THE WIDOW MALONE.

THE WIDOW MALONE.Did ye hear of the widow Malone,Ohone!Who lived in the town of Athlone,Alone?Oh! she melted the heartsOf the swains in them parts,So lovely the widow Malone,Ohone!So lovely the widow Malone.Of lovers she had a full score,Or more;And fortunes they all had galore,In store;From the minister downTo the Clerk of the Crown,All were courting the widow Malone,Ohone!All were courting the widow Malone.But so modest was Mrs. Malone,’Twas knownNo one ever could see her alone,Ohone!Let them ogle and sigh,They could ne’er catch her eye,So bashful the widow Malone,Ohone!So bashful the widow Malone.Till one Mr. O’Brien from Clare—How quare,It’s little for blushing they careDown there—Put his arm round her waist,Gave ten kisses at laste—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,My own;”—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”And the widow they all thought so shy,My eye!Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—For why?But “Lucius,” says she,“Since you’ve now made so free,You may marry your Molly Malone,Ohone!You may marry your Molly Malone.”There’s a moral contained in my song,Not wrong;And, one comfort, it’s not very long,But strongIf for widows you die,Learnto kiss, not to sigh,For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,Ohone!Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone.Charles Lever.

Did ye hear of the widow Malone,Ohone!Who lived in the town of Athlone,Alone?Oh! she melted the heartsOf the swains in them parts,So lovely the widow Malone,Ohone!So lovely the widow Malone.Of lovers she had a full score,Or more;And fortunes they all had galore,In store;From the minister downTo the Clerk of the Crown,All were courting the widow Malone,Ohone!All were courting the widow Malone.But so modest was Mrs. Malone,’Twas knownNo one ever could see her alone,Ohone!Let them ogle and sigh,They could ne’er catch her eye,So bashful the widow Malone,Ohone!So bashful the widow Malone.Till one Mr. O’Brien from Clare—How quare,It’s little for blushing they careDown there—Put his arm round her waist,Gave ten kisses at laste—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,My own;”—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”And the widow they all thought so shy,My eye!Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—For why?But “Lucius,” says she,“Since you’ve now made so free,You may marry your Molly Malone,Ohone!You may marry your Molly Malone.”There’s a moral contained in my song,Not wrong;And, one comfort, it’s not very long,But strongIf for widows you die,Learnto kiss, not to sigh,For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,Ohone!Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone.Charles Lever.

Did ye hear of the widow Malone,Ohone!Who lived in the town of Athlone,Alone?Oh! she melted the heartsOf the swains in them parts,So lovely the widow Malone,Ohone!So lovely the widow Malone.

Did ye hear of the widow Malone,

Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,

Alone?

Oh! she melted the hearts

Of the swains in them parts,

So lovely the widow Malone,

Ohone!

So lovely the widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,Or more;And fortunes they all had galore,In store;From the minister downTo the Clerk of the Crown,All were courting the widow Malone,Ohone!All were courting the widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more;

And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;

From the minister down

To the Clerk of the Crown,

All were courting the widow Malone,

Ohone!

All were courting the widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,’Twas knownNo one ever could see her alone,Ohone!Let them ogle and sigh,They could ne’er catch her eye,So bashful the widow Malone,Ohone!So bashful the widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,

’Twas known

No one ever could see her alone,

Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne’er catch her eye,

So bashful the widow Malone,

Ohone!

So bashful the widow Malone.

Till one Mr. O’Brien from Clare—How quare,It’s little for blushing they careDown there—Put his arm round her waist,Gave ten kisses at laste—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,My own;”—“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”

Till one Mr. O’Brien from Clare—

How quare,

It’s little for blushing they care

Down there—

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste—

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,

My own;”—

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”

And the widow they all thought so shy,My eye!Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—For why?But “Lucius,” says she,“Since you’ve now made so free,You may marry your Molly Malone,Ohone!You may marry your Molly Malone.”

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!

Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—

For why?

But “Lucius,” says she,

“Since you’ve now made so free,

You may marry your Molly Malone,

Ohone!

You may marry your Molly Malone.”

There’s a moral contained in my song,Not wrong;And, one comfort, it’s not very long,But strongIf for widows you die,Learnto kiss, not to sigh,For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,Ohone!Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone.Charles Lever.

There’s a moral contained in my song,

Not wrong;

And, one comfort, it’s not very long,

But strong

If for widows you die,

Learnto kiss, not to sigh,

For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!

Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone.

Charles Lever.

THE GIRLS OF THE WESTYou may talk, if you please,Of the brown Portuguese,But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,You nothing will meetHalf so lovely or sweetAs the girls at home, the girls at home.Their eyes are not sloes,Nor so long is their nose,But, between me and you, between me and you,They are just as alarming,And ten times more charming,With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.They don’t ogle a manO’er the top of their fan,Till his heart’s in a flame, his heart’s in a flameBut though bashful and shy,They’ve a look in their eyeThat just comes to the same, just comes to the same.No mantillas they sport,But a petticoat shortShows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,And a leg—but, O murther!I dare not go further,So here’s to the West; so here’s to the West.Charles Lever.

You may talk, if you please,Of the brown Portuguese,But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,You nothing will meetHalf so lovely or sweetAs the girls at home, the girls at home.Their eyes are not sloes,Nor so long is their nose,But, between me and you, between me and you,They are just as alarming,And ten times more charming,With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.They don’t ogle a manO’er the top of their fan,Till his heart’s in a flame, his heart’s in a flameBut though bashful and shy,They’ve a look in their eyeThat just comes to the same, just comes to the same.No mantillas they sport,But a petticoat shortShows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,And a leg—but, O murther!I dare not go further,So here’s to the West; so here’s to the West.Charles Lever.

You may talk, if you please,Of the brown Portuguese,But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,You nothing will meetHalf so lovely or sweetAs the girls at home, the girls at home.

You may talk, if you please,

Of the brown Portuguese,

But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,

You nothing will meet

Half so lovely or sweet

As the girls at home, the girls at home.

Their eyes are not sloes,Nor so long is their nose,But, between me and you, between me and you,They are just as alarming,And ten times more charming,With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.

Their eyes are not sloes,

Nor so long is their nose,

But, between me and you, between me and you,

They are just as alarming,

And ten times more charming,

With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.

They don’t ogle a manO’er the top of their fan,Till his heart’s in a flame, his heart’s in a flameBut though bashful and shy,They’ve a look in their eyeThat just comes to the same, just comes to the same.

They don’t ogle a man

O’er the top of their fan,

Till his heart’s in a flame, his heart’s in a flame

But though bashful and shy,

They’ve a look in their eye

That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.

No mantillas they sport,But a petticoat shortShows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,And a leg—but, O murther!I dare not go further,So here’s to the West; so here’s to the West.Charles Lever.

