an’ a handful o’ turf behind the doore, an’ he can defy the world.”

“You know as much, I think,” said Hardress, “of farming as of hair-cutting.”

“Oyeh, if I had nothin’ to depend upon but what heads comes across me this way, sir, I’d be in a poor way enough. But I have a little spot o’ ground besides.”

“And a good taste for the produce.”

“’Twas kind father for me to have that same. Did you ever hear tell, sir, of what they call limestone broth?”

“Never.”

“’Twas my father first made it. I’ll tell you the story, sir, if you’ll turn your head this way a minute.”

Hardress had no choice but to listen.

“My father went once upon a time about the country, in the idle season, seeing would he make a penny at all by cutting hair, or setting razhurs and penknives, or any other job that would fall in his way. Well an’ good—he was one day walking alone in the mountains of Kerry, without a hai’p’ny in his pocket (for though he travelled a-foot, it cost him more than he earned), an’ knowing there was but little love for a county Limerick man in the place where he was, on being half perished with the hunger, an’ evening drawing nigh, he didn’t know well what to do with himself tillmorning. Very good—he went along the wild road; an’ if he did, he soon sees a farmhouse at a little distance o’ one side—a snug-looking place, with the smoke curling up out of the chimney, an’ all tokens of good living inside. Well, some people would live where a fox would starve. What do you think did my father do? He wouldn’t beg (a thing one of our people never done yet, thank heaven!) an’ he hadn’t the money to buy a thing, so what does he do? He takes up a couple o’ the big limestones that were lying on the road in his two hands, an’ away with him to the house. ‘Lord save all here!’ says he, walkin’ in the doore. ‘And you kindly,’ says they. ‘I’m come to you,’ says he, this way, looking at the two limestones, ‘to know would you let me make a little limestone broth over your fire, until I’ll make my dinner?’ ‘Limestone broth!’ says they to him again; ‘what’s that,aroo?’ ‘Broth made o’ limestone,’ says he; ‘what else?’ ‘We never heard of such a thing,’ says they. ‘Why, then, you may hear it now,’ says he, ‘an’ see it also, if you’ll gi’ me a pot an’ a couple o’ quarts o’ soft water.’ ‘You can have it an’ welcome,’ says they. So they put down the pot an’ the water, an’ my father went over an’ tuk a chair hard by the pleasant fire for himself, an’ put down his two limestones to boil, and kep stirrin’ them round like stirabout. Very good—well, by-an’-by, when the wather began to boil—‘’Tis thickening finely,’ says my father; ‘now if it had a grain o’ salt at all, ’twould be a great improvement to it’ ‘Raich down the salt-box, Nell,’ says the man o’ the house to his wife. So she did. ‘Oh, that’s the very thing, just,’ says my father, shaking some of it into the pot. So he stirred it again awhile, looking as sober as a minister. By-an’-by, he takes the spoon he had stirring it, an’ tastes it ‘It is very good now,’ says he, ‘although it wants something yet.’ ‘What is it?’ says they. ‘Oyeh, wisha nothing,’ says he; ‘maybe ’tis only fancy o’ me.’ ‘If it’s anything we can give you,’ says they, ‘you’re welcome toit’ ‘’Tis very good as it is,’ says he; ‘but when I’m at home, I find it gives it a fine flavour just to boil a little knuckle o’ bacon, or mutton trotters, or anything that way along with it.’ ‘Raich hether that bone o’ sheep’s head we had at dinner yesterday, Nell,’ says the man o’ the house. ‘Oyeh, don’t mind it,’ says my father; ‘let it be as it is.’ ‘Sure if it improves it, you may as well,’ says they. ‘Baithershin!’[16]says my father, putting it down. So after boiling it a good piece longer, ‘’Tis as fine limestone broth,’ says he, ‘as ever was tasted; an’ if a man had a few piatez,’ says he, looking at a pot of ’em that was smokin’ in the chimney-corner, ‘he couldn’t desire a better dinner.’ They gave him the piatez, and he made a good dinner of themselves an’ the broth, not forgetting the bone, which he polished equal to chaney before he let it go. The people themselves tasted it, an’ thought it as good as any mutton broth in the world.”

Gerald Griffin(1803–1840).

