The Irishman Abroad
Mr. Dooley laid down his morning paper, and looked thoughtfully at the chandeliers.
“Taaffe,” he said musingly,—“Taaffe—where th’ divvle? Th’ name’s familiar.”
“He lives in the Nineteenth,” said Mr. McKenna. “If I remember right, he has a boy on th’ force.”
“Goowan,” said Mr. Dooley, “with ye’er nineteenth wa-ards. Th’ Taaffe I mane is in Austhria. Where in all, where in all? No: yes, by gar, I have it. A-ha!
“But cur-rsed be th’ day,
Whin Lord Taaffe grew faint-hearted
An sthud not n’r cha-arged,
But in panic depa-arted.”
“D’ye mind it,—th’ pome by Joyce? No, not Bill Joyce. Joyce, th’ Irish pote that wrote th’ pome about th’ wa-ars whin me people raysisted Cromwell, while yours was carryin’ turf on their backs to make fires for th’ crool invader, as Finerty says whin th’ sub-scriptions r-runs low. ’Tis th’ same name, a good ol’ Meath name in th’ days gone by; an’ be th’ same token I have in me head that this here Count Taaffe, whether he’s an austrich or a canary bur-rd now, is wan iv th’ ol’ fam’ly. There’s manny iv thim in Europe an’ all th’ wurruld beside. There was Pat McMahon, th’ Frinchman, that bate Looey Napoleon; an’ O’Donnell, the Spanish juke; an’ O’Dhriscoll an’ Lynch, who do be th’ whole thing down be South America, not to mention Patsy Bolivar. Ye can’t go annywhere fr’m Sweden to Boolgahria without findin’ a Turk settin’ up beside th’ king an’ dalin’ out th’ deek with his own hand. Jawn, our people makes poor Irishmen, but good Dutchmen; an’, th’ more I see iv thim, th’ more I says to mesilf that th’ rale boney fide Irishman is no more thin a foreigner born away from home. ’Tis so.
“Look at thim, Jawn,” continued Mr. Dooley, becoming eloquent. “Whin there’s battles to be won, who do they sind for? McMahon or Shurdan or Phil Kearney or Colonel Colby. Whin there’s books to be wrote, who writes thim but Char-les Lever or Oliver Goldsmith or Willum Carleton? Whin there’s speeches to be made, who makes thim but Edmund Burke or Macchew P. Brady? There’s not a land on th’ face iv th’ wurruld but th’ wan where an Irishman doesn’t stand with his fellow-man, or above thim. Whin th’ King iv Siam wants a plisint evenin’, who does he sind f’r but a lively Kerry man that can sing a song or play a good hand at spile-five? Whin th’ Sultan iv Boolgahria takes tea, ’tis tin to wan th’ man across fr’m him is more to home in a caubeen thin in a turban. There’s Mac’s an’ O’s in ivry capital iv Europe atin’ off silver plates whin their relations is staggerin’ under th’ creels iv turf in th’ Connaught bogs.
“Wirra, ’tis hard. Ye’d sa-ay off hand, ‘Why don’t they do as much for their own counthry?’ Light-spoken are thim that suggests th’ like iv that. ’Tis asier said than done. Ye can’t grow flowers in a granite block, Jawn dear, much less whin th’ first shoot ‘d be thrampled under foot without pity. ’Tis aisy f’r us over here, with our bellies full, to talk iv th’ cowardice iv th’ Irish; but what would ye have wan man iv thim do again a rig’mint? ’Tis little fightin’ th’ lad will want that will have to be up before sunrise to keep th’ smoke curlin’ fr’m th’ chimbley or to patch th’ rush roof to keep out th’ March rain. No, faith, Jawn, there’s no soil in Ireland f’r th’ greatness iv th’ race; an’ there has been none since th’ wild geese wint across th’ say to France, hangin’ like flies to th’ side iv th’ Fr-rinch ship. ’Tis only f’r women an’ childher now, an’ thim that can’t get away. Will th’ good days ever come again? says ye. Who knows!”