No mantillas they sport,

But a petticoat short

Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,

And a leg—but, O murther!

I dare not go further,

So here’s to the West; so here’s to the West.

Charles Lever.

THE MAN FOR GALWAY.To drink a toastA proctor roast,Or bailiff, as the case is;To kiss your wife,Or take your lifeAt ten or fifteen paces;To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,To drink in punch the Solway—With debts galore, but fun far more—Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”The King of OudeIs mighty proud,And so were onst the Caysars;But ould Giles EyreWould make them stareWith a company of the Blazers.To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,He’s only a prince in a small way,And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall—Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”Ye think the BlakesAre no great shakes—They’re all his blood relations;And the Bodkins sneezeAt the grim Chinese,For they come from thePhenaycians;So fill to the brim, and here’s to himWho’d drink in punch the Solway;With debts galore, but fun far more—Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”Charles Lever.

To drink a toastA proctor roast,Or bailiff, as the case is;To kiss your wife,Or take your lifeAt ten or fifteen paces;To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,To drink in punch the Solway—With debts galore, but fun far more—Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”The King of OudeIs mighty proud,And so were onst the Caysars;But ould Giles EyreWould make them stareWith a company of the Blazers.To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,He’s only a prince in a small way,And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall—Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”Ye think the BlakesAre no great shakes—They’re all his blood relations;And the Bodkins sneezeAt the grim Chinese,For they come from thePhenaycians;So fill to the brim, and here’s to himWho’d drink in punch the Solway;With debts galore, but fun far more—Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”Charles Lever.

To drink a toast

A proctor roast,

Or bailiff, as the case is;

To kiss your wife,

Or take your life

At ten or fifteen paces;

To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,

To drink in punch the Solway—

With debts galore, but fun far more—

Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”

The King of OudeIs mighty proud,And so were onst the Caysars;But ould Giles EyreWould make them stareWith a company of the Blazers.To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,He’s only a prince in a small way,And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall—Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”

The King of Oude

Is mighty proud,

And so were onst the Caysars;

But ould Giles Eyre

Would make them stare

With a company of the Blazers.

To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,

He’s only a prince in a small way,

And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall—

Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”

Ye think the BlakesAre no great shakes—They’re all his blood relations;And the Bodkins sneezeAt the grim Chinese,For they come from thePhenaycians;So fill to the brim, and here’s to himWho’d drink in punch the Solway;With debts galore, but fun far more—Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”Charles Lever.

Ye think the Blakes

Are no great shakes—

They’re all his blood relations;

And the Bodkins sneeze

At the grim Chinese,

For they come from thePhenaycians;

So fill to the brim, and here’s to him

Who’d drink in punch the Solway;

With debts galore, but fun far more—

Oh, that’s “the man for Galway!”

Charles Lever.

I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King’s County; it stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never able to say to which county we belonged; there being just the same number of arguments for one side as for the other—a circumstance, many believed, that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for while, under the “disputed boundary question,” he paid no rates or county cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections. This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit; and, indeed, the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm that impression.

There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, not even “squireen”; the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Harry McCabe, that had two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have the old man’s money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and listed in the “Buffs.” Three weeks after he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it after. Not that his death was any way sudden, for he lingered on for months long; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on “the dirty spalpeen” that disgraced the family, but old Harry as stoutly resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided between them. These disputes between them were well known in the neighbourhood. Few of the countrypeople passing the house at night but had overheard the old man’s weak, reedy voice, and Peter’s deep hoarse one, in altercation. When, at last—it was on a Sunday night—all was still and quiet in the house; not a word, not a footstep could be heard, no more than if it were uninhabited, the neighbours looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if the old man was worse—if he were dead!

It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the fire; but I didn’t speak, for I was frightened. It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry—

“Con Cregan! Con, I say! open the door! I want you.”

I knew the voice well, it was Peter McCabe’s; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say—

“Oh, Mr. Peter, what’s the matter? is the ould man worse?”

“Faix! that’s what he is, for he’s dead!”

“Glory be his bed! when did it happen?”

“About an hour ago,” said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner could perceive was greatly agitated. “He died like an ould haythen, Con, and never made a will!”

“That’s bad,” said my father; for he was always a polite man, and said whatever was pleasing to the company.

“It is bad,” said Peter; “but it would be worse if we couldn’t help it. Listen to me now, Conny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here’s five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were mistaken for each other every day of the week.”

“Anan!” said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion, without well knowing why.

“Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house and get into the bed.”

“Not beside the corpse?” said my father, trembling.

“By no means; but by yourself; and you’re to pretend to be my father, and that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I’ll send for the neighbours, and Billy Scanlan the schoolmaster, and ye’ll tell him what to write, laving all the farm and everything to me—ye understand. And as the neighbours will see ye and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but it was himself that did it.”

“The room must be very dark,” says my father.

“To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the bed; and ye’ll only have to make a cross with your pen under the name.”

“And the priest?” said my father.

“My father quarrelled with him last week about the Easter dues, and Father Tom said he’d not give him the ‘rites’; and that’s lucky now! Come along now, quick, for we’ve no time to lose; it must be all finished before the day breaks.”

My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his big coat ’round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in a costume light as my parent’s, set out after them, to watch the course of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut and be before them; but by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already begun. I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside it a table, with physic-bottles, and spoons, and tea-cups; a little farther off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of writing materials before him. The country people sat two, sometimes three deep round the walls, allintently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the company to whisky—which was supplied with more than accustomed liberality. All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room; the highly-wrought expression of the country people’s faces, never more intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob—the tribute of some affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back; these, I repeat it, were all so real that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.

A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of a fly would have been heard, my father said—

“Where’s Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!”

“He’s here, father!” said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him to the bedside.

“Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick, for I hav’n’t a long time before me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O’Rafferty won’t give me the ‘rites’!”

A general chorus of “Oh, musha, musha,” was now heard through the room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

“I die in peace with all my neighbours and all mankind!”

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable expressions.

“I bequeath unto my son, Peter—and never was there a better son, or a decenter boy!—have you that down? Ibequeath unto my son, Peter, the whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboorn, with the fallow meadows behind Lynch’s house; the forge, and the right of turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lanty Cassarn’s acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln—and that reminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug.”

Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably refreshed by it.

“Where was I, Billy Scanlan?” says he; “oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I leave him—that’s Peter, I mean—the two potato-gardens at Noonan’s Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there.”

“An’t you gettin’ wake, father, darlin’?” says Peter, who began to be afraid of my father’s loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

“I am, Peter, my son,” says he, “I am getting wake; just touch my lips again with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!”

“No, indeed, father, but it’s the taste is leavin’ you,” says Peter; and again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

“Well, I’m nearly done now,” says my father; “there’s only one little plot of ground remaining, and I put it on you, Peter—as ye wish to live a good man, and die with the same asy heart I do now—that ye mind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbours listening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, father. We’re all minding,” chorused the audience.

