“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here as thick as flies at cock-crow—I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”
“It’s sthrange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the airly mornin’; often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels I do be standin’ wud the noisethey kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”
“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint Pether’s mind from his throubles.
“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game. It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that outside?” catchin’ sighth of Paddy Power.
“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.
“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the poor sowls. Did this chap comeviâPurgathory?” say he.
“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”
“Who is he?” says Saint Pether.
“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick. “He seems a dacent sort of craychur.”
“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.
“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.
“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he, rubbin’ his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”
“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down on the way-bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.”
“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side, an’ sind him to Limbo for a spell.”
Begor, when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries out in a pitiful voice—
“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below, where the law is sthrict enough agen a poorsthrugglin’ boy, they always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word, yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed clane. I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a helpless ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ ’tis many the prayer I said to your own self below!”
Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’ turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough. I don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is of the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the affair before we decides wan way or the other.”
“Ah, give the poorangashorea chance,” says Saint Pathrick. “’Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’ up as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remimber you towld me wance that you’d like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”
“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an’ maybe I’d never have another chance from Portlaw.”
“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.
So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat-pocket, an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy Power.
“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”
“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”
“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands meover the kays, Pat,” says he, “I’ll relaise you for the day, so that you can show your frind over the grounds.”
“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you,avic!”
“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gate; “an’ remimber always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’ ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had from the Parish of Portlaw.”
Edmund Downey(1856).
“‘COME IN, PADDY POWER,’ SAYS SAINT PETHER, OPENIN’ THE GATE.”
“‘COME IN, PADDY POWER,’ SAYS SAINT PETHER, OPENIN’ THE GATE.”
THE DANCE AT MARLEY.Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm them;In the kitchen thronged the girls—cheeks of roses, teeth of pearls—Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm them.Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she thebawnogeentered,Where ashassof straw was laid on a ladder raised that madeA seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them cantered.Murtagh and hisvanithee[53]had their chairs brought in to seeThe heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and laughter;In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright—The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly drowned,So the couples took their ground—their hearts already dancing!Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.“Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss McLeod,”“The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes the Barley,”“The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The River Lee,”—As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigsgalore,With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to Carlow.”Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as their glances;Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on—The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosysaustagh[54]spot—Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.Everything must have an end, and thegirshas[55]home did wend,With guarding brother and a friend—this last was absent rarely!Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth—Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.Patrick J. McCall(1861).
Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm them;In the kitchen thronged the girls—cheeks of roses, teeth of pearls—Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm them.Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she thebawnogeentered,Where ashassof straw was laid on a ladder raised that madeA seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them cantered.Murtagh and hisvanithee[53]had their chairs brought in to seeThe heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and laughter;In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright—The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly drowned,So the couples took their ground—their hearts already dancing!Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.“Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss McLeod,”“The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes the Barley,”“The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The River Lee,”—As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigsgalore,With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to Carlow.”Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as their glances;Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on—The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosysaustagh[54]spot—Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.Everything must have an end, and thegirshas[55]home did wend,With guarding brother and a friend—this last was absent rarely!Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth—Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.Patrick J. McCall(1861).
Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm them;In the kitchen thronged the girls—cheeks of roses, teeth of pearls—Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm them.Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she thebawnogeentered,Where ashassof straw was laid on a ladder raised that madeA seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them cantered.
Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,
For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm them;
In the kitchen thronged the girls—cheeks of roses, teeth of pearls—
Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm them.
Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,
Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she thebawnogeentered,
Where ashassof straw was laid on a ladder raised that made
A seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them cantered.
Murtagh and hisvanithee[53]had their chairs brought in to seeThe heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and laughter;In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright—The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly drowned,So the couples took their ground—their hearts already dancing!Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.
Murtagh and hisvanithee[53]had their chairs brought in to see
The heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and laughter;
In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright—
The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!
The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly drowned,
So the couples took their ground—their hearts already dancing!
Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,
Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.
“Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss McLeod,”“The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes the Barley,”“The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The River Lee,”—As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigsgalore,With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to Carlow.”
“Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss McLeod,”
“The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes the Barley,”
“The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The River Lee,”—
As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!
Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigsgalore,
With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;
But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,
The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to Carlow.”
Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as their glances;Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on—The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!
Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,
Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as their glances;
Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,
Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.
But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on—
The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:
Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,
They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!
Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosysaustagh[54]spot—Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.Everything must have an end, and thegirshas[55]home did wend,With guarding brother and a friend—this last was absent rarely!Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth—Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.Patrick J. McCall(1861).
Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,
Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!
The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosysaustagh[54]spot—
Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.
Everything must have an end, and thegirshas[55]home did wend,
With guarding brother and a friend—this last was absent rarely!
Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth—
Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.
Patrick J. McCall(1861).
“FAST IN AND OUT THEY WHIRL AND WHEEL, ALL CAPERING AND PRANCING.”
