  "Tipsy dance and jollity."—L'Allegro. A full hour after Darby's departure I ventured to open the little dog-eared volume which he had thrown upon my table. The title-page was a curious specimen of that lingual learning which is so often to be met with in the remotest districts of Ireland. Gentle reader, a description of it would only spoil it; I therefore lay it before you as it appeared to me then, with this slight difference,—that the printer informs me he has no letter that can adequately express or imitate the rustic simplicity, the careless elegance both of the character and setting up. It was as follows: THE DARBIAD! A BACCHI-SALTANT EPIC. IN ONE BOOK. Containing an Account of a Great Festival given at "The Three Blacks," by one Mr. Darby Ryan, on the occasion of his coming into his Fortune, and all the Songs an' Dances as perform'd there in honor to him. Dulce est desipere in loco. Printed by Mary Brady, Xher mark, at the sign of the Cross Quills in Monk's Lane, opposit the Friary. Price sixpence; and to be had of all Flyin' Stationers, and Dancin' Masthers. I could not but admire the classical taste and ingenuity with which Mr. Kelly, the author, had Latinized his name. He had read, no doubt, that Ovid was called Naso from the excessive size of his nose; and, with a delicacy peculiar to himself, had elegantly concealed the vulgar cognomen of Lame Kelly,—by which he was known,—in the more pompous-sounding Roman appellation of Claudicante! Kellio, too, was another "curiosa felicitas;" for, while it was in perfect accordance with grammatical accuracy, it sounded like an ingenious anagram of O'Kelly, an ancient Irish name. But, to the poem itself. INVOCATION. Inspire me, Phoebus! in the song I sing, And to my aid the nine twin-sisters bring; No common deeds I celebrate or praise— Darby the Swift is hero of my lays! After a hurling-match by Darby won, Although his nose bad suffered in the fun, He, with his rivals, now no longer foes, To the Three Blacks in peaceful triumph goes! Two blacks already had he in the fray, But whereabouts I won't presume to say: 'T would spoil the beauty of a hero's mien, Though by the candles' glare they scarce were seen. Many were met; of sisters, brothers, cousins, Aunts, uncles, nieces, sweethearts, wives, some dozens. First, Widow Higgins, with her daughters three, Bedizen'd out as fine as fine could be, Came on her low-back'd car, with feather-bed, And ornamental quilt upon it spread. She look'd a queen from the luxurious East Reclining on an ottoman:—the beast That drew her, chicks and all, drew seventy stone at least! And he to horse was what to man is monkey, In epics 't would be bathos, or I'd call him donkey. But (who can read the secret book of Fate?) Just as the party pass'd the inn-yard gate, A startled pig—a young and timorous thing That in a puddle had been weltering— Woke from some rapturous dream, and in its fright Rush'd 'tween the nag's forelegs, who, woful sight! Employ'd his hinder ones so wondrous well, That Widow Higgins, bed, and daughters, fell (Alas, my muse!) into the porker's bath! Oh, day turn'd night! oh, pleasure sour'd to wrath! But soon they did recover mirth, and jok'd, For 'twas the feather-bed alone that soak'd The stagnant pool:—no stain's impurity Defil'd their rainbow-riband'd dimity, Save one; and that was on the widow's crupper, Who said, "I wish they'd scald that pig for supper!" Next came Miss Duff, in a light pea-green plush, That beautifully show'd her blue-red blush. Miss Reeves soon follow'd, spite of summer weather, In pelerine of goose-down, and a feather. The two Miss Gallaghers, the four Miss Bradys, With I know not how many other ladies. Amongst them Nelly Jones, with her first child, That squeak'd and squall'd; then, cock-a-doodle, smiled. Reader! I tell this for your private list'ning, To have the clargy at his feast, a christ'ning Our Darby thought would be a trick with art in To nail the presence of big Father Martin, Who was the bochel-bhui of jolly sinners, At wakes or christ'nings, weddings, deaths, or dinners! Suppose Jack Falstaff had ta'en holy orders, And then I'll say your fancy somewhat borders Upon the plumpy truth of this round priest, Who ne'er refus'd his blessing to a feast. One slender damsel, that seem'd not fifteen, With younger brother, in the throng was seen; Shy and confused, as when a violet, Suddenly snatch'd from its dark-green retreat, First meets the gaudy glaring of the day, And seems to close its beauty from the ray Of unaccustom'd light that rudely prys Into its gentle, modest, azure eyes. What led her thither I could never learn. But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne, All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast;— And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least, Contributes by her dress and portly mien To swell the splendour of the joyous scene. Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air! A bright-blue band encircled her red hair, Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle! Her dress was gaudy,—though as coarse as huckle- Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey,—flowing In graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showing It had been out for a more sylphid shape, As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape! But now the christ'ning's o'er: of wine and cakes First Father Martin, then each fair, partakes; The youths incline to porter and potcheen. Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen, Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea, Whose incense in one corner you might see Rising in volumes from four sacred stills, Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fills With boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless, That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless. But now the pipes are smoking both and playing: "Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying! Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne, And then we'll get a stave all round in turn." Tommy, obedient, put his dudheen His waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin:— Tune—"Alley Croker." I. Your furreners, that come abroad Into our Irish nation, Expectin' nothin' else but fraud And cut-throat dissertation; What is't they find on landin' first But hundred millia-falthas, And kindness that we still have nurs'd? Tho' slav'ry near has spoilth us! Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue! Wouldn't Erin's glory, With the pen Of clever men, Make a weepin' story? II. Says one,—"You lazy pisant! why Parmit that pig so durty To sleep beside you, when a sty He'd find more clane and purty?"— They little know that gratitude To us was early sint, sir! And so we think no place too good For him that pays the rint, sir! Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue! Wouldn't Erin's glory, With the pen Of clever men, Make a dacent story? Here a loud squeak of grunting praise was heard From the new pig-house in the stable-yard: Th' applause awhile the minstrel's music drown'd;} But soon he did resume, and all around} Remark'd how much his voice of late improv'd in sound.} III. Another says,—"You idle dog, Why do ye lock your door up, And every sason quit your bog To thravel into Europe?" Sure we would gladly stop at home The whole year round, and labour, But for the harvest-pence we roam To pick up in the neighbour- Hood of England, wirrasthrue! Wouldn't Erin's glory, With the pen Of clever men, Make a pleasant story? [I could not help laying the book down at this passage to reflect whether the imputation of idleness can be justly thrown upon the Irish. Men who year after year toil through the perils and privations of a journey into another land for the sake of a few shillings, can scarcely be termed lazy; and it is to be regretted that some mode of employment at home is not devised by those in whose power it is to meliorate and tranquillise their condition.] IV. St. Patrick (many days to him!) Thought he kilt all the varmin That through the land did crawl or swim, But he left their cousins-giarmin! He never dreamt of two-legg'd snakes, Or toads that were toad-eathers, Or those dartlukers To hunt our fellow-crathurs! (Chorus, boys!) Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue! Isn't Erin's glory, By sword and pen Of wicked men, Made a dismal story? "Success, avourneen!" cried the jolly friar, "An' may yir whistle, 'lanna! never tire! Now for a toast, my boys, or sentiment, An' here is one from me with your consent: 'A saddle prickly as a porcupine, A pair of breeches like a cobweb fine, High-trottin' horse, and many a mile to go, For him that to ould Ireland proves a foe!'" Miss Biddy Reilly was the siren next Knock'd down for melody: she seem'd perplext, And said: "Upon my conscience—ralely—now— I—Tommy, sing for me—well, anyhow, I've nothin' new to trate ye with—" "No matther!" (From all parts of the room,) "sing Stoney Batther!" With that she hem'd to clear her pipe, and through Her bright-red curls her radish fingers drew; Then looking round, and smiling as she look'd, (While many a heart upon her bait she hook'd,) Her ditty once, twice, she commenced too high,— At last she found the key;—then, with a sigh Long-drawn and deep, her quivering voice she woke, Which rose and curl'd—ay, gracefully as smoke Seen at a distance—misty-wreathing—dimly Issuing from some wood-bound cottage chimley. I. In Stoney Batther There liv'd a man, By trade a hatther, And a good wan: The best of baver He used to buy; Till a deceiver, Passing by, Said,—"For a crown I'll sell ye this." "Come in," says he, "Let's see what 'tis." II. "The finest skin, sir, You ever saw; Without or in, sir, There's not a flaw! No hat or bonnet You ever made, With gloss upon it Of such a shade!" "Then put it down," The hatther cried; "And here's yir crown, And thanks beside," III. But, oh! what wondher When he did find The wicked plundher The rogue design'd! "My cat is missin'," (Says he,) "black Min, They've cut yir wizzin,— I've bought yir skin! Of neighbours' cats," Then wild he swore, "I'll make my hats For evermore!" Miss Biddy Reilly ceased her pensive ditty, And, with a