“‘YOU WATERED THE DRINK!’ ‘NO, INDEED, FATHER, BUT IT’S THE TASTE IS LEAVIN’ YOU,’ SAYS PETER.”

“Well, then, it’s my last will and testament, and may—give me over the jug”—here he took a long drink—“and may that blessed liquor be poison to me if I’m not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say, then, Ibequeath the little plot at the cross-roads to poor Con Cregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hard-working a man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it yerself; think of me on my death-bed whenever he asks ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan and his heirs, insecla seclorum. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my heart lighter after that,” says he; “a good work makes an easy conscience; and now I’ll drink all the company’s good health, and many happy returns——”

What he was going to add there’s no saying; but Peter, who was now terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace. When they were all gone Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting on his brogues in a corner.

“Con,” says he, “ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the two acres at the cross.”

“Of course it was,” says he; “sure it was all a joke for the matter of that; won’t I make the neighbours laugh hearty to-morrow when I tell them all about it!”

“You wouldn’t be mean enough to betray me?” says Peter, trembling with fright.

“Sure ye wouldn’t be mean enough to go against yer father’s dying words?” says my father; “the last sentence ever he spoke;” and here he gave a low, wicked laugh that made myself shake with fear.

“Very well, Con!” says Peter, holding out his hand; “a bargain’s a bargain; yer a deep fellow, that’s all!” and so it ended; and my father slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy he left himself. And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as Con’s Acre.

Charles Lever.

KATEY’S LETTER.Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter?And although he cannot read, sure, I thought ’twas all the better,For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully?I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;’Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet—For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;The neighbours know I love him, and they’re mighty fond of chaffing,So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be laughing,So I wrote “From Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.”I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman’s so consated,No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited—But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully,He loves me faithfully,And I know where’er my love is that he is true to me.Lady Dufferin(1807–1867).

Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter?And although he cannot read, sure, I thought ’twas all the better,For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully?I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;’Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet—For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;The neighbours know I love him, and they’re mighty fond of chaffing,So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be laughing,So I wrote “From Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.”I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman’s so consated,No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited—But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully,He loves me faithfully,And I know where’er my love is that he is true to me.Lady Dufferin(1807–1867).

Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter?

And although he cannot read, sure, I thought ’twas all the better,

For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,

When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully?

I love him faithfully—

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;’Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet—For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;

’Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet—

For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,

As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.

I love him faithfully—

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;The neighbours know I love him, and they’re mighty fond of chaffing,So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be laughing,So I wrote “From Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.”I love him faithfully—And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;

The neighbours know I love him, and they’re mighty fond of chaffing,

So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be laughing,

So I wrote “From Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.”

I love him faithfully—

And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman’s so consated,No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited—But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully,He loves me faithfully,And I know where’er my love is that he is true to me.Lady Dufferin(1807–1867).

Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman’s so consated,

No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited—

But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,

That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully,

He loves me faithfully,

And I know where’er my love is that he is true to me.

Lady Dufferin(1807–1867).

“AS I SAID INSIDE THE LETTER THAT I LOVED HIM FAITHFULLY.”

DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER YOUR FEET.“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel—Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moonShines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;While all the air rings with the soft loving thingsEach little bird sings in the green shaded valley!”With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,—So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.And now on the green the glad groups are seen,Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,—Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing.Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,—The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,—Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,—Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,—Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,“Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!”John Francis Waller, LL.D.(1809–1894).

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel—Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moonShines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;While all the air rings with the soft loving thingsEach little bird sings in the green shaded valley!”With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,—So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.And now on the green the glad groups are seen,Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,—Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing.Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,—The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,—Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,—Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,—Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,“Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!”John Francis Waller, LL.D.(1809–1894).

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel—

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;

Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,

Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.

The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;

While all the air rings with the soft loving things

Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley!”

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,—So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.And now on the green the glad groups are seen,Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,—Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing.

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,

Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;

’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,—

So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.

And now on the green the glad groups are seen,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;

And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,—

Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,—The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,—Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;

With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,—

The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.

Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,—

Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,

No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,—Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,—Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,“Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!”John Francis Waller, LL.D.(1809–1894).

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,

Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,—

Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,—

Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?

Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;

The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,

“Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!”

John Francis Waller, LL.D.(1809–1894).

“I’d hould you a pound,” says the Pope, “that I’ve a quadruped in my possession that’s a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel.”

“Done,” says his riv’rence, and they staked the money. “What can this larned quadhruped o’ yours do?” says his riv’rence.

“It’s my mule,” says the Pope; “and if you were to offer her goolden oats and clover off the meadows o’ Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she’d let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or holiday in the year.”

“Well, and what ’ud you say if I showed you a baste ovmine,” says his riv’rence, “that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only, fasts out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday in the week as reg’lar as a Christian?”

“Oh, be asy, Misther Maguire,” says the Pope.

“You don’t b’lieve me, don’t you?” says his riv’rence; “very well, I’ll soon show you whether or no,” and he put his knuckles in his mouth, and gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The aycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish, when the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be sitting next the door, betuxt him and his riv’rence, and may I never die if he didn’t clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang.

“‘HERE, SPRING, MY MAN,’ SAYS HE.”

“God’s presence be about us!” says the Pope, thinking it was an evil spirit come to fly away wid him for the lie that he hed tould in regard ov his mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in grazing the brute’s teeth); but seeing it was only one ov the greatest beauties ov a greyhound that he’d ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he soon recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris and went to the sideboard, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice ov beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice ov salmon, and put them all on a plate thegither. “Here, Spring, my man,” says he, setting the plate down afore him on the hearthstone, “here’s your supper for you this blessed Friday night.” Not a word more he said nor what I tell you; and, you may believe it or not, but it’s the blessed truth that the dog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted his nose out ov the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his tail wagging, looking up in his riv’rence’s face, as much as to say, “Give me your absolution, till I hide them temptations out ov my sight.”

“There’s a dog that knows his duty,” says his riv’rence; “there’s a baste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlour or the field. You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you seen him on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you’d say the hill was running away from undher him. Oh, I wisht you had been wid me,” says he, never letting on to see the dog at all, “one day last Lent, that I was coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile behind me, for the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at the chapel door; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov Grouse Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and knowing that she’d take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping her in view, but afore I hed gone aperch, Spring seen her, and away the two went like the wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over the river, widout his being able onst to turn her. Well, I run on till I came to the Diffagher, and through it I went, for the wather was low, and I didn’t mind being wet shod, and out on the other side, where I got up on a ditch, and seen sich a coorse as I’ll be bound to say was never seen afore or since. If Spring turned that hare onst that day, he turned her fifty times, up and down, back and for’ard, throughout and about. At last he run her right into the big quarry-hole in Mullaghbawn, and when I went up to look for her fud, there I found him sthretched on his side, not able to stir a fut, and the hare lying about an inch afore his nose as dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark ov a tooth upon her. Eh, Spring, isn’t that thrue?” says he.