NELL FLAHERTY’S DRAKE.My name it is Nell, quite candid I tell,That I live near Coote hill, I will never deny;I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,That my grandmother left me and she going to die;He was wholesome and sound, he would weigh twenty pound,The universe round I would rove for his sake—Bad wind to the robber—be he drunk or sober—That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.His neck it was green—most rare to be seen,He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;His body was white—and would you delight—He was plump, fat and heavy, and brisk as a bee.The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,He would fly like a swallow and dive like a hake,But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,May a ghost ever haunt him at dead of the night;May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,May his goat fly away like an old paper kite.That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease,And the piercing north breeze make him shiver and shake,May a lump of a stick raise bumps fast and thickOn the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his cradle ne’er rock, may his box have no lock,May his wife have no frock for to cover her back;May his cock never crow, may his bellows ne’er blow,And his pipe and his pot may he evermore lack.May his duck never quack, may his goose turn black,And pull down his turf with her long yellow beak;May the plague grip the scamp, and his villainy stampOn the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke,And to add to the joke, may his kettle ne’er boil;May he keep to the bed till the hour that he’s dead,May he always be fed on hogwash and boiled oil.May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,May he roll, howl and shout with the horrid toothache;May the temples wear horns, and the toes many corns,Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,May each hair in his wig be well thrashed with a flail;May his door have no latch, may his house have no thatch,May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.May every old fairy, from Cork to Dunleary,Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,Where the eel and the trout may feed on the snoutOf the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his dog yelp and howl with the hunger and could,May his wife always scold till his brains go astray;May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bagAlight on the vag. till his hair turns grey.May monkeys affright him, and mad dogs still bite him,And every one slight him, asleep or awake;May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him—The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.The only good news that I have to infuseIs that old Peter Hughes and blind Peter McCrake,And big-nosed Bob Manson, and buck-toothed Ned Hanson,Each man had a grandson of my lovely drake.My treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins,And one I must get or my heart it will break;To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy—This ends the whole song of my beautiful drake.Anonymous.

My name it is Nell, quite candid I tell,That I live near Coote hill, I will never deny;I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,That my grandmother left me and she going to die;He was wholesome and sound, he would weigh twenty pound,The universe round I would rove for his sake—Bad wind to the robber—be he drunk or sober—That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.His neck it was green—most rare to be seen,He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;His body was white—and would you delight—He was plump, fat and heavy, and brisk as a bee.The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,He would fly like a swallow and dive like a hake,But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,May a ghost ever haunt him at dead of the night;May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,May his goat fly away like an old paper kite.That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease,And the piercing north breeze make him shiver and shake,May a lump of a stick raise bumps fast and thickOn the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his cradle ne’er rock, may his box have no lock,May his wife have no frock for to cover her back;May his cock never crow, may his bellows ne’er blow,And his pipe and his pot may he evermore lack.May his duck never quack, may his goose turn black,And pull down his turf with her long yellow beak;May the plague grip the scamp, and his villainy stampOn the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke,And to add to the joke, may his kettle ne’er boil;May he keep to the bed till the hour that he’s dead,May he always be fed on hogwash and boiled oil.May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,May he roll, howl and shout with the horrid toothache;May the temples wear horns, and the toes many corns,Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,May each hair in his wig be well thrashed with a flail;May his door have no latch, may his house have no thatch,May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.May every old fairy, from Cork to Dunleary,Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,Where the eel and the trout may feed on the snoutOf the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.May his dog yelp and howl with the hunger and could,May his wife always scold till his brains go astray;May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bagAlight on the vag. till his hair turns grey.May monkeys affright him, and mad dogs still bite him,And every one slight him, asleep or awake;May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him—The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.The only good news that I have to infuseIs that old Peter Hughes and blind Peter McCrake,And big-nosed Bob Manson, and buck-toothed Ned Hanson,Each man had a grandson of my lovely drake.My treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins,And one I must get or my heart it will break;To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy—This ends the whole song of my beautiful drake.Anonymous.