look that made his rivals jealous, She call'd upon our hero, who, quite witty, Express'd a hope they would excuse his bellows, As he had lately caught cold in the water, 'Stead of an eel that he was lookin' a'ter! A loud horse-laugh first trumpets Darby's praise. Then thus his low bass voice he high did raise Tune—"Young Charly Reilly." I. Beside a mountin, Where many a fountin, Beyant all countin', Ran swift and clear, A valley flourish'd That Nature nourish'd, For she dhuc-a-dhurrish'd Her last drop there! And said, at partin', To Father Martin, "There's more of art in Some spots of earth; But, by this whiskey, That makes me frisky, In Ballanisky Myself had birth?" II. In this inclosure, With great composure, And hedge of osier, A cabin grew; And, sweeter in it Than any linnet Could sing, or spinnet, A maiden, too! Her time went gaily Both night and daily, Till Rodhrick Haly Pierc'd thro' her heart: Oh! if he'd spoken, Or giv'n one token, Sure 'twouldn't have broken With love's keen dart! III. She thought his fancy Was bent on Nancy Or Judy Clancy, Two sisthers fair: Though in his bosom, You can't accuse him, But she did strew some Love-nettles there! For all that, never Could he endeavour His lip to sever, And say, "Dear Kate!" The lad was bashful, 'Caze not being cashful; But she was rashful, As I'll relate. IV. One Sunday mornin', All danger scornin', Without a warnin' She left her home; And to a valley She forth did sally That lay in Bally- Hinch-a-dhrome! A while she wandher'd— And then she pondher'd— At last she squandher'd Her rason quite; And in a pool there, Like any fool there, She soon did cool there Her burnin' spite! Our hero ceas'd; and from the multitude} The suck-tongue sounds of pity that ensued } Would warm a stoic in his coldest mood:} Ducks on a pond, when gobblin' up duck-meat, Ne'er smack'd a music half so sadly sweet! Miss Biddy Reilly's long-lash'd eyes of jet Were red (as rivalling her hair) and wet! Some inward feeling caus'd this outward woe; But what it was but love for Darby, I don't know! But now tay-tay and coffee-tay are done, And of the night begins the raal fun: The dance is nam'd, and straightway on the floor Two dozen couple start,—I might say more. But Darby interposes, and cries, "Stop! Afore we have a reel let's have a hop: First—boy an' girl; then girl relieve the girl, Next boy the boy, till all round have a whirl! Miss Reilly an' myself will lead the first;— Come, piper! squeeze yir bags until they burst! 'Tatther Jack Welsh,' or 'Smash the Windows,' play, 'The wind that shakes the barley,' 'Flow'rs in May,' Or any rantin' roarin' lilt ye know: What! 'Ligrum Cuss?' hurroo! then here we go!" "He spake: and, to confirm his words," they all Sate down obedient in the festive hall! None but himself and Biddy upward stood, All eyes were on them of the multitude! But how shall I describe the wondrous pair, Terpsichore! that worshipp'd thee then there? Such grace, such action, on a malt-house floor, Was never seen or heard of, e'en, before! O'Ryan's arms at stiff right angles to His body were, which to the gazer's view Betray'd no motion; while his legs below Seem'd all St. Vitus' nimblest shakes to know! With knees bent inward, heels turn'd out, and toes That seem'd contending like two deadly foes For one small spot of earth, he digg'd the ground, And sent the mortar pulveriz'd around! "Look at his feet!" was the admiring cry; "Hold down the light that we may closely spy: There's double-shuffle for ye! hoo! success! He'd dance upon a penny-piece, or less!" Meanwhile, Miss Reilly, with her hands aside, A varied change of steps and movements plied; Now bold advancing in her partner's face, Now shooting by a side-slip to a place The farthest on the floor:—at every turn, As round and graceful as a spinning churn! But, ah! not long was she the dance's queen; For young Kate Duff, who owed her long a spleen, Swift as the lightning from a cloud of gloom, Shot from a dim-lit corner of the room, And sent the frowning Biddy to her seat, Who mutter'd something that I can't repeat! Long Curly next our hero's post relieves, And Kitty Duff gives place to Nelly Reeves: Curly, the piper's son, Ned Joyce, supplants; The blind old father knows his step, and chants The lilt with double force: Miss Higgins next Sets down Miss Reeves; Ned Joyce retires, half vext, For Knock-knee'd Phelim, who, despite his pins, Applause from all for heel-and-toeing wins! Thus did they trip it for a goodly hour; When, oh! what charm there is in music's pow'r! Old Joyce the piper seizes a short stay To change his pipes:—and, what's the merry lay They now lilt up?—'The Priest in his Boots,' and lo! (Whether 'twas all concerted I don't know,) Fat Widow Higgins, 'midst the general shout, By Father Martin is led waddling out! Oh! how they tramp'd and stamp'd, and flounc'd and bounc'd! A mercy 'twas they trod on the ground-floor, For through a loft they surely would have pounc'd— As 'twas, the earth was trembling to its core: Sure such flochoolah dancers ne'er were seen before! |
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