Jist at that minit the clock sthruck twelve, and afore you could saythrap-sticks, Spring had the plateful ov mate consaled. “Now,” says his riv’rence, “hand me over my pound, for I’ve won my bet fairly.”

“You’ll excuse me,” says the Pope, pocketing the money, “for we put the clock half-an-hour back, out ov compliment to your riv’rence,” says he, “and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all.”

“Well, it’s no matter,” says his riv’rence, “only,” says he, “it’s hardly fair to expect a brute baste to be so well skilled in the science ov chronology.”

Sir Samuel Ferguson(1810–1886).

THE OULD IRISH JIG.My blessing be on you, old Erin,My own land of frolic and fun;For all sorts of mirth and diversion,Your like is not under the sun.Bohemia may boast of her polka,And Spain of her waltzes talk big;Sure, they are all nothing but limping,Compared with our ould Irish jig.Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,Imported from Spain and from France;And a fig for the thing called the polka—Our own Irish jig we will dance.I’ve heard how our jig came in fashion—And believe that the story is true—By Adam and Eve ’twas invented,The reason was, partners were few.And, though they could both dance the polka,Eve thought it was not over-chaste;She preferred our ould jig to be dancing—And, faith, I approve of her taste.Then a fig, etc.The light-hearted daughters of Erin,Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,Their feet never touch the green island,But music is struck from the ground.And oft in the glens and green meadows,The ould jig they dance with such grace,That even the daisies they tread on,Look up with delight in their face.Then a fig, etc.An ould Irish jig, too, was danced byThe kings and the great men of yore;King O’Toole could himself neatly foot itTo a tune they call “Rory O’More.”And oft in the great hall of Tara,Our famous King Brian Boru,Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,And played his own harp to them, too.Then a fig, etc.And sure, when Herodias’ daughterWas dancing in King Herod’s sight,His heart that for years had been frozen,Was thawed with pure love and delight;And more than a hundred times over,I’ve heard Father Flanagan tell,’Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,That pleased the ould villain so well.Then a fig, etc.James M’Kowen(1814–1889).

My blessing be on you, old Erin,My own land of frolic and fun;For all sorts of mirth and diversion,Your like is not under the sun.Bohemia may boast of her polka,And Spain of her waltzes talk big;Sure, they are all nothing but limping,Compared with our ould Irish jig.Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,Imported from Spain and from France;And a fig for the thing called the polka—Our own Irish jig we will dance.I’ve heard how our jig came in fashion—And believe that the story is true—By Adam and Eve ’twas invented,The reason was, partners were few.And, though they could both dance the polka,Eve thought it was not over-chaste;She preferred our ould jig to be dancing—And, faith, I approve of her taste.Then a fig, etc.The light-hearted daughters of Erin,Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,Their feet never touch the green island,But music is struck from the ground.And oft in the glens and green meadows,The ould jig they dance with such grace,That even the daisies they tread on,Look up with delight in their face.Then a fig, etc.An ould Irish jig, too, was danced byThe kings and the great men of yore;King O’Toole could himself neatly foot itTo a tune they call “Rory O’More.”And oft in the great hall of Tara,Our famous King Brian Boru,Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,And played his own harp to them, too.Then a fig, etc.And sure, when Herodias’ daughterWas dancing in King Herod’s sight,His heart that for years had been frozen,Was thawed with pure love and delight;And more than a hundred times over,I’ve heard Father Flanagan tell,’Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,That pleased the ould villain so well.Then a fig, etc.James M’Kowen(1814–1889).

My blessing be on you, old Erin,

My own land of frolic and fun;

For all sorts of mirth and diversion,

Your like is not under the sun.

Bohemia may boast of her polka,

And Spain of her waltzes talk big;

Sure, they are all nothing but limping,

Compared with our ould Irish jig.

Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,Imported from Spain and from France;And a fig for the thing called the polka—Our own Irish jig we will dance.

Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,

Imported from Spain and from France;

And a fig for the thing called the polka—

Our own Irish jig we will dance.

I’ve heard how our jig came in fashion—And believe that the story is true—By Adam and Eve ’twas invented,The reason was, partners were few.And, though they could both dance the polka,Eve thought it was not over-chaste;She preferred our ould jig to be dancing—And, faith, I approve of her taste.

I’ve heard how our jig came in fashion—

And believe that the story is true—

By Adam and Eve ’twas invented,

The reason was, partners were few.

And, though they could both dance the polka,

Eve thought it was not over-chaste;

She preferred our ould jig to be dancing—

And, faith, I approve of her taste.

Then a fig, etc.

The light-hearted daughters of Erin,Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,Their feet never touch the green island,But music is struck from the ground.And oft in the glens and green meadows,The ould jig they dance with such grace,That even the daisies they tread on,Look up with delight in their face.

The light-hearted daughters of Erin,

Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,

Their feet never touch the green island,

But music is struck from the ground.

And oft in the glens and green meadows,

The ould jig they dance with such grace,

That even the daisies they tread on,

Look up with delight in their face.

Then a fig, etc.

An ould Irish jig, too, was danced byThe kings and the great men of yore;King O’Toole could himself neatly foot itTo a tune they call “Rory O’More.”And oft in the great hall of Tara,Our famous King Brian Boru,Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,And played his own harp to them, too.

An ould Irish jig, too, was danced by

The kings and the great men of yore;

King O’Toole could himself neatly foot it

To a tune they call “Rory O’More.”

And oft in the great hall of Tara,

Our famous King Brian Boru,

Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,

And played his own harp to them, too.

Then a fig, etc.

And sure, when Herodias’ daughterWas dancing in King Herod’s sight,His heart that for years had been frozen,Was thawed with pure love and delight;And more than a hundred times over,I’ve heard Father Flanagan tell,’Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,That pleased the ould villain so well.

And sure, when Herodias’ daughter

Was dancing in King Herod’s sight,

His heart that for years had been frozen,

Was thawed with pure love and delight;

And more than a hundred times over,

I’ve heard Father Flanagan tell,

’Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,

That pleased the ould villain so well.

Then a fig, etc.

James M’Kowen(1814–1889).