My name it is Nell, quite candid I tell,

That I live near Coote hill, I will never deny;

I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,

That my grandmother left me and she going to die;

He was wholesome and sound, he would weigh twenty pound,

The universe round I would rove for his sake—

Bad wind to the robber—be he drunk or sober—

That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

His neck it was green—most rare to be seen,He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;His body was white—and would you delight—He was plump, fat and heavy, and brisk as a bee.The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,He would fly like a swallow and dive like a hake,But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

His neck it was green—most rare to be seen,

He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;

His body was white—and would you delight—

He was plump, fat and heavy, and brisk as a bee.

The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,

He would fly like a swallow and dive like a hake,

But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,

Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,May a ghost ever haunt him at dead of the night;May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,May his goat fly away like an old paper kite.That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease,And the piercing north breeze make him shiver and shake,May a lump of a stick raise bumps fast and thickOn the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,

May a ghost ever haunt him at dead of the night;

May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,

May his goat fly away like an old paper kite.

That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease,

And the piercing north breeze make him shiver and shake,

May a lump of a stick raise bumps fast and thick

On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his cradle ne’er rock, may his box have no lock,May his wife have no frock for to cover her back;May his cock never crow, may his bellows ne’er blow,And his pipe and his pot may he evermore lack.May his duck never quack, may his goose turn black,And pull down his turf with her long yellow beak;May the plague grip the scamp, and his villainy stampOn the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his cradle ne’er rock, may his box have no lock,

May his wife have no frock for to cover her back;

May his cock never crow, may his bellows ne’er blow,

And his pipe and his pot may he evermore lack.

May his duck never quack, may his goose turn black,

And pull down his turf with her long yellow beak;

May the plague grip the scamp, and his villainy stamp

On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke,And to add to the joke, may his kettle ne’er boil;May he keep to the bed till the hour that he’s dead,May he always be fed on hogwash and boiled oil.May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,May he roll, howl and shout with the horrid toothache;May the temples wear horns, and the toes many corns,Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke,

And to add to the joke, may his kettle ne’er boil;

May he keep to the bed till the hour that he’s dead,

May he always be fed on hogwash and boiled oil.

May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,

May he roll, howl and shout with the horrid toothache;

May the temples wear horns, and the toes many corns,

Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,May each hair in his wig be well thrashed with a flail;May his door have no latch, may his house have no thatch,May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.May every old fairy, from Cork to Dunleary,Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,Where the eel and the trout may feed on the snoutOf the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,

May each hair in his wig be well thrashed with a flail;

May his door have no latch, may his house have no thatch,

May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.

May every old fairy, from Cork to Dunleary,

Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,

Where the eel and the trout may feed on the snout

Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his dog yelp and howl with the hunger and could,May his wife always scold till his brains go astray;May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bagAlight on the vag. till his hair turns grey.May monkeys affright him, and mad dogs still bite him,And every one slight him, asleep or awake;May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him—The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his dog yelp and howl with the hunger and could,

May his wife always scold till his brains go astray;

May the curse of each hag that e’er carried a bag

Alight on the vag. till his hair turns grey.

May monkeys affright him, and mad dogs still bite him,

And every one slight him, asleep or awake;

May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him—

The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

The only good news that I have to infuseIs that old Peter Hughes and blind Peter McCrake,And big-nosed Bob Manson, and buck-toothed Ned Hanson,Each man had a grandson of my lovely drake.My treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins,And one I must get or my heart it will break;To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy—This ends the whole song of my beautiful drake.Anonymous.

The only good news that I have to infuse

Is that old Peter Hughes and blind Peter McCrake,

And big-nosed Bob Manson, and buck-toothed Ned Hanson,

Each man had a grandson of my lovely drake.

My treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins,

And one I must get or my heart it will break;

To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy—

This ends the whole song of my beautiful drake.

Anonymous.

ELEGY ON HIMSELF.Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojournedThis priest devout;Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurnedThe bones of Prout!Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering columnHis place of rest,Whose soul, above earth’s homage, meek, yet solemn,Sits ’mid the blest.Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebukeO’erawed sheep-stealers;And rogues feared more the good man’s single lookThan forty Peelers.He’s gone, and discord soon I ween will visitThe land with quarrels;And the foul demon vex with stills illicitThe village morals.No fatal chance could happen more to crossThe public wishes;And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,Except the fishes;For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herringPreferred to gammon.Grim death has broke his angling rod: hisberringDelights the salmon.No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,For fasting pittance—Arts which St. Peter loved, whose gate to ProutGave prompt admittance.Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keepHis sainted dust,The bad man’s death it well becomes to weep—Not so the just!Francis Sylvester Mahony(“Father Prout”) (1804–1866).

Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojournedThis priest devout;Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurnedThe bones of Prout!Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering columnHis place of rest,Whose soul, above earth’s homage, meek, yet solemn,Sits ’mid the blest.Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebukeO’erawed sheep-stealers;And rogues feared more the good man’s single lookThan forty Peelers.He’s gone, and discord soon I ween will visitThe land with quarrels;And the foul demon vex with stills illicitThe village morals.No fatal chance could happen more to crossThe public wishes;And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,Except the fishes;For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herringPreferred to gammon.Grim death has broke his angling rod: hisberringDelights the salmon.No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,For fasting pittance—Arts which St. Peter loved, whose gate to ProutGave prompt admittance.Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keepHis sainted dust,The bad man’s death it well becomes to weep—Not so the just!Francis Sylvester Mahony(“Father Prout”) (1804–1866).

Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourned

This priest devout;

Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurned

The bones of Prout!

Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column

His place of rest,

Whose soul, above earth’s homage, meek, yet solemn,

Sits ’mid the blest.

Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke

O’erawed sheep-stealers;

And rogues feared more the good man’s single look

Than forty Peelers.

He’s gone, and discord soon I ween will visit

The land with quarrels;

And the foul demon vex with stills illicit

The village morals.

No fatal chance could happen more to cross

The public wishes;

And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,

Except the fishes;

For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring

Preferred to gammon.

Grim death has broke his angling rod: hisberring

Delights the salmon.

No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,

For fasting pittance—

Arts which St. Peter loved, whose gate to Prout

Gave prompt admittance.

Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep

His sainted dust,

The bad man’s death it well becomes to weep—

Not so the just!

Francis Sylvester Mahony(“Father Prout”) (1804–1866).

Father Tom rubbed his hands pleasantly, and related story after story of his own early experiences, some of them not a little amusing.

The major, however, seemed not fully to enjoy the priest’s anecdotal powers, but sipped his glass with a grave and sententious air. “Very true, Tom,” said he, at length breaking silence; “you have seen a fair share of these things for a man of your cloth; but where’s the man living—show him to me, I say—that has had my experience, either as principal or second: haven’t I had my four men out in the same morning?”

“Why, I confess,” said I meekly, “that does seem an extravagant allowance.”

“Clear waste, downright profusion,du luxe, mon cher, nothing else,” observed Father Tom. Meanwhile the major rolled his eyes fearfully at me, and fidgeted in his chair with impatience to be asked his story, and as I myself had some curiosity on the subject, I begged him to relate it.

“Tom, here, doesn’t like a story at supper,” said the major, pompously; for, perceiving our attitude of attention, he resolved on being a little tyrannical before telling it.

The priest made immediate submission; and, slyly hinting that his objection only lay against stories he had been hearing for the last thirty years, said he could listen to the narration in question with much pleasure.

“You shall have it, then!” said the major, as he squared himself in his chair, and thus began:—

“You have never been in Castle Connel, Hinton? Well, there is a wide bleak line of country there, that stretchesaway to the westward, with nothing but large round-backed mountains, low boggy swamps, with here and there a miserable mud hovel, surrounded by, maybe, half an acre of lumpers, or bad oats; a few small streams struggle through this on their way to the Shannon, but they are brown and dirty as the soil they traverse; and the very fish that swim in them are brown and smutty also.

“In the very heart of this wild country, I took it into my head to build a house. A strange notion it was, for there was no neighbourhood and no sporting; but, somehow, I had taken a dislike to mixed society some time before that, and I found it convenient to live somewhat in retirement; so that, if the partridges were not in abundance about me, neither were the process-servers; and the truth was, I kept a much sharper look-out for the sub-sheriff than I did for the snipe.