“FAST IN AND OUT THEY WHIRL AND WHEEL, ALL CAPERING AND PRANCING.”
Wance upon a time, when things was a great’le betther in Ireland than they are at present, when a rale king ruled over the counthry wid four others undher him to look afther the craps an’ other industhries, there lived a young chief called Fan MaCool. Now, this was long afore we gev up bowin’ and scrapin’ to the sun an’ moon an’ sich likeraumash(nonsense); an’, signs an it, there was a powerful lot ov witches an’ Druids, an’ enchanted min an’ wimen goin’ about, that med things quare enough betimes for iverywan.
Well, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he kem to the command, an’ a purty likely lookin’ boy, too—there was nothin’ too hot or too heavy for him; an’ so ye needn’t be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was the mischief entirely wid thecolleens. Nothin’ delighted him more than to disguise himself wid an ouldcoatamore(overcoat) threwn over his showlder, a lump ov akippeen(stick) in his fist an’ he mayanderin’ about unknownst,rings aroundthe counthry, lookin’ for fun an’foosther(diversion) ov all kinds.
Well, one fine mornin’, whin he wason the shaughraun, he waswaumasin’ (strolling) about through Leinster, an’ near the royal palace ov Glendalough he seen a mighty throng ov grand lords an’ ladies, an’, my dear, they all dressed up to the nines, wid their jewels shinin’ like dewdrops ov a May mornin’, and laughin’ like the tinkle ov adeeshy(small) mountain strame over the white rocks. So he cocked his beaver, an’ stole over to see what was the matther.
Lo an’ behould ye, what were they at but houldin’ a race-meetin’ orfaysh(festival)—somethin’ like what the quality callsataléticksnow! There they were, jumpin’, and runnin’, and coorsin’, an’ all soorts ov fun, enough to make thetrouts—an’ they’re mighty fine leppers enough—die wid envy in the river benaith them.
The fun wint on fast an’ furious, an’ Fan, consaled betune thetrumaunsan’brushna(elder bushes and furze), could hardly keep himself quiet, seein’ the thricks they wor at. Peepin’ out, he seen, jist forninst him on the other bank, the prencess herself, betune the high-up ladies ov the coort. She was a fine, bouncin’geersha(girl) with goold hair like the furze an’ cheeks like an apple blossom, an’ she brakin’ her heart laughin’ an’ clappin’ her hands an’ turnin’ her head this a-way an’ that a-way, jokin’ wid this wan an’ that wan, an’ commiseratin’,moryah![56]the poorgossoonsthat failed in their leps. Fan liked the looks ov her well, an’ whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to their knees an’ jumped up over another wan as high as their chins, the great trial ov all kem on. Maybe you’d guess what that was? But I’m afeerd you won’t if I gev you a hundhered guesses! It was to lep the strame, forty foot wide!
List’nin’ to them whisperin’ to wan another, Fan heerd them tellin’ that whichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely ov; he wud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an’ ov coorse, wud be med king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his toes an’ looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the skhy. Well, whin Fan h’ard this, he was putto a nonplush(considering) to know what to do! With his ouldduds(clothes) on him, he was ashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to have the eyes ov the whole wurruld on him, an’ his heart wint down to his big toe as he watched the boys makin’ their offers at the lep. But no wan ov them was soople enough for the job, an’ they kep on tumblin’, wan afther the other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began to look sorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid acoolyeen(curls) a yard long—an’ more betoken he was a boy o’ the Byrnes from Imayle—jist tipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an’ then twistin’, like a crow in the air scratchin’ her head with her claw, he spraddled wide open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a mudbank! Well, me dear, Fan forgot himself, an’ gev a screech like an aigle; an’ wid that, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed, an’ Fan was surrounded. In less than a minit an’ a half they dragged me bould Fan be the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king himself.
“What ouldgeochagh(beggar) have we now?” sez the king, lookin’ very hard at Fan.
“I’m Fan MaCool!” sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.
“Well, Fan MaCool or not,” sez the king, mockin’ him, “ye’ll have to jump the strame yander for freckenin’ the lives clane out ov me ladies,” sez he, “an’ for disturbin’ our spoort ginerally,” sez he.
“An’ what’ll I get for that same?” sez Fan,lettin’ on(pretending) he was afeerd.
“Me daughter, Maynish,” sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye see, Fan would be drownded.
“Me hand on the bargain,” sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on the knuckles wid hisspecktre(sceptre) an’ towld him to hurry up, or he’d get theollaves(judges) to put him in the Black Dog pres’n or the Marshals—I forgets which—it’s so long gone by!