MOLLY MULDOON.Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,And as fine a oneAs you’d look uponIn the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,But owned that a power o’ beauty was there.Now many a hearty and rattlinggorsoon,Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,But forthatin her eyeWhich made most of them shyAnd look quite ashamed, though they couldn’t tell why—Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,And heart and mind seemed in them blended.Ifintellectsent you one look severe,Loveinstantly leapt in the next to mend it.Hers was the eye to check the rude,And hers the eye to stir emotion,To keep the sense and soul subdued,And calm desire into devotion.There was Jemmy O’Hare,As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair,And wherever Molly was he was there.His face was round and his build was square,And he sported as rareAnd tight a pairOf legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.And Jemmy would wearHiscaubeen[17]and hairWith such a peculiar and rollicking air,That I’d venture to swearNot a girl in Kildare,Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there,Could resist his wild way—called “Devil may care.”Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor runWith Jemmy—nogorsooncould equal him—none,At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight,—He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight.Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare,And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.I believe in my conscience a purtier pairNever danced in a tent at a patthern in June,—To a bagpipe or fiddleOn the rough cabin-doorThat is placed in the middle—Ye may talk as ye will,There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry thereWith which people of quality couldn’t compare.And Molly and Jemmy were counted the twoThat could keep up the longest and go the best throughAll the jigs and the reelsThat have occupied heelsSince the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.It was on a long bright sunny dayThey sat on a green knoll side by side,But neither just then had much to say;Their hearts were so full that they only triedTo do anything foolish, just to hideWhat both of them felt, but what Molly denied.They plucked the speckled daisies that grewClose by their arms,—then tore them too;And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalkThey threw at each other for want of talk;While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,Reflected pure souls without art or guile;And every time Molly sighed or smiled,Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,The grass so green, the daisies so white;Everything looked so gay in his sightThat gladly he’d linger to watch them till night—And Molly herself thought each little bird,Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,—Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.An Irish courtship’s short and sweet,It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;But who is wise when his young heart’s heatWhips the pulse to a galloping beat—Ties up his judgment neck and feet,And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;They look not by art, and they love not by rule,For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.Oh! give me the love that endures no controlBut the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,By rank unallured and by riches unbought;Whose very simplicity keeps it secure—The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,As one week before LentJem procured her consentTo go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see.And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep,For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,He took from a chest and carefully put on—And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,Were greased with the fat ofa quare sort of mutton!Then a tidiergorsooncouldn’t be seenTreading the Emerald Isle so green—Light was his step, and bright was his eye,As he walked through theslobberystreets of Athy.And each girl he passed bid “God bless him” and sighed,While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.Hush! here’s the Priest—let not the leastWhisper be heard till the father has ceased.“Come, bridegroom and bride,That the knot may be tiedWhich no power on earth can hereafter divide.”Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,And a passage was made for them both to walk through;And his Riv’rence stood with a sanctified face,Which spread its infection around the place.The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,Who felt so confused that she almost cried,But at last bore up and walked forward, whereThe Father was standing with solemn air;The bridegroom was following after with pride,When his piercing eye something awful espied!He stopped and sighed,Looked round and triedTo tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:With a spring and a roarHe jumped to the door,And the bride laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more!Some years sped on,Yet heard no oneOf Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone.But since the night of that widow’d feast,The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul released,Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,Just five years after the widow’d feast,An American letter was brought to the priest,Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceased!Who, ere his death,With his latest breath,To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,And the cause of his sudden departure confest.—“Oh, Father,” says he, “I’ve not long to live,So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive—That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;Ay, as well as the CreedThat was never forsaken by one of my breed;But I couldn’t have married her, after I saw—”“Saw what?” cried the Father, desirous to hear—And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking—“Not in herkaràcter, yer Riv’rince, a flaw”—The sick man here dropped a significant tear,And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear—“But I saw, God forgive her,A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!”THE MORAL.Lady readers, love may beFixed in hearts immovably,May be strong and may be pure;Faith may lean on faith secure,Knowing adverse fate’s endeavourMakes that faith more firm than ever;But the purest love and strongest,Love that has endured the longest,Braving cross, and blight, and trial,Fortune’s bar or pride’s denial,Would—no matter what its trust—Be uprooted by disgust:—Yes, the love that might for yearsSpring in suffering, grow in tears,Parents’ frigid counsel mocking,Might be—where’s the use of talking?—Upset by aBROKEN STOCKING!Anonymous.

Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,And as fine a oneAs you’d look uponIn the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,But owned that a power o’ beauty was there.Now many a hearty and rattlinggorsoon,Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,But forthatin her eyeWhich made most of them shyAnd look quite ashamed, though they couldn’t tell why—Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,And heart and mind seemed in them blended.Ifintellectsent you one look severe,Loveinstantly leapt in the next to mend it.Hers was the eye to check the rude,And hers the eye to stir emotion,To keep the sense and soul subdued,And calm desire into devotion.There was Jemmy O’Hare,As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair,And wherever Molly was he was there.His face was round and his build was square,And he sported as rareAnd tight a pairOf legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.And Jemmy would wearHiscaubeen[17]and hairWith such a peculiar and rollicking air,That I’d venture to swearNot a girl in Kildare,Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there,Could resist his wild way—called “Devil may care.”Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor runWith Jemmy—nogorsooncould equal him—none,At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight,—He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight.Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare,And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.I believe in my conscience a purtier pairNever danced in a tent at a patthern in June,—To a bagpipe or fiddleOn the rough cabin-doorThat is placed in the middle—Ye may talk as ye will,There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry thereWith which people of quality couldn’t compare.And Molly and Jemmy were counted the twoThat could keep up the longest and go the best throughAll the jigs and the reelsThat have occupied heelsSince the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.It was on a long bright sunny dayThey sat on a green knoll side by side,But neither just then had much to say;Their hearts were so full that they only triedTo do anything foolish, just to hideWhat both of them felt, but what Molly denied.They plucked the speckled daisies that grewClose by their arms,—then tore them too;And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalkThey threw at each other for want of talk;While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,Reflected pure souls without art or guile;And every time Molly sighed or smiled,Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,The grass so green, the daisies so white;Everything looked so gay in his sightThat gladly he’d linger to watch them till night—And Molly herself thought each little bird,Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,—Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.An Irish courtship’s short and sweet,It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;But who is wise when his young heart’s heatWhips the pulse to a galloping beat—Ties up his judgment neck and feet,And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;They look not by art, and they love not by rule,For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.Oh! give me the love that endures no controlBut the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,By rank unallured and by riches unbought;Whose very simplicity keeps it secure—The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,As one week before LentJem procured her consentTo go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see.And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep,For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,He took from a chest and carefully put on—And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,Were greased with the fat ofa quare sort of mutton!Then a tidiergorsooncouldn’t be seenTreading the Emerald Isle so green—Light was his step, and bright was his eye,As he walked through theslobberystreets of Athy.And each girl he passed bid “God bless him” and sighed,While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.Hush! here’s the Priest—let not the leastWhisper be heard till the father has ceased.“Come, bridegroom and bride,That the knot may be tiedWhich no power on earth can hereafter divide.”Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,And a passage was made for them both to walk through;And his Riv’rence stood with a sanctified face,Which spread its infection around the place.The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,Who felt so confused that she almost cried,But at last bore up and walked forward, whereThe Father was standing with solemn air;The bridegroom was following after with pride,When his piercing eye something awful espied!He stopped and sighed,Looked round and triedTo tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:With a spring and a roarHe jumped to the door,And the bride laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more!Some years sped on,Yet heard no oneOf Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone.But since the night of that widow’d feast,The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul released,Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,Just five years after the widow’d feast,An American letter was brought to the priest,Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceased!Who, ere his death,With his latest breath,To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,And the cause of his sudden departure confest.—“Oh, Father,” says he, “I’ve not long to live,So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive—That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;Ay, as well as the CreedThat was never forsaken by one of my breed;But I couldn’t have married her, after I saw—”“Saw what?” cried the Father, desirous to hear—And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking—“Not in herkaràcter, yer Riv’rince, a flaw”—The sick man here dropped a significant tear,And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear—“But I saw, God forgive her,A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!”THE MORAL.Lady readers, love may beFixed in hearts immovably,May be strong and may be pure;Faith may lean on faith secure,Knowing adverse fate’s endeavourMakes that faith more firm than ever;But the purest love and strongest,Love that has endured the longest,Braving cross, and blight, and trial,Fortune’s bar or pride’s denial,Would—no matter what its trust—Be uprooted by disgust:—Yes, the love that might for yearsSpring in suffering, grow in tears,Parents’ frigid counsel mocking,Might be—where’s the use of talking?—Upset by aBROKEN STOCKING!Anonymous.

Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,

And as fine a one

As you’d look upon

In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.

Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,

And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;

Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,

But owned that a power o’ beauty was there.

Now many a hearty and rattlinggorsoon,

Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,

Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,

But forthatin her eye

Which made most of them shy

And look quite ashamed, though they couldn’t tell why—

Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,

And heart and mind seemed in them blended.

Ifintellectsent you one look severe,

Loveinstantly leapt in the next to mend it.

Hers was the eye to check the rude,

And hers the eye to stir emotion,

To keep the sense and soul subdued,

And calm desire into devotion.

There was Jemmy O’Hare,As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair,And wherever Molly was he was there.His face was round and his build was square,And he sported as rareAnd tight a pairOf legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.And Jemmy would wearHiscaubeen[17]and hairWith such a peculiar and rollicking air,That I’d venture to swearNot a girl in Kildare,Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there,Could resist his wild way—called “Devil may care.”Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor runWith Jemmy—nogorsooncould equal him—none,At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight,—He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight.

There was Jemmy O’Hare,

As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair,

And wherever Molly was he was there.

His face was round and his build was square,

And he sported as rare

And tight a pair

Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.

And Jemmy would wear

Hiscaubeen[17]and hair

With such a peculiar and rollicking air,

That I’d venture to swear

Not a girl in Kildare,

Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there,

Could resist his wild way—called “Devil may care.”

Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,

Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run

With Jemmy—nogorsooncould equal him—none,

At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,

At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight,—

He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight.

Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare,And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.I believe in my conscience a purtier pairNever danced in a tent at a patthern in June,—To a bagpipe or fiddleOn the rough cabin-doorThat is placed in the middle—Ye may talk as ye will,There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry thereWith which people of quality couldn’t compare.And Molly and Jemmy were counted the twoThat could keep up the longest and go the best throughAll the jigs and the reelsThat have occupied heelsSince the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.

Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare,

And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.

I believe in my conscience a purtier pair

Never danced in a tent at a patthern in June,—

To a bagpipe or fiddle

On the rough cabin-door

That is placed in the middle—

Ye may talk as ye will,

There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there

With which people of quality couldn’t compare.

And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two

That could keep up the longest and go the best through

All the jigs and the reels

That have occupied heels

Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.

It was on a long bright sunny dayThey sat on a green knoll side by side,But neither just then had much to say;Their hearts were so full that they only triedTo do anything foolish, just to hideWhat both of them felt, but what Molly denied.They plucked the speckled daisies that grewClose by their arms,—then tore them too;And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalkThey threw at each other for want of talk;While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,Reflected pure souls without art or guile;And every time Molly sighed or smiled,Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,The grass so green, the daisies so white;Everything looked so gay in his sightThat gladly he’d linger to watch them till night—And Molly herself thought each little bird,Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,—Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.

It was on a long bright sunny day

They sat on a green knoll side by side,

But neither just then had much to say;

Their hearts were so full that they only tried

To do anything foolish, just to hide

What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.

They plucked the speckled daisies that grew

Close by their arms,—then tore them too;

And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk

They threw at each other for want of talk;

While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,

Reflected pure souls without art or guile;

And every time Molly sighed or smiled,

Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;

And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,

The grass so green, the daisies so white;

Everything looked so gay in his sight

That gladly he’d linger to watch them till night—

And Molly herself thought each little bird,

Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,—

Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.

An Irish courtship’s short and sweet,It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;But who is wise when his young heart’s heatWhips the pulse to a galloping beat—Ties up his judgment neck and feet,And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;They look not by art, and they love not by rule,For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.Oh! give me the love that endures no controlBut the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,By rank unallured and by riches unbought;Whose very simplicity keeps it secure—The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.

An Irish courtship’s short and sweet,

It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;

But who is wise when his young heart’s heat

Whips the pulse to a galloping beat—

Ties up his judgment neck and feet,

And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?

Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,

Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;

They look not by art, and they love not by rule,

For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.

Oh! give me the love that endures no control

But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,

As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,

Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.

Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,

By rank unallured and by riches unbought;

Whose very simplicity keeps it secure—

The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.

All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,As one week before LentJem procured her consentTo go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see.And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep,For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,He took from a chest and carefully put on—And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,Were greased with the fat ofa quare sort of mutton!Then a tidiergorsooncouldn’t be seenTreading the Emerald Isle so green—Light was his step, and bright was his eye,As he walked through theslobberystreets of Athy.And each girl he passed bid “God bless him” and sighed,While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.

All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,

As one week before Lent

Jem procured her consent

To go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.

Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,

And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see.

And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep,

For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.

A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,

He took from a chest and carefully put on—

And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,

Were greased with the fat ofa quare sort of mutton!

Then a tidiergorsooncouldn’t be seen

Treading the Emerald Isle so green—

Light was his step, and bright was his eye,

As he walked through theslobberystreets of Athy.

And each girl he passed bid “God bless him” and sighed,

While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.

Hush! here’s the Priest—let not the leastWhisper be heard till the father has ceased.“Come, bridegroom and bride,That the knot may be tiedWhich no power on earth can hereafter divide.”Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,And a passage was made for them both to walk through;And his Riv’rence stood with a sanctified face,Which spread its infection around the place.The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,Who felt so confused that she almost cried,But at last bore up and walked forward, whereThe Father was standing with solemn air;The bridegroom was following after with pride,When his piercing eye something awful espied!He stopped and sighed,Looked round and triedTo tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:With a spring and a roarHe jumped to the door,And the bride laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more!