“Of course, as I was over head and ears in debt, my notion was to build something very considerable and imposing; and, to be sure, I had a fine portico, and a flight of steps leading up to it; and there were ten windows in front, and a grand balustrade at the top; and, faith, taking it all in all, the building was so strong, the walls so thick, the windows so narrow, and the stones so black, that my cousin, Darcy Mahon, called it Newgate; and not a bad name either—and the devil another it ever went by: and even that same had its advantages; for when the creditors used to read that at the top of my letters, they’d say—‘Poor devil! he has enough on his hands; there’s no use troubling him any more.’ Well, big as Newgate looked from without, it had not much accommodation when you got inside. There was, ’tis true, a fine hall, all flagged; and, out of it, you entered what ought to have been the dinner-room, thirty-eight feet by seven-and-twenty, but which was used for herding sheep in winter. On theright hand, there was a cozy little breakfast-room, just about the size of this we are in. At the back of the hall, but concealed by a pair of folding-doors, there was a grand staircase of old Irish oak, that ought to have led up to a great suite of bedrooms, but it only conducted to one, a little crib I had for myself. The remainder were never plastered nor floored; and, indeed, in one of them, that was over the big drawing-room, the joists were never laid, which was all the better, for it was there we used to keep our hay and straw.

“Now, at the time I mention, the harvest was not brought in, and instead of its being full, as it used to be, it was mighty low; so that, when you opened the door above stairs, instead of finding the hay up beside you, it was about fourteen feet down beneath you.

“I can’t help boring you with all these details—first, because they are essential to my story; and next, because, being a young man, and a foreigner to boot, it may lead you to a little better understanding of some of our national customs. Of all the partialities we Irish have, after lush and the ladies, I believe our ruling passion is to build a big house, spend every shilling we have, or that we have not, as the case may be, in getting it half finished, and then live in a corner of it, ‘just for grandeur,’ as a body may say. It’s a droll notion, after all; but show me the county in Ireland that hasn’t at least six specimens of what I mention.

“Newgate was a beautiful one; and although the sheep lived in the parlour, and the cows were kept in the blue drawing-room, Darby Whaley slept in the boudoir, and two bull-dogs and a buck-goat kept house in the library—faith, upon the outside it looked very imposing; and not one that saw it, from the high road to Ennis—and you could see it for twelve miles in every direction—didn’t say, ‘That Mahon must be a snug fellow: look what a beautifulplace he has of it there! ‘Little they knew that it was safer to go up the ’Reeks’ than my grand staircase, and it was like rope-dancing to pass from one room to the other.

“Well, it was about four o’clock in the afternoon of a dark louring day in December, that I was treading homewards in no very good humour; for, except a brace and a half of snipe, and a grey plover, I had met with nothing the whole day. The night was falling fast; so I began to hurry on as quickly as I could, when I heard a loud shout behind me, and a voice called out—

“‘It’s Bob Mahon, boys! By the hill of Scariff, we are in luck!’

“I turned about, and what should I see but a parcel of fellows in red coats—they were the blazers. There was Dan Lambert, Tom Burke, Harry Eyre, Joe M’Mahon, and the rest of them; fourteen souls in all. They had come down to draw a cover of Stephen Blake’s about ten miles from me; but, in the strange mountain country, they lost the dogs—they lost their way and their temper; in truth, to all appearance they lost everything but their appetites. Their horses were dead beat too, and they looked as miserable a crew as ever you set eyes on.

“‘Isn’t it lucky, Bob, that we found you at home?’ said Lambert.

“‘They told us you were away,’ said Burke.

“‘Some said that you were grown so pious, that you never went out except on Sundays,’ added old Harry, with a grin.

“‘Begad,’ said I, ‘as to the luck, I won’t say much for it; for here’s all I can give you for your dinner;’ and so I pulled out the four birds and shook them at them; ‘and as to the piety, troth, maybe you’d like to keep a fast with as devoted a son of the church as myself.’

“‘But isn’t that Newgate up there?’ said one.

“‘That same.’

“‘And you don’t mean to say that such a house as that hasn’t a good larder and a fine cellar?’

“‘You’re right,’ said I, ‘and they’re both full at this very moment—the one with seed-potatoes, and the other with Whitehaven coals.’

“‘Have you got any bacon?’ said Mahon.

“‘Oh, yes!’ said I, ‘there’s bacon.’

“‘And eggs?’ said another.

“‘For the matter of that, you might swim in batter.’

“‘Come, come,’ said Dan Lambert, ‘we’re not so badly off after all.’

“‘Is there whisky?’ cried Eyre.

