The Turkey and the Goose
Did yir honor ever hear of the wager ’tween the goose and the turkey? Oncet upon a time an ould cock-turkey lived in the barony of Brawny, or, let me see, was it in Inchebofin or Tubbercleer? faix, an’ it’s meself forgets that same at the present writin’,—but Jim Gurn—you know Jim Gurn, yir honor, Jim Gurn the nailer that lives hard by,—him that fought his black-and-tan t’other day ’gainst Tim Fagan’s silver hackle,—oh! Jim is the boy that’ll tell ye the ins and outs of it any day yir honor wud pay him a visit, ’caze Jim’s in the way of it. Well, as I was relatin’, the turkey was a parson’s bird, and as proud as Lucifer, bein’ used to the best of livin’; while the gander was only a poor commoner, for he was a Roman,13 and oblidged to live upon what he could get by the roadside. These two fowls, yir honor, never could agree anyhow,—never could put up their horses together on any blessed p’int,—till one day a big row happened betune them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeplechase across the country, day and dark, for twenty-four hours. Well, to my surprise,—though I wasn’t there at the time, but Jim Gurn was, who gave me the whole history,—to my surprise, the turkey didn’t say no to it, but was quite agreeable to it, all of a suddent; so away they started from Jim Gurn’s dunghill one Sunday after mass, for the gander wouldn’t stir a step afore prayers. Well, to be sure, to give the divil his due, the turkey took the lead in fine style, and was soon clane out of sight; but the gander kept movin’ on, no ways downhearted, after him. About nightfall it was his business to pass through an ould archway across the road; and as he was stoopin’ his head to get under it,—for yir honor knows a gander will stoop his head under a doorway if it was only as high as the moon,—who should he see comfortably sated in an ivy-bush but the turkey himself, tucked in for the night. The gander, winkin’ to himself, says, “Is it there ye are, honey?”—but he kept never mindin’ him for all that, but only walked bouldly on to his journey’s end, where he arrived safe and sound next day, afore the turkey was out of his first sleep; ’caze why, ye see, sir, a goose or a gander will travel all night; but in respect of a turkey, once the day falls in, divil another inch of ground he’ll put his futt to, barrin’ it’s to roost in a tree or the rafters of a cow-house! Oh! maybe the parson’s bird wasn’t ashamed of himself! Jim Gurn says he never held his head up afterward, though to be sure he hadn’t long to fret, for Christmas was nigh at hand, and he had to stand sentry by the kitchen fire one day without his body-clothes till he could bear it no longer; so they dished him entirely. Them that ett him said he was as tough as leather, no doubt from the grief; but divil’s cure to him! what business had he to be so proud of himself, the spalpeen?
Joseph A. Wade (1796–1845).
WIDOW MACHREE.
Widow Machree, it’s no wonder you frown,
Och hone, Widow Machree—
Faith, it ruins your looks that same dirty black gown,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear—
It’s destroying your hair,
Which should be flowing free,
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
Widow Machree, now the summer is come,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
When everything smiles—should a beauty look glum,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares—
Why even the bears,
Now in couples agree,
And the mute little fish,
Though they can’t speak, they wish,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
Widow Machree, when the winter comes in,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
To be poking the fire, all alone, is a sin,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
Why the shovel and tongs,
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs,
Full of family glee,
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
And how do you know, with the comforts I’ve told,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
But you’re keeping some poor divil out in the cold?
Och hone, Widow Machree.
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled,
Could you sleep in your bed,
Without thinking to see,
Some ghost or some sprite,
Come to wake you each night,
Crying, och hone, Widow Machree.
Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,
Och hone, Widow Machree,
And with my advice, faith, I wish you’d take me,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
You’d have me to desire.
Then to stir up the fire,
And sure hope is no liar,
In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart,
When you’d me near your heart,
Och hone, Widow Machree.
Samuel Lover (1797–1868).
BARNEY O’HEA.
Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,
I know you won’t,
I know you won’t,
Now let me alone, though I know you won’t,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.
It makes me outrageous when you’re so contagious—
You’d better look out for the stout Corney Creagh!
For he is the boy that believes me his joy;—
So you’d better behave yourself, Barney O’Hea.
Impudent Barney—
None of your blarney,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.
I hope you’re not going to Bandon fair,
To Bandon fair,
To Bandon fair,
For sure I’m not wanting to meet you there,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.
For Corney’s at Cork, and my brother’s at work,
And my mother sits spinning at home all the day;
So no one will be there, of poor me to take care,
And I hope you won’t follow me, Barney O’Hea.
Impudent Barney—
None of your blarney,
Impudent Barney O’Hea.
But as I was walking up Bandon Street,
Just who do you think ’twas myself should meet
But impudent Barney O’Hea!
He said I look’d killin’,
I call’d him a villain,
And bid him that minute get out of my way.
He said I was jokin’,
And look’d so provokin’,—
I could not help laughing with Barney O’Hea!
Impudent Barney—
’Tis he has the blarney,
Impudent Barney O’Hea!
He knew ’twas all right when he saw me smile,
For he is the rogue up to every wile,
Is impudent Barney O’Hea!
He coax’d me to choose him,
For, if I’d refuse him,
He swore he’d kill Corney the very next day;
So for fear ’twould go further,
And—just to save murther—
I think I must marry that mad-cap O’Hea.
Botherin’ Barney—
’Tis he has the blarney
To make a girl Misthress O’Hea!
Samuel Lover.
MOLLY CAREW.
Och hone, and what will I do?
Sure, my love is all crost
Like a bud in the frost,
And there’s no use at all in my going to bed;
For ’tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head;
And ’tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew—
And indeed ’tis a sin and a shame;
You’re complater than Nature
In every feature,
The snow can’t compare
With your forehead so fair;
And I rather would see just one blink of your eye
Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky—
And by this and by that,
For the matter of that,
You’re more distant by far than that same!
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
I’m alone in this world without you.
Och hone! but why should I spake
Of your forehead and eyes,
When your nose it defies
Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme?
Tho’ there’s one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime.
And then for your cheek!
Throth, ’twould take him a week
Its beauties to tell as he’d rather.
Then your lips! oh, Machree!
In their beautiful glow
They a patthern might be
For the cherries to grow.
’Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know—
For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago;
But at this time o’ day,
’Pon my conscience, I’ll say,
Such cherries might tempt a man’s father!
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
I’m alone in this world without you.
Och hone! by the man in the moon,
You taze me all ways,
That a woman can plaze,
For you dance twice as high with that thief Pat Magee,
As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me,
Tho’ the piper I bate,
For fear the ould chate
Wouldn’t play you your favourite tune;
And when you’re at mass
My devotion you crass,
For ’tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew;
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,
That I can’t at your sweet purty face get a peep:
Oh! lave off that bonnet,
Or else I’ll lave on it
The loss of my wandherin’ sowl!
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
Och hone, like an owl,
Day is night, dear, to me, without you!
Och hone! don’t provoke me to do it;
For there’s girls by the score
That love me—and more;
And you’d look very quare if some morning you’d meet
My wedding all marchin’ in pride down the sthreet;
Throth, you’d open your eyes,
And you’d die with surprise,
To think ’twasn’t you was come to it!
And, faith, Katty Naile,
And her cow, I go bail,
Would jump if I’d say,
“Katty Naile, name the day.”
And tho’ you’re fair and fresh as a morning in May,
While she’s short and dark like a cowld winther’s day,
Yet if you don’t repent
Before Easther, when Lent
Is over I’ll marry for spite;
Och hone! wirrasthrue!
And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.
Samuel Lover.