Well, Fan peeled off hiscoatamore, an’ threw away hisbottheenov a stick, an’ the prencess seein’ his big body an’ his long arums an’ legs like an oaktree, couldn’t help remarkin’ to her comerade, the craythur—
“Bedad,Cauth(Kate),” sez she, “but this beggarman is a fine bit ov abouchal(boy),” sez she; “it’s in the arumy he ought to be,” sez she, lookin’ at him agen, an’ admirin’ him, like.
So, Fan, purtendin’ to be fixin’ his shoes be the bank, jist pulled twolusmores(fox-gloves) an’ put them anunder his heels; for thim wor the fairies’ own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an’ he, ov coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an owldlenaun(fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he was a little stand-a-loney.
Well, me dear, ye’d think it was on’y over a littlecreepie(three-legged) stool he was leppin’ whin he landed like a thrish jist at the fut ov the prencess; an’ his father’s son he was, that put his two arums around her, an’ gev her a kiss—haith, ye’d hear the smack ov it at the Castle o’ Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake, an’ pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an’ at last he ordhered the bowld beggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuk off his weskit an’ seen the collar ov goold around Fan’s neck the ould chap became delighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun for a son-in-law.
“Hello!” sez the king, “who have we now?” sez he, seein’ the collar. “Begonnys,” sez he, “you’re noboccagh(beggar) anyways!”
“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as a cock sparra’; “have you anything to say agen me?” for his name wasn’t up, at that time, like afther.
“Ay, lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ round this a-way, dressed like a playacthor, takin’ us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to be vexed; “an’ now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ jump back agen afore you gets me daughter forputtin’ on(deceiving) us in such a manner.”
“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must have a word or two with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft to her, an’ the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two werecroosheenin’ an’colloguin’ (whispering and talking), an’ not mindin’ him no more thanif he was the man in the moon, when who comes up but the Prence ov Imayle, afther dryin’ himself, to put his pike in the hay, too.
“Well,avochal(my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry yet?” an’ the prencess laughed like a bell round a cat’s neck.
“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez the other; “but there’s one thing you can’t do wid all your prate!”
“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not,” sez he.
“You couldn’t whistle an’ chaw oatenmale,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, in a pucker. “Are you any good at throwin’ a stone?” sez he, then.
“The best!” sez Fan, an’ all the coort gother round like to a cock-fight. “Where’ll we throw to?” sez he.
“In to’ards Dublin,” sez the Prence ov Imayle; an’ be all accounts he was a great hand atcruistin(throwing). “Here goes pink!” sez he, an’ he ups with a stone, as big as a castle, an’ sends it flyin’ in the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top ov the Three Rock Mountain.
“I’m your masther!” sez Fan, pickin’ up anotherclochaun(stone) an’ sendin’ it a few perch beyant the first.
“That you’re not,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, an’ he done his best, an’ managed to send another finger stone beyant Fan’s throw; an’ shure, the three stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.
“Well, me lad,” says Fan, stoopin’ for another as big as a hill, “I’m sorry I have to bate you; but I can’t help it,” sez he, lookin’ over at the Prencess Maynish, an’ she as mute as a mouse watchin’ the two big men, an’ the ould king showin’ fair play, as delighted as a child. “Watch this,” sez he, whirlin’ his arm like a windmill, “and now put on your spectacles,” sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin’ through the air like a peggin’-top, over the other threeclochauns, and then across Dublin Bay, an’scrapin’ the nose off ov Howth, it landed with a swish in the say beyant it. That’s the rock they calls Ireland’s Eye now!
“Be the so an’ so!” sez the king, “I don’t know where that went to, at all, at all! Whatdirectdid you send it?” sez he to Fan. “I had it in view, till it went over the say,” sez he.
“I’m bet!” sez the Prence ov Imayle. “I couldn’t pass that, for I can’t see where you put it, even—good-bye to yous,” sez he, turnin’ on his heel an’ makin’ off; “an’ may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!” An’ back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an’ took to fret, an’ I undherstand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an’ they put a turtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; butIthink he overstrained himself, throwin’, though that’s nayther here nor there with me story!
“Are you goin’ to lep back agen?” sez ould King Garry, wantin’ to see more sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein’ the like as if he was a lad ov twenty.
“To be shure I will!” sez Fan, ready enough, “but I’ll have to take the girl over with me this time!” sez he.
“Oh, no, Fan!” sez Maynish, afeerd ov her life he might stumble, an’ that he’d fall in with her; an’ then she’d have to fall out with him—“take me father with you,” sez she; an’, egonnys, the ould king thought more about himself than any ov them, an’ sed he’d take the will for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin’ went on; an’ maybe that wasn’t the grandblow out. But I can’t stay to tell yous all the fun they had for a fortnit; on’y, me dear, they all went intokinks(fits) ov laughin’, when the ould king, who tuk more than was good for him, stood up to drink Fan’s health, an’ forgot himself.