“‘Sixty-three gallons, that never paid the king sixpence!’

“As I said this, they gave three cheers you’d have heard a mile off.

“After about twenty minutes’ walking, we go up to the house, and when poor Darby opened the door, I thought he’d faint; for, you see, the red coats made him think it was the army coming to take me away; and he was for running off to raise the country, when I caught him by the neck.

“‘It’s the blazers, ye old fool,’ said I. ‘The gentlemen are come to dine here.’

“‘Hurroo!’ said he, clapping his hands on his knees—‘there must be great distress entirely, down about Nenagh and them parts, or they’d never think of coming up here for a bit to eat.’

“‘Which way lie the stables, Bob?’ said Burke.

“‘Leave all that to Darby,’ said I; for ye see he had only to whistle and bring up as many people as he liked—and so he did too; and as there was room for a cavalry regiment, the horses were soon bedded down and comfortable; and in ten minutes’ time we were all sitting pleasantly round a big fire, waiting for the rashers and eggs.

“‘Now, if you’d like to wash your hands before dinner, Lambert, come along with me.’

“‘By all means,’ said he.

“The others were standing up too; but I observed that, as the house was large, and the ways of it unknown to them, it was better to wait till I’d come back for them.

“This was a real piece of good luck, Bob,’ said Dan, as he followed me upstairs: ‘capital quarters we’ve fallen into; and what a snug bedroom ye have here.’

“‘Yes,’ said I carelessly; ‘it’s one of the small rooms—there are eight like this, and five large ones, plainly furnished, as you see; but for the present, you know——’

“‘Oh, begad! I wish for nothing better. Let me sleep here—the other fellows may care for your four-posters with satin hangings.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you are really not joking, I may tell you that the room is one of the warmest in the house’—and this was telling no lie.

“‘Here I’ll sleep,’ said he, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and giving the bed a most affectionate look. ‘And now let us join the rest.’

“When I brought Dan down, I took up Burke, and after him M’Mahon, and so on to the last; but every time I entered the parlour, I found them all bestowing immense praises on my house, and each fellow ready to bet he had got the best bedroom.

“Dinner soon made its appearance; for if the cookery was not very perfect, it was at least wonderfully expeditious. There were two men cutting rashers, two more frying them in the pan, and another did nothing but break the eggs, Darby running from the parlour to the kitchen and back again, as hard as he could trot.

“Do you know, now, that many a time since, when I have been giving venison, and Burgundy, and claret, enough to swim a life-boat in, I often thought it was a cruelwaste of money; for the fellows weren’t half as pleasant as they were that evening on bacon and whisky!

“I’ve a theory on that subject, Hinton, I’ll talk to you more about another time; I’ll only observe now, that I’m sure we all over-feed our company. I’ve tried both plans; and my honest experience is, that, as far as regards conviviality, fun, and good-fellowship, it is a great mistake to provide too well for your guests. There is something heroic in eating your mutton-chop, or your leg of a turkey among jolly fellows; there is a kind of reflective flattering about it that tells you you have been invited for your drollery, and not for your digestion; and that your jokes, and not your flattery, have been your recommendation. Lord bless you! I’ve laughed more over red herrings and poteen than I ever expect to do again over turtle and toquay.

“My guests were, to do them justice, a good illustration of my theory. A pleasanter and a merrier party never sat down together. We had good songs, good stories, plenty of laughing, and plenty of drink; until at last poor Darby became so overpowered, by the fumes of the hot water I suppose, that he was obliged to be carried up to bed, and so we were compelled to boil the kettle in the parlour. This, I think, precipitated matters; for, by some mistake, they put punch into it instead of water, and the more you tried to weaken the liquor, it was only the more tipsy you were getting.

“About two o’clock five of the party were under the table, three more were nodding backwards and forwards like insane pendulums, and the rest were mighty noisy, and now and then rather disposed to be quarrelsome.

“‘Bob,’ said Lambert to me, in a whisper, ‘if it’s the same thing to you, I’ll slip away and get into bed.’

“‘Of course, if you won’t take anything more. Just make yourself at home; and, as you don’t know the way here—follow me!’

“‘I’m afraid,’ said he, ‘I’d not find my way alone.’

