Father Tom’s Wager With the Pope
“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 ov mine,” 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.
“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 a perch, 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 say thrap-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 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’ 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 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 rattling gorsoon,
Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,
Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,
But for that in 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.
If intellect sent you one look severe,
Love instantly 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 rare
And tight a pair
Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.
And Jemmy would wear
His caubeen17 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—no gorsoon could 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 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 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 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 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 of a quare sort of mutton!
Then a tidier gorsoon couldn’t be seen
Treading the Emerald Isle so green—
Light was his step, and bright was his eye,
As he walked through the slobbery streets 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 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 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 her karàcter, 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 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 a BROKEN STOCKING!
Anonymous.