“Here’s to’ards your good health, Fan MaCool!” sez he, as grand as you like—“an’ a long life to you, an’ a happywife to you—an’ a great many ov them!” sez he, like he’d forgot somethin’.
Well, me dear, every one was splittin’ their sides like the p’yates, unless the prencess, an’shegot as red in the face as if she was churnin’ in the winther an’ the frost keepin’ the crame from crackin’; but she got over it like the maisles.
But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an’ as the evenin’s gettin’ forrad I’ll stop; so put down the kittle an’ make tay, an’ if Fan and the Prencess Maynish didn’t live happy together—that we may!
Patrick J. McCall.
TATTHER JACK WELSH.Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,To humour the way for himself and his pig?Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh—Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,But breaking the hearts of the girls all around—Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune—Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourselfIf you heard the fife played by that musical elf.One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,Shure you can’t court at all—look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”So up the rogue rushes, and gave me apogue,[57]And Darby ran out, like he’d got apolthogue,[58]—“Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”“Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”Patrick J. McCall.
Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,To humour the way for himself and his pig?Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh—Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,But breaking the hearts of the girls all around—Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune—Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourselfIf you heard the fife played by that musical elf.One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,Shure you can’t court at all—look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”So up the rogue rushes, and gave me apogue,[57]And Darby ran out, like he’d got apolthogue,[58]—“Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”“Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”Patrick J. McCall.
Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,To humour the way for himself and his pig?
Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,
With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,
With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,
To humour the way for himself and his pig?
Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh—Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!
Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,
Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;
And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh—
Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!
Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,But breaking the hearts of the girls all around—Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.
Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,
And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,
But breaking the hearts of the girls all around—
Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.
For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune—Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourselfIf you heard the fife played by that musical elf.
For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune—
Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”
Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself
If you heard the fife played by that musical elf.
One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,Shure you can’t court at all—look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”
One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,
And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,
Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,
Shure you can’t court at all—look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”
So up the rogue rushes, and gave me apogue,[57]And Darby ran out, like he’d got apolthogue,[58]—“Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”“Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”Patrick J. McCall.
So up the rogue rushes, and gave me apogue,[57]
And Darby ran out, like he’d got apolthogue,[58]—
“Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”
“Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”
Patrick J. McCall.
In the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a triangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the comer of it towards Loch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is a wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster of walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times, before the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley, there was no place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when its men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside took hiskippeen—his cudgel—from its place in the chimney, and went out to do battle with a glad heart.
Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight than Mat smashing his way through a forest ofkippeens, with his enemies staggering back to the right and left of him; there was no sweeter sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and gladness, shouting, “Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!” Where hiskippeenflickered in the air his followers charged after, and the enemy rushed to meet him, for it was an honour to take a broken head from him.
But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed with men—fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by the black lakes, or in tiny ragged villages under the shadow of the mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides—every little town for miles, by river or seashore or mountain-built, was emptied. The fame of the Aughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well that every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them; Black Michael Joyce had a farmin the third corner of the Valley, just where the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross by it) meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force. Now Black Michael, “Meehul Dhu,” was Long Mat’s rival; though smaller he was near as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him, for it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself behind with his heels in doing it.
The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more time for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for the battle. Why you could scarcely have moved in Callanan’s Field out beyond the churchyard at the end of the Village, it was so packed with men—more than five hundred were there, and you could not have heard yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing theircaubeens, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf—“Hurroo for Carrala!” “Whoop for Aughavanna!” Around them a mob of women, old men and children, looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the mists had crept half-way down the dark mountain walls, as if to have a nearer look at the fight.
As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down the Village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two last houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan’s Field; he looked every inch a king; hiskippeenwas ready, his frieze coat was off, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the sleeve, while with a great voice he shouted—in Irish—“Where’s the Carrala man that dare touch my coat?” “Where’s the cowardly scoundrel that dare look crooked at it?”
In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him, and rushed forward, with a mighty cry, “Where’s the face of a trembling Aughavanna man?” In a moment theirkippeensclashed; in another, hundreds ofkippeenscrashed together, and the grandest fight everfought in Connemara raged over Callanan’s Field. After the first roar of defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so the shout of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds that broke the music of thekippeensclashing and clicking on one another, or striking home with a thud.
Never was Long Mat nobler: he rushed ravaging through the enemy, shattering their ranks and their heads, no man could withstand him; Red Callanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses out of Dan O’Shaughran of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the sedgy banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry Mulcahy, that lived on the Devil’s Mother Mountain—never again did Larry set the two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed Black Michael Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the head—who would have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull?
For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot. At first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for granted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men found themselves out-numbered and driven back to the Village, a great fear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not out-number them if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and they were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till hardly a man of them could stand.