“‘I think,’ said I, ‘it’s very likely. But come along.’

“I walked upstairs before him; but instead of turning to the left, I went the other way, till I came to the door of the large room, that I have told you already was over the big drawing-room. Just as I put my hand on the lock, I contrived to blow out the candle, as if it was the wind.

“‘What a draught there is here!’ said I; ‘but just step in, and I’ll go for a light.’

“He did as he was bid; but instead of finding himself on my beautiful little carpet, down he went fourteen feet into the hay at the bottom. I looked down after him for a minute or two, and then called out—

“‘As I am doing the honours of Newgate, the least I could do was to show you the drop. Good night, Dan! but let me advise you to get a little farther from the door, as there are more coming.’

“Well, sir, when they missed Dan and me out of the room, two or three more stood up and declared for bed also. The first I took up was Ffrench, of Green Park; for indeed he wasn’t a cute fellow at the best of times; and if it wasn’t that the hay was so low, he’d never have guessed it was not a feather-bed till he woke in the morning. Well, down he went. Then came Eyre! Then Joe Mahon—two-and-twenty stone—no less! Lord pity them!—this was a great shock entirely! But when I opened the door for Tom Burke, upon my conscience you’d think it was Pandemonium they had down there. They were fighting like devils, and roaring with all their might.

“‘Good night, Tom,’ said I, pushing Burke forward. ‘It’s the cows you hear underneath.’

“‘Cows!’ said he. ‘If they’re cows, begad, they must have got at that sixty-three gallons of poteen you talked of; for they’re all drunk.’

“With that, he snatched the candle out of my hand, andlooked down into the pit. Never was such a scene before or since. Dan was pitching into poor Ffrench, who, thinking he had an enemy before him, was hitting out manfully at an old turf-creel, that rocked and creaked at every blow as he called out—

“‘I’ll smash you! I’ll dinge your ribs for you, you infernal scoundrel!’

“Eyre was struggling in the hay, thinking he was swimming for his life; and poor Joe Mahon was patting him on the head, and saying, ‘Poor fellow! good dog!’ for he thought it was Towser, the bull-terrier, that was prowling round the calves of his legs.

“‘If they don’t get tired, there will not be a man of them alive by morning!’ said Tom, as he closed the door. ‘And now, if you’ll allow me to sleep on the carpet, I’ll take it as a favour.’

“By this time they were all quiet in the parlour, so I lent Tom a couple of blankets and a bolster, and having locked my door, went to bed with an easy mind and a quiet conscience. To be sure, now and then a cry would burst forth, as if they were killing somebody below stairs, but I soon fell asleep and heard no more of them.

“By daybreak next morning they made their escape; and when I was trying to awake at half-past ten, I found Colonel M’Morris, of the Mayo, with a message from the whole four.

“‘A bad business this, Captain Mahon,’ said he; ‘my friends have been shockingly treated.’

“‘It’s mighty hard,’ said I, ‘to want to shoot me, because I hadn’t fourteen feather-beds in the house.’

“‘They will be the laugh of the whole country, sir.’

“‘Troth!’ said I, ‘if the country is not in very low spirits, I think they will.’

“‘There’s not a man of them can see!—their eyes are actually closed up!’

“‘The Lord be praised!’ said I. ‘It’s not likely they’ll hit me.’

“But, to make a short story of it; out we went. Tom Burke was my friend; I could scarce hold my pistol with laughing; for such faces no man ever looked at. But, for self-preservation sake, I thought it best to hit one of them; so I just pinked Ffrench a little under the skirt of the coat.

“‘Come, Lambert!’ said the colonel, ‘it’s your turn now.’

“‘Wasn’t that Lambert,’ said I, ‘that I hit?’

“‘No,’ said he, ‘that was Ffrench.’

“‘Begad, I’m sorry for it. Ffrench, my dear fellow, excuse me; for, you see, you’re all so like each other about the eyes this morning——’

“With this there was a roar of laughing from them all, in which, I assure you, Lambert took not a very prominent part; for somehow he didn’t fancy my polite inquiries after him; and so we all shook hands, and left the ground as good friends as ever, though to this hour the name of Newgate brings less pleasant recollections to their minds than if their fathers had been hanged at its prototype.”

Charles Lever(1806–1872).

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