Boyne Water and Bad Blood
“Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley to Mr. McKenna, “what did th’ Orangeys do to-day?”
“They had a procession,” said Mr. McKenna.
“Was it much, I dinnaw?”
“Not much.”
“That’s good,” said Mr. Dooley. “That’s good. They don’t seem to be gettin’ anny sthronger, praise be! Divvle th’ sthraw do I care f’r thim. They niver harmed hair nor head iv me; an’ they ain’t likely to, ayether, so long as th’ R-road keeps th’ way it is. Faith, ‘twud be a fine pot iv porridge th’ like iv thim ’d ate if they come up into Ar-rchey Road. I’m an ol’ man, Jawn,—though not so ol’ at that,—but I’d give tin years iv me life to see an Orange procession west on Ar-rchey Road with th’ right flank restin’ on Halsthed Sthreet. It ’d rest there. Th’ Lord knows it wud.
“Jawn, I have no dislike to th’ Orangeys. Nawthin’ again thim. I’d not raise me hand to thim, I wud not, though me cousin Tim was kilt be wan iv thim dhroppin’ a bolt on his skull in th’ ship-yards in Belfast. ’Twas lucky f’r that there Orangey he spoke first. Me cousin Tim had a ship-ax in his hand that’d ‘ve evened things up f’r at laste wan iv th’ poor pikemen that Sarsfield had along with him. But I’ve nawthin’ again thim at that but th’ wan that kilt Tim. I’d like to meet that lad in some quite place like th’ Clan-na-Gael picnic on th’ fifteenth iv August, some place where we’d have fair play.
“Jawn, live an’ let live is me motto. On’y I say this here, that ’tis a black disgrace to Chicago f’r to let th’ likes iv thim thrapze about th’ sthreets with their cheap ol’ flags an’ ribbons. Oh dear, oh dear, if Pathrick’s Day on’y come some year on’ th’ twelfth day iv July! Where ’d they be, where ’d they be?
“D’ye know things is goin’ to th’ dogs in this town, Jawn, avick? Sure they are, faith. I mind th’ time well whin an Orangey ’d as lave go through hell in a celluloid suit as march in this here town on the twelfth iv July. I raymimber wanst they was a man be th’ name iv Morgan Dempsey,—a first cousin iv thim Dempseys that lives in Cologne Sthreet,—an’ he was a Roscommon man, too, an’ wan iv th’ cutest divvles that iver breathed th’ breath iv life.
“Well, whin th’ day come f’r th’ Orangeys to cillybrate th’ time whin King Willum—may th’ divvle hould him!—got a stand-off,—an’ ’twas no betther, Jawn, f’r th’ Irish’d ‘ve skinned him alive if th’ poor ol’ gaby iv an English king hadn’t ducked—What’s that? Don’t I know it? I have a book at home written be an impartial historyan, Pathrick Clancy Duffy, to prove it. What was I sayin’? Whin’ th’ twelfth day iv July come around an’ th’ Orangeys got ready to cillybrate th’ day King Willum, with all his Gatlin’ guns an’ cannon, just barely sthud off Sarsfield an’ his men that had on’y pikes an’ brickbats an’ billyard cues, th’ good people was infuryated. I dinnaw who was th’ mayor in thim days. He was niver ilicted again. But, annyhow, he give it out that th’ Orangeys’ procission must not be hurted. An’ all th’ newspapers asked th’ good people to be quite, an’ it was announced at high mass an’ low mass that annywan that sthruck a blow ’d be excommunicated.
“Well, ye know how it is whin modheration is counselled, Jawn. Modheration is another name f’r murdheration. So they put two platoons iv polismen in front iv th’ Orangeys an’ three behind, an’ a double column alongside; an’ away they wint.
“No wan intherfered with thim; an’ that didn’t plaze Morgan Dempsey, who ‘d served his time a calker in a ship-yard. Bein’ iv a injaneyous disposition, he made up his mind f’r to do something to show that pathrietism wasn’t dead in this counthry. So he got up in a hallway in Washington Sthreet, an’ waited. Th’ procission come with th’ polismen in front an’ behind an’ along th’ sides, an’ th’ German Band, thryin’ to keep wan eye on the house-tops on both sides iv th’ sthreet, an’ to read th’ music iv c Lillibullero’ an’ ‘Croppies lie down’ an’ ‘Boyne Wather’ with th’ other. Th’ Orangeys didn’t look up. They kept their eyes pointed sthraight ahead, I’ll say that f’r thim. They’re murdherin’ vilyans; but they’re Irish, iv a sort.
“Whin they come by Dempsey, he pokes his head out iv th’ dure; an’ says he, ‘Th’ ‘ell with all th’ Prowtestant bishops.’ Now that same over in Derry ‘d have had all th’ tilin’s in town flyin’; but th’ Orangeys ‘d been warned not to fight, an’ they wint sthraight on, on’y they sung ‘Lillibullero.’ Did ye niver hear it? It goes (singing) ‘Ho! Brother Teigue, dost hear in th’ degree?’
“Th’ Lord f’rgive me f’r singin’ it, Jawn. See if there’s anny wan near th’ dure.
“Well, whin they got through, Dempsey puts his hands to his mouth, an’ yells, ‘Th’ ‘ell with King Willum.’ That was more thin th’ Orangeys cud stand. They halted as wan man, an’ roared out, ‘Th’ ‘ell with th’ pope.’ ‘What’s that?’ says th’ captain iv th’ polis foorce. He was a man be th’ name of Murphy, an’ he was blue with rage f’r havin’ to lead th’ Orangeys. ‘Ma-arch on, Brass Money,’ says th’ Orange marshal. Murphy pulled him fr’m his horse; an’ they wint at it, club an’ club. Be that time th’ whole iv th’ line was ingaged. Ivry copper belted an Orangey; an’ a sergeant named Donahue wint through a whole lodge, armed on’y, Jawn, with a clarinet an’ wan cymbal. He did so. An’ Morgan Dempsey, th’ cute divvle, he sthood by, an’ encouraged both sides. F’r, next to an Orangey, he likes to see a polisman kilt. That ended wan Orangey parade.
“Not that I think it was right. I suppose they ought to be left walk about, an’ I’m a fair man. If th’ blackest iv thim wint by now, I’d not raise me hand”—
“Hello,” says Mr. McKenna, “here goes Killen, the Armagh man. They say he digs with his left foot.”
“Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley, eagerly, “if ye run up on th’ roof, ye ’ll find th’ bricks loose in th’ top row iv th’ chimbley. Ye might hand him a few.”