And when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking themselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was prone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the mud—he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as he would have chosen—in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under the hand of an enemy (as of any one whodiffers from him in creed or politics), revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his death from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will, but only gentle regret for the mishap.
When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying day came. All the morning Long Mat Murnane’s coffin lay on four chairs by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled womenkeeninground it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered to do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the Valley from the chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the rough hearse, and the motley funeral—a line of carts with a mob of peasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot—moved slowly towards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly,keeninglike an Atlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that he could not see his funeral.
The Joyces too had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and now Black Michael’s funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear thekeeningof the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the other would be there first.
There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys were galloping, and till every one raced at full speed, and the rival parties broke into a wild shout of “Aughavannaabu!” “Meehul Dhu for ever!”
For the dead men were racing—feet foremost—to the grave; they were rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads meet in Callanan’s Field the hearses were abreast; neck to neck they dashed across the trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck they reached the churchyard, and the hearses jammed in the gate. Behind them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if they were mad.
But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized their long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last race. The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, so that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one another’s hands; they hugged one another.
“Himself would be proud,” they cried, “if he hadn’t been dead!”
Frank Mathew(1865).
IN BLARNEY.He—Be the fire,alanna, sittin’,Purty ’tis you look and sweet,Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.She—It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,Yis, and impudencegalore!Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,When yer afther half-a-score?He—Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,Found at all the likes o’ you.She—Now my worsted all is ravelledAnd whatever will I do?He—Might I make so bould to ask it,Shure I know the girl o’ girls;And I’d make me heart the casket,And her love the pearl o’ pearls.She—Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’That it’s you’re the honied rogue.He—Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’From yer rosy lips apogue.[59]She—Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,When it’s all alone she’s left?He—Wor they all as sweet as this is,Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.She—Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!Or I’ll soon begin to scould.Sure, I’d like to know what school inDid ye learn to be so bould?He—Och! it’s undher Masther CupidThat I learned me A, B, C.She—That the scholar wasn’t stupid,Faith, is very plain to see.He—Ah, then Eily, but the blush isMost becomin’ to ye, dear!Like the red rose on the bush is——She—Sir I you needn’t come so near!He—Over lane and road andboreen,Troth, I’ve come a weary way,Jusht to whisper ye,asthoreen,Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.I’ve a cosy cottage, which isJusht the proper size for two——She—There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,And it’s all because av you!He—And, to make a sthray suggestchun,Maybe you me wish might guess?She—Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,Somehow—I—might answer—Yes!Patrick J. Coleman(1867).
He—Be the fire,alanna, sittin’,Purty ’tis you look and sweet,Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.She—It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,Yis, and impudencegalore!Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,When yer afther half-a-score?He—Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,Found at all the likes o’ you.She—Now my worsted all is ravelledAnd whatever will I do?He—Might I make so bould to ask it,Shure I know the girl o’ girls;And I’d make me heart the casket,And her love the pearl o’ pearls.She—Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’That it’s you’re the honied rogue.He—Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’From yer rosy lips apogue.[59]She—Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,When it’s all alone she’s left?He—Wor they all as sweet as this is,Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.She—Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!Or I’ll soon begin to scould.Sure, I’d like to know what school inDid ye learn to be so bould?He—Och! it’s undher Masther CupidThat I learned me A, B, C.She—That the scholar wasn’t stupid,Faith, is very plain to see.He—Ah, then Eily, but the blush isMost becomin’ to ye, dear!Like the red rose on the bush is——She—Sir I you needn’t come so near!He—Over lane and road andboreen,Troth, I’ve come a weary way,Jusht to whisper ye,asthoreen,Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.I’ve a cosy cottage, which isJusht the proper size for two——She—There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,And it’s all because av you!He—And, to make a sthray suggestchun,Maybe you me wish might guess?She—Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,Somehow—I—might answer—Yes!Patrick J. Coleman(1867).
He—Be the fire,alanna, sittin’,Purty ’tis you look and sweet,Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.
He—Be the fire,alanna, sittin’,
Purty ’tis you look and sweet,
Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’
Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.
She—It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,Yis, and impudencegalore!Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,When yer afther half-a-score?
She—It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,
Yis, and impudencegalore!
Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,
When yer afther half-a-score?
He—Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,Found at all the likes o’ you.She—Now my worsted all is ravelledAnd whatever will I do?
He—Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,
Found at all the likes o’ you.
She—Now my worsted all is ravelled
And whatever will I do?
He—Might I make so bould to ask it,Shure I know the girl o’ girls;And I’d make me heart the casket,And her love the pearl o’ pearls.
He—Might I make so bould to ask it,
Shure I know the girl o’ girls;
And I’d make me heart the casket,
And her love the pearl o’ pearls.
