  A Fight in the A MOST attractive lady, of middle class degree, When in the Ranelagh Gardens, was thus addressed, as she Beheld a man, she jilted, "Theresa Mary Jane, You didn't think to see me back in town, so soon again; It's most exasperating, that when my back I turn You pace the Ranelagh Gardens, with cotton-ball O'Byrne." The linen draper started, and with indignant shout, Said he, "She loves me only, you ferule-fingered lout, Your time you're only wasting, so take a thought, and spurn, The idle hopes, that lure ye," said Mister Pat O'Byrne. phoenix park Just then up came a stranger, with bending courtesy, He doffed his triple tilted, "Good-night, mam'selle," said he, Then turning to O'Gorman, and then, to Pat O'Byrne, "Ze manners of ze shentlemans, ze both of you should learn; To wrangle round ze lady, I'm shames of you, by dam! If ye don't know ze fencin' of ze duel, go, and cram, Don't bring ze crowds around her, but mit ze mornin' lark, Vash out in blood, ze quarrels all in ze Phoenix Park." "I'm on," said Kit O'Gorman. "Begor, an' so am I," Said Pat O'Byrne. The lady, then gave a tender sigh, She told them each, she loved him, and though her heart did bleed, Expressed a wish, he'd combat on a small Arabian steed. "The duel's getting prosy, invest it with a fling Of tournamental glory, you'll find it's now the thing, To gild, with knightly glamour, your daring feat of strife, And he who kills the other, I'll be his wedded wife; Till then I'm Queen of beauty," so spake that lady fair, "I give you both a fortnight, that each may well prepare, And then I'll send you chargers, on which to combat so" (Her father dealt in horses), "now, sirs, good-night, and go." The fix was fraught with danger, for each of those two men, Existence is too precious, man can't be born again; They ne'er had used a weapon, they never strode a horse, It was extremely awkward, and couldn't well be worse. So while O'Gorman practised with foil, and mask. O'Byrne, Was in a circus riding, and then he took his turn, Before a fencing-master, to guard, and thrust, and fool, While Pat O'Gorman, cantered around a riding school. At length the fencing-master, he says to Pat O'Byrne, "You're perfect mit ze fencing, you've nodings more to learn." The man who taught him riding, did compliment him too, And Kit O'Gorman also had "nodings" more to do. The fortnight was now over, the morning came at last, The rising dawn, was ushered with snow, and biting blast, As on the Fifteen Acres, all in the Phoenix Park, The duellists were waiting the Arab steeds, when, hark! They heard a distant braying, as 'twere a trump of brass, 'Twas followed by a donkey, and then a second ass, Came guided by his halter, unto the fated spot, Said Pat O'Byrne and O'Gorman, "O, powdhers, this is rot!" But yet a queen of beauty was their's the prize to win. "We better pause no longer, but instantly pitch in," Said Pat O'Byrne, and Gorman. They tossed for choice of ass, And pick of blade, then wheeling, they faced upon the grass. I was for Kit O'Gorman a second on that day, To see the flashing rapiers, to hear the donkeys bray Was sight and sound to think of, the sylvan haunts were rife With echoes reverbrated from crash of deadly strife; Up went each donkey backwards, while scintillating wales Of flashing steels, were echoed, by lashing of their tails, For lo! the fight was doubled, the skittish donkeys sought, To variegate the contest, and capered round, and fought; They gave no chance. The foemen, with awkward clink of steels, Struck now and then, while skew-ways the donkeys fought with heels,— 'Twas six o'clock commencing, and now, the strokes of ten, Were sounding from the city, and still these mounted men, Had not received abrasion, a cut, a prod, or crack, When both were somersaulted, from off each asses' back; The weapons went in splinters, as on the frosty grass, Each foeman sprawled a moment, and loudly cursed his ass. The assmen, quickly bounded unto their feet again, And watched the seconds, chasing the donkeys round the plain; And when at length, we caught them, and brought them back once more, With fits of indignation, the baffled foemen swore; "Bad scran to it!" said Gorman, "O'Musha, yis bad scran" Cried Pat O'Byrne, "It's not a fight, for any dacent man, Four mortial hours we've struggled—an' I'm all in a sweat!" Said Gorman "Pon me sowl, I got no chance to kill ye yet!" "The fight has been protracted, and divil a thing is done, I vote we go and tell her", said O'Byrne, "that it's no fun, To fight, as we've been fighting. Tib's Eve might come, and go, We'd still be found here fooling her donkeys thro' the snow." They felt a queer foreboding of something, going down Parkgate-street, on that morning, till journeyed back to town; They sought the girl, to tell her the fix that they were in, When a larky-looking servant in the hall, began to grin. "She's not at home at present, but breakfast sure is laid, She's gone off to be married," outspoke the sneering maid; "Le Beau, the fencin'-master is now the blissful man; You'll see them soon, they're comin' in a satin-lined sedan." "O, blur-an-owns!" said Gorman, "O tear o'war," said Byrne, MacHugh, the other second, and I got quite a turn! The man, who heard them quarrel, in Ranelagh-walk that night, Was Le Beau, the man who sent them to Phoenix Park to fight. He taught them both in fencing, and yet they did not know, That each, was being instructed by his rival, Mons. Le Beau. They tied her pair of donkeys, unto her garden pier, When from the topmost window, that servant shouted "Here, A note she left to give you, for both of you to learn." 'Twas written: "Kit O'Gorman, and Mister Pat O'Byrne, I've sent a couple of donkeys, I thought that they might teach What fools you are, for fighting, for what's beyond your reach, But, silly as my donkeys, if both of you remain, Remorse for death, will follow, I'm yours, Theresa Jane." We sought a Pub, and pondered, and drank, and sadly swore, We would not be connected, with duels evermore, I drank of stout, O'Gorman, and Byrne, of harder stuff, They swore of duel fooling, they both had quite enough,— Now, here's the bunch of fives, boys, there is no better rod To 'venge our wounded honour, than the weapons made by God! illustration |
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