Ana
One day, when out riding with Lord Norbury, they came to a gallows, and pointing to it the judge said, “Where would you be, Curran, if that scaffold had its due?” “Riding alone, my lord,” was Curran’s prompt reply.
The same judge (noted for his merciless severity) was seated opposite Curran at dinner on another occasion, and asked, “Is that hung beef before you, Curran?” “Do you try it, my lord,” replied the advocate, “and it is sure to be.”
A blustering Irish barrister once told the little man he would put him in his pocket if he provoked him further. “Egad, if you do, you’ll have more law in your pocket than ever you had in your head.”
“Do you see anything ridiculous in my wig, Curran?” asked a vain barrister, whose displaced head-gear had caused some merriment in court. “Nothing, except the head, sir,” answered Curran.
Another judge had the habit of continually shaking his head during Curran’s addresses to the jury, and the counsel, fearing the jury might be influenced, assured them that the judge was not expressing dissent—“when he shakes his head, there’s nothing in it.”
When he had to meet a notorious duellist named Bully Egan, whose girth was twice that of Curran’s, Egan complained that the advantages were all on one side, inasmuch as he could barely see Curran’s diminutive person, while Curran could hardly fail to hit him. “Oh!” said Curran, “we can soon arrange that. Let the size of my body be chalked on Mr. Egan’s, and I am willing all shots outside the marks should not be counted.”
THE CRUISKEEN LAWN.
Let the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds,
The farmer his sweet-scented lawn;
While I, more blest than they,
Spend each happy night and day
With my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree-ma cruiskeen,
Slainte geal ma vourneen,
Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn, bawn, bawn,
Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn!
Immortal and divine,
Great Bacchus, god of wine,
Create me by adoption your son,
In hope that you’ll comply
That my glass shall ne’er run dry,
Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, etc.
And when grim Death appears,
After few but happy years,
And tells me my glass it is run,
I’ll say, “Begone, you slave!
For great Bacchus gave me leave
Just to fill another cruiskeen lawn.”
Gra-ma-chree, etc.
Then fill your glasses high,
Let’s not part with lips a-dry,
Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn;
And since we can’t remain,
May we shortly meet again
To fill another cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, etc.
Anonymous.