She—Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’That it’s you’re the honied rogue.He—Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’From yer rosy lips apogue.[59]
She—Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’
That it’s you’re the honied rogue.
He—Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’
From yer rosy lips apogue.[59]
She—Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,When it’s all alone she’s left?He—Wor they all as sweet as this is,Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.
She—Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,
When it’s all alone she’s left?
He—Wor they all as sweet as this is,
Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.
She—Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!Or I’ll soon begin to scould.Sure, I’d like to know what school inDid ye learn to be so bould?
She—Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!
Or I’ll soon begin to scould.
Sure, I’d like to know what school in
Did ye learn to be so bould?
He—Och! it’s undher Masther CupidThat I learned me A, B, C.She—That the scholar wasn’t stupid,Faith, is very plain to see.
He—Och! it’s undher Masther Cupid
That I learned me A, B, C.
She—That the scholar wasn’t stupid,
Faith, is very plain to see.
He—Ah, then Eily, but the blush isMost becomin’ to ye, dear!Like the red rose on the bush is——She—Sir I you needn’t come so near!
He—Ah, then Eily, but the blush is
Most becomin’ to ye, dear!
Like the red rose on the bush is——
She—Sir I you needn’t come so near!
He—Over lane and road andboreen,Troth, I’ve come a weary way,Jusht to whisper ye,asthoreen,Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.
He—Over lane and road andboreen,
Troth, I’ve come a weary way,
Jusht to whisper ye,asthoreen,
Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.
I’ve a cosy cottage, which isJusht the proper size for two——She—There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,And it’s all because av you!
I’ve a cosy cottage, which is
Jusht the proper size for two——
She—There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,
And it’s all because av you!
He—And, to make a sthray suggestchun,Maybe you me wish might guess?She—Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,Somehow—I—might answer—Yes!Patrick J. Coleman(1867).
He—And, to make a sthray suggestchun,
Maybe you me wish might guess?
She—Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,
Somehow—I—might answer—Yes!
Patrick J. Coleman(1867).
“GATHERIN’ UP THE GOLDEN GRAIN.”
“GATHERIN’ UP THE GOLDEN GRAIN.”
BINDIN’ THE OATS.Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,Don’t you rememberThat evening, dear?Ah! but you bound my heart complately,Fair and nately,Snug in the snood of your silken hair!Swung the sickles, you followed afterWith musical laughterAnd witchin’ eye.I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,Spoiled the stook, love,For your smile had bothered my head awry!Such an elegant, graceful binder,Where could I find herAll Ireland through?Worn’t the stout, young, strappin’ fellowsFairly jealous,Dyin’,asthore machree, for you?Talk o’ Persephone pluckin’ the posies,Or the red roses,In Henna’s plain!Youwor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,And beautiful head, love,Gatherin’ up the golden grain.Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,Don’t you rememberThe stolenpogue?[60]How could I help but there deliverMy heart for everTo such a beautiful little rogue?Bindin’ the oats, ’twas there you found me,There you bound meThat harvest day!Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,Fair and fond, love,Happy, for ever and ever, stay!Patrick J. Coleman.
Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,Don’t you rememberThat evening, dear?Ah! but you bound my heart complately,Fair and nately,Snug in the snood of your silken hair!Swung the sickles, you followed afterWith musical laughterAnd witchin’ eye.I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,Spoiled the stook, love,For your smile had bothered my head awry!Such an elegant, graceful binder,Where could I find herAll Ireland through?Worn’t the stout, young, strappin’ fellowsFairly jealous,Dyin’,asthore machree, for you?Talk o’ Persephone pluckin’ the posies,Or the red roses,In Henna’s plain!Youwor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,And beautiful head, love,Gatherin’ up the golden grain.Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,Don’t you rememberThe stolenpogue?[60]How could I help but there deliverMy heart for everTo such a beautiful little rogue?Bindin’ the oats, ’twas there you found me,There you bound meThat harvest day!Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,Fair and fond, love,Happy, for ever and ever, stay!Patrick J. Coleman.
Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,Don’t you rememberThat evening, dear?Ah! but you bound my heart complately,Fair and nately,Snug in the snood of your silken hair!
Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
Don’t you remember
That evening, dear?
Ah! but you bound my heart complately,
Fair and nately,
Snug in the snood of your silken hair!
Swung the sickles, you followed afterWith musical laughterAnd witchin’ eye.I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,Spoiled the stook, love,For your smile had bothered my head awry!
Swung the sickles, you followed after
With musical laughter
And witchin’ eye.
I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,
Spoiled the stook, love,
For your smile had bothered my head awry!
Such an elegant, graceful binder,Where could I find herAll Ireland through?Worn’t the stout, young, strappin’ fellowsFairly jealous,Dyin’,asthore machree, for you?
Such an elegant, graceful binder,
Where could I find her
All Ireland through?