Hush! here’s the Priest—let not the least

Whisper be heard till the father has ceased.

“Come, bridegroom and bride,

That the knot may be tied

Which no power on earth can hereafter divide.”

Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,

And a passage was made for them both to walk through;

And his Riv’rence stood with a sanctified face,

Which spread its infection around the place.

The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,

Who felt so confused that she almost cried,

But at last bore up and walked forward, where

The Father was standing with solemn air;

The bridegroom was following after with pride,

When his piercing eye something awful espied!

He stopped and sighed,

Looked round and tried

To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:

With a spring and a roar

He jumped to the door,

And the bride laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more!

Some years sped on,Yet heard no oneOf Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone.But since the night of that widow’d feast,The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul released,Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,Just five years after the widow’d feast,An American letter was brought to the priest,Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceased!Who, ere his death,With his latest breath,To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,And the cause of his sudden departure confest.—“Oh, Father,” says he, “I’ve not long to live,So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive—That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;Ay, as well as the CreedThat was never forsaken by one of my breed;But I couldn’t have married her, after I saw—”“Saw what?” cried the Father, desirous to hear—And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking—“Not in herkaràcter, yer Riv’rince, a flaw”—The sick man here dropped a significant tear,And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear—“But I saw, God forgive her,A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!”

Some years sped on,

Yet heard no one

Of Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone.

But since the night of that widow’d feast,

The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;

Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul released,

Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.

And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,

Just five years after the widow’d feast,

An American letter was brought to the priest,

Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceased!

Who, ere his death,

With his latest breath,

To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,

And the cause of his sudden departure confest.—

“Oh, Father,” says he, “I’ve not long to live,

So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive—

That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;

Ay, as well as the Creed

That was never forsaken by one of my breed;

But I couldn’t have married her, after I saw—”

“Saw what?” cried the Father, desirous to hear—

And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking—

“Not in herkaràcter, yer Riv’rince, a flaw”—

The sick man here dropped a significant tear,

And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear—

“But I saw, God forgive her,A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!”

THE MORAL.

Lady readers, love may beFixed in hearts immovably,May be strong and may be pure;Faith may lean on faith secure,Knowing adverse fate’s endeavourMakes that faith more firm than ever;But the purest love and strongest,Love that has endured the longest,Braving cross, and blight, and trial,Fortune’s bar or pride’s denial,Would—no matter what its trust—Be uprooted by disgust:—Yes, the love that might for yearsSpring in suffering, grow in tears,Parents’ frigid counsel mocking,Might be—where’s the use of talking?—Upset by aBROKEN STOCKING!Anonymous.

Lady readers, love may be

Fixed in hearts immovably,

May be strong and may be pure;

Faith may lean on faith secure,

Knowing adverse fate’s endeavour

Makes that faith more firm than ever;

But the purest love and strongest,

Love that has endured the longest,

Braving cross, and blight, and trial,

Fortune’s bar or pride’s denial,

Would—no matter what its trust—

Be uprooted by disgust:—

Yes, the love that might for years

Spring in suffering, grow in tears,

Parents’ frigid counsel mocking,

Might be—where’s the use of talking?—

Upset by aBROKEN STOCKING!

Anonymous.

“WITH A SPRING AND A ROAR HE JUMPED TO THE DOOR.”

“THE GANDHER ID BE AT HIS HEELS, AN’ RUBBIN’ HIMSELF AGIN HIS LEGS.”

Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do, an’ he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an’ bein’ mighty cute an’ a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but unluckily he was blessed with an iligant large family iv daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin’ to make up fortunes for the whole of them—an’ there wasn’t a conthrivance iv any soart or discription for makin’ money out iv the farm but he was up to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world, he always kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultry; an’ he was out iv all raison partial to geese—an’ small blame to him for that same—for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand—an’ get a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizable eggs—an’ when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for gozlings, d’ye see,—let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin’ to Terence, an’ divil a place he could go serenadin’ about the farm, or lookin’ aftherthe men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, and lookin’ up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen,—Terence Mooney an’ the gandher wor so great. An’ at last the bird was so engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an’ kept it from that time out, for love an’ affection—just all as one like one iv his childhren. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an’ the neighbours bigin’d to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an’ some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’, and you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an’ from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the iligant hand at the business, and divil a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An’ moreover he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man’s father that was. So without more about it, he was sint for; an’ sure enough the divil a long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin’ along wid the boy that was sint for him; an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuck his supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, he bigined of coorse to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this away an’ that away, to the right, and to the left, an’ straight-ways an’ upside down, an’ when he was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney—

“Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird into the next room,” says he, “an’ put a pettycoat,” says he, “or any other convaynience round his head,” says he.

“An’ why so?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, says he.

“Becase what?” says Terence.

“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done—you’ll never be asy agin,” says he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,”says he; “so ax no more questions, but do my biddin’,’ says he.

“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.

An’ wid that he tuck the ould gandher, and giv’ it to one iv the gossoons.

“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” says he.

Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, “Do you know what that ould gandheris, Terence Mooney?”

“Divil a taste,” says Terence.

“Well then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.

“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an ould gandher be my father?” says he.

“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer; “it’s thrue what I tell you—it’s your father’s wandhrin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally tuck pissession iv the ould gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many ways, and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,” says he.

“Oh, blur an’ ages!” says Terence, “what the divil will I ever do at all at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,” says he.

“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer; “it was a sevare act surely,” says he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only way to prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,” says he.

“Thrue for you,” says Terence; “but how the divil did you come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’ in the ould gandher?” says he.

“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not undherstand me,” says he, “without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no questions,” says he, “an’ I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if I don’t make him spake to-morrowmornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,” says he.

“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the business,” says he; “an’ oh! blur an’ ages, is it not a quare thing,” says he, “for a dacent, respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and oh, murdher, murdher! isn’t it often I plucked him,” says he; “an’ tundher an’ ouns, might not I have ate him,” says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your prisince, an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.

Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quiet an’ asy—“Terence,” says he, “don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,” says he, “for I have a plan composed that ’ill make him spake out,” says he, “an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say agin anything I tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,” says he; “an’ if he don’t spake tonight,” says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,” says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aiting,” says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he; “an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t spake out before he’s half-way,” says he; “an’ mind,” says he, “as soon as ever he says the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,” says he, “an’ if his raverince doesn’t make him ratire,” says he, “like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,” says he, “into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory, there’s no vartue in my charums,” says he.

Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they all bigined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it wasa thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftinant; an’ Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poulthry, “an’ to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ’ill get in this world,” says he. Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ downhearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin’ to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some iligant potteen, an’ himself an’ Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn’t an imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew—the Lord purloin his raverince—bigin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate Ireland. An’ begorra, I have the medle myself; an’ its proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry. Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop, “for enough is as good as a faste,” says he, “an’ I pity the vagabond,” says he, “that is not able to conthroul his licquor,” says he, “an’ to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,” says he, an’ wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an’ walked out iv the room. But he wint out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an’ not rightly knowin’ whether he was standin’ on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin’; an’ sure enough he sunk down soft an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid the turnin’ an’ roulin’ about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug asa lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’. So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an’ they cotched the ould gandher, an’ put him in the hamper and clapped a good wisp iv hay on the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an’ put the hamper up on the car, wontherin’ all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould bird so surprisin’ heavy. Well, they wint along quiet an’ asy towards Tipperary, wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the bewitched gandher, an’ small blame to them for that same. But, although they wor shakin’ in their shkins in dhread iv the ould bird biginin’ to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one another, but kep singin’ and whistlin’, like mad, to keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half-an-hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one divil iv a rut three feet deep at the laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’ through it, that it wakened Terence within the basket.

“Oh!” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what the divil are ye doin’ wid me?”

“Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the boy that was next to the car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a musharoon; “did ye hear anything quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.

“No, nor you,” says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself; “it’s the ould gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,” says he.

“Where the divil have ye put me into?” says Terence inside; “let me out, or I’ll be smothered this minute,” says he.

“There’s no use in purtendin’,” says the boy; “the gandher’s spakin’, glory be to God!” says he.

“Let me out, you murdherers,” says Terence.

“In the name iv all the holy saints,” says Thady, “hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,” says he.

“Who’s that, that dar’ to call me nicknames?” says Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion; “let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,” says he, “or by this crass I’ll stretch ye,” says he.

“In the name iv heaven,” says Thady, “who the divil are ye?”

“Who the divil would I be but Terence Mooney,” says he. “It’s myself that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,” says he; “let me out, or by the holy I’ll get out in spite iv yez,” says he, “an’ be jabers I’ll wallop yez in arnest,” says he.

“It’s ould Terence, sure enough,” says Thady; “isn’t it cute the fairy docthor found him out?” says he.

“I’m on the pint iv snuffication,” says Terence; “let me out I tell you, an’ wait till I get at ye,” says he, “for begorra, the divil a bone in your body but I’ll powdher,” says he; an’ wid that he bigined kickin’ and flingin’ inside in the hamper, and dhrivin’ his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces. Well, as soon as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest’s house, through the ruts, an’ over the stones; an’ you’d see the hamper fairly flyin’ three feet up in the air with the joultin’, glory be to God; so it was small wondher, by the time they got to his raverince’s door, the breath was fairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin’ speechless in the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up an’ they tould him all that happened, an’ how they put the gandher into the hamper, an’ how he bigined to spake, an’ how he confissed that he was ould TerenceMooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the sperit for good an’ all. So says his raverince, says he—

“I’ll take my book,” says he, “an’ I’ll read some rale sthrong holy bits out iv it,” says he, “an’ do you get a rope and put it round the hamper,” says he, “an’ let it swing over the runnin’ wather at the bridge,” says he, “an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the sperit come out iv it,” says he.

Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an’ tuck his book in undher his arum, an’ the boys follied his raverince, ladin’ the horse down to the bridge, an’ divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no use spakin’, an’ he was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop an’ finish him intirely. Well, as soon as they war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with them, an’ med it fast to the top iv the hamper an’ swung it fairly over the bridge; lettin’ it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; an’ his raverince rode down to the bank iv the river, close by, an’ bigined to read mighty loud and bould intirely. An’ when he was goin’ on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an’ down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the water, an’ the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they both went to the bottom wid a souse you’d hear half-a-mile off; an’ before they had time to rise agin, his raverince, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an’ before he knew where he was, in he went, horse and all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the bottom. Up they all kem agin together, gaspin’ an’ puffin’, an’ off down wid the current wid them, like shot in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the shallow wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an’ the priest and Terence kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half dhrounded; an’ his raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin’ he got, and wid the sight iv the sperit as he consaved, that he wasn’t the better iv itfor a month. An’ as soon as Terence could spake, he said he’d have the life iv the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will; an’ as soon as he was got quiter they all endayvoured to explain it, but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an’ his wife said the same to shilter him from the suspicion ov having the dhrop taken. An’ his raverince said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if he cotched any one laughin’ at the accident, he’d lay the horsewhip across their shouldhers; an’ Terence grew fonder an’ fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died in a wondherful ould age, lavin’ the gandher afther him an’ a large family iv childher.

Joseph Sheridan Lefanu(1814–1873).

If the age of women were known by their teeth, they would not be so fond of showing them.

What is an Irishman but a mere machine for converting potatoes into human nature?

The smiles of a pretty woman are glimpses of Paradise.

Military men never blush; it is not in the articles of war.

We look with pleasure even on our shadows.

It is particularly inconvenient to have a long nose—especially if you are in company with Irishmen after dinner.

Weak-minded men are obstinate; those of a robust intellect are firm.

Bear-baiting has gone down very much of late. The best exhibitions of that manly and rational amusement take place nightly in the House of Commons.

When you are invited to a drinking-party you do not treat your host well if you do not eat at least six salt herrings before you sit down to his table. I have never known this to fail in ensuring a pleasant evening.

Butchers and doctors are with great propriety excluded from being jurymen.

Few men have the moral couragenotto fight a duel.

It is a saying of the excellent Tom Brown, “No poet ever went to a church when he had money to go to a tavern.” This may be looked on as an indisputable axiom; there is no truer proposition in Euclid. Indeed, the very name of poet is derived frompotare—to drink; and it is not by mere accident that the same word signifiesBacchusand abook.

The most ferocious monsters in existence are authors who insist on reading their MSS to their friends and visitors.

A friend of mine, one of the wittiest and most learned men of the day, once recommended a Frenchman, who expressed an anxiety to possess the autographs of literary men, to cash their bills. “And, believe me,” says he, “if you do, you will get the handwriting of the best of the tribe.”

Tailors call Adam and Eve the first founders of their noble art; they have them depicted on their banners and escutcheons. But they would be nearer the truth if they called the devil the first master-tailor; as only for him a coat and breeches would be unnecessary and useless. This would be giving the devil his due.

A very acute man used to say, “Tell me your second reason; I do not want your first. The second is the true motive of your actions.”

Youth and old age seem to be mutual spies on each other—blind, each, to its own imperfections, but extremely quick-sighted to those of its opposite.

Hints to Men of Business.—Whenever you are in a hurry engage a drunken cabman; he will drive you at double the speed of a sober one. Also, be sure not to engage a cabman who owns the horse he drives; he will spare his quadruped, and carry you at a funeral pace. Both these maxims are as good as any in Rochefoucault.

Man is a twofold creature; one half he exhibits to the world, and the other to himself.

Edward V. H. Kenealy, LL.D.(1819–1880).

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