Worn’t the stout, young, strappin’ fellows
Fairly jealous,
Dyin’,asthore machree, for you?
Talk o’ Persephone pluckin’ the posies,Or the red roses,In Henna’s plain!Youwor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,And beautiful head, love,Gatherin’ up the golden grain.
Talk o’ Persephone pluckin’ the posies,
Or the red roses,
In Henna’s plain!
Youwor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,
And beautiful head, love,
Gatherin’ up the golden grain.
Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,Don’t you rememberThe stolenpogue?[60]How could I help but there deliverMy heart for everTo such a beautiful little rogue?
Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
Don’t you remember
The stolenpogue?[60]
How could I help but there deliver
My heart for ever
To such a beautiful little rogue?
Bindin’ the oats, ’twas there you found me,There you bound meThat harvest day!Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,Fair and fond, love,Happy, for ever and ever, stay!Patrick J. Coleman.
Bindin’ the oats, ’twas there you found me,
There you bound me
That harvest day!
Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,
Fair and fond, love,
Happy, for ever and ever, stay!
Patrick J. Coleman.
A man ties a knot with his tongue that his teeth will not loosen.
Honey is sweet, but don’t lick it off a briar.
The doorstep of a great house is slippery.
The leisure of the smith’s helper (i.e., from the bellows to the anvil).
You have the foal’s share of the harrow.
Laziness is a heavy burden.
You’d be a good messenger to send for death—(said of a slow person).
Better be bald than have no head at all—but the devil a much more than that.
Better the end of a feast than the beginning of a fight.
Let him cool in the skin he warmed in.
A man is shy in another man’s corner.
The pig in the sty doesn’t know the pig going along the road.
’Tis on her own account the cat purrs.
Cows far from home have long horns.
A black hen lays a white egg (i.e., do not judge by appearances).
’Tis a good story that fills the belly.
A drink is shorter than a story.
The man that’s up is toasted, The man that’s down is trampled on.
He knows more than his “Our Father.”
A mouth of ivy and a heart of holly.
A soft word never broke a tooth yet.
He comes like the bad weather (i.e., uninvited).
Who lies down with dogs will get up with fleas.
The eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.
’Tis the fool has luck.
What the Pookha writes, he himself can read.
A blind man can see his mouth.
To die and to lose one’s life are much the same.
Don’t leave a tailor’s remnant behind you.
’Tis a wedge of itself that splits the oak.
The three sharpest things at all—a thorn in mire, a hound’s tooth, and a fool’s retort.
When it goes hard with the old hag, she must run.
The jewel most rare is the jewel most fair.
He that loses the game, let him talk away.
A heavy purse makes a light heart.
He is like a bag-pipe—he never makes a noise till his belly’s full.
Out of the kitchen comes the tune.
Falling is easier than rising.
A woman has an excuse readier than an apron.
The secret of an old woman scolding (i.e., no secret at all).
A bad wife takes advice from every man but her own husband.
The daughter of an active old woman makes a bad housekeeper.
Never take a wife who has no faults.
She burnt her coal and did not warm herself (i.e., when a woman makes a bad marriage).
A ring on the finger and not a stitch of clothes on the back.
A hen with chickens never yet burst her craw.
A big belly was never generous.
One bit of a rabbit is worth two of a cat.
There is hope from the sea, but no hope from the cemetery.
When the hand ceases to scatter, the mouth ceases to praise.
Big head and little sense.
The tail is part of the cat (i.e., a man resembles his family).
A cat’s milk gives no cream (said of a stingy person).
Butter to butter’s no relish (said when two men dance together, or two women kiss each other).
One cockroach knows another.
A heavy load are your empty guts.
The young thorn is the sharpest.
Sweet is wine, bitter its payment.
Whoever drinks, it is Donall that pays.
An alms from his own share, to the fool.
Better a wren in hand that a crane promised.
The man on the fence is the best hurler (against critics and idle lookers-on).
A closed hand gets but a shut fist.
It is not all big men that reap the harvest.
Easy, oh woman of three cows! (against pretentious people).
Fair words won’t feed the friars.
Never poor till one goes to hell.
Not worried till married.
Brother to Donall is Theigue (=Arcades ambo).
Three without rule—a wife, a pig, and a mule.
When your hand is in the dog’s mouth, draw it out gently.
Better a drop of whisky than a blow of a stick.
After their feeding, the whelps begin to fight.
The four drinks—the drink for thirst, the drink without thirst, the drink for fear of thirst, and the drink at the door.
A woman is more obstinate than a mule—a mule than the devil.
All the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.
When the goat goes to church he never stops till he goes up to the altar.
A strip of another man’s leather is very soft.
’Tis a bad hen that won’t scratch for herself.
Better riding a goat than the best marching.
Death is the poor man’s doctor.
If ’tis a sin to be yellow, thousands will be damned.
There’s no good crying when the funeral is gone.
Buttermilk is no milk, and a pudding’s no meat.
Though near to a man his coat, his shirt is nearer (i.e., blood is thicker than water).
Better a fistful of a man than a basketful of a woman.
What cannot be had is just what suits.
An unlearned king is a crowned ass.
’Tis the end of the little pot, the bottom to fall out of it.
A woman’s desire—the dear thing.
Twelve things not to be found—four priests not covetous, four Frenchmen not yellow, and four cobblers not liars.
Nora having a servant and herself begging (shabby gentility).
A man without dinner—two for supper.
The man without a resource is hanged.
Poor women think butter-milk good.
Harsh is the poor man’s voice—he speaks all out of place.
A wet mouth does not feel a dry mouth (i.e., plenty does not understand want).
’Tis a fine horse that never stumbles.
Take care of my neck and go on one side (i.e., do not lean altogether on one).
A man loses something to teach himself.
A hen carried far is heavy.
The day of the storm is not the day for thatching.
Winter comes on the lazy.
A crow thinks its own young white.
Putting on the mill the straw of the kiln (i.e., robbing Peter to pay Paul).
Truth is bitter, but a lie is savoury at times.
’Tis a bad hound that is not worth whistling for.
Better to-day than to-morrow morning.
Patience is the cure of an old complaint.
Have your own will, like the women have.
It is not the same thing to go to town (or to court) and to come from it.
An old cat does not burn himself.
A foolish woman knows the faults of a foolish man.
The man that’s out his portion cools (i.e., out of sight, out of mind).
That’s great softening on the butter-milk.
The law of lending is to break the ware.
No heat like that of shame.
A candle does not give light till lit.
Don’t praise your son-in-law till the year’s out.
It is not a sheep’s head that we wouldn’t have another turn at it (there being only one meal in a sheep’s head).
The glory the head cannot bear, ’twere better not there.
He that does not tie a knot will lose his first stitch.
The fox never found a better messenger than himself.
Better a little fire that warms than a large fire that burns.
Better a short sitting than a long standing.
Better be idle than working for nothing.
Do not show your teeth when you cannot give a bite.
Better come empty than with bad news.
Trust him as far as you can throw a cow by the tail.
Praise the end of it.
To know one since his boots cost fourpence (i.e., from an early age).
Never was door shut but another was opened.
The heaviest ear of corn bends lowliest.
He who is bad at giving lodging is good at showing the road.
The husband of the sloven is known amongst a crowd.
Where there’s women there’s talk, and where there’s geese there’s cackling.
More beard than brains, as the fox said of the goat.
A bad reaper never got a good reaping hook.
A trade not learned is an enemy.
An empty house is better than a bad tenant.
He knows as much about it as a dog knows of his father.
He’d say anything but his prayers.
A vessel will only hold the full of it.
Blow before you drink.
Better fame (i.e., reputation and character) than fortune.
A blind man is no judge of colours.
Fierceness is often hidden under beauty.
When the cat is out, the mice dance.
There is often anger in a laugh.
A fool’s gold is light.
No one claims kindred with the homeless.
An empty vessel makes most sound.
The lamb teaching her dam to bleat.
Both hard and soft, like the cow’s tail.
He that gets a name for early rising may sleep all day.
Talk is cheap.
When the hand grows weak, love gets feeble.
If you have a cow you can always find somebody to milk her.
Long-lived is a man in his own country.
Forgetting one’s debts does not pay them.
Nearer is God’s aid than the door.
Bad is the walk that is not better than rest.
Diseases without shame are love and thirst.
It is hard to dry a rush that has been dipped in tallow (i.e., it is hard to break off a habit).
Might is not lasting.
Wrath speaketh not true.
A bribe bursts the rock.
What goes to length goes to coldness.
Better the good that is than the double good that was.
Often a mouse went under a cornstack.
A good retreat is better than a bad stand.
Not better is food than sense at time of drinking.
The idiot knows the fault of the fool.
Thy complexion is black, says the raven.
Better be sparing at first than at last.
Whoever escapes, the peacemaker won’t.
I would take an eye out of myself to take two out of another.
A hedge on the field after the trespass.
Melodious is the closed mouth.
A spit without meat is a long thing.
Alas for a house that men frequent not.
It’s many the skin that sloughs off youth.
Time is a good story-teller.
The quills often took the flesh with them.
One debt won’t pay another.
There never came a gatherer but a scatterer came after him.
There’s none for bad shoes like the shoemaker’s wife.
No man ever gave advice but himself were the better for some of it.
A man of learning understands the half-word.
O’Brien’s gift and his two eyes after it (i.e., regretting it).