O PADDY MURPHY—carman of the stand in College Green—

You've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen,

We're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune,

Of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to Knockmaroon.

"O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long,

Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song,

'Twas in the busy period, whin the Fenians wor at war,

I mopes'd around the Dargle, on a newly painted car;

Whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon,

A man proposed the journey of a dhrive to Knockmaroon.

He might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run,

To Roosha or to Paykin, or the divil or the sun!

He might as well have axed me, for a Rocky Mountain jaunt;

So I bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "I can't!"

The boys to-night are risin' an' I darn't go impugn

Me car into the danger, of a dhrive to Knockmaroon!"

Thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone,

"In fact," siz I, "me car's engaged, in Bray, by Mick Malone;

Besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon,

For the army's out, I hear, upon the road to Knockmaroon!"

He didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car,

An' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war,

By pointin' a revolver at me nose! "I'm John McKune,

Dhrive on," siz he, "I'll guard you on the road to Knockmaroon!"

I never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before,

It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!

The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,

Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!

An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,

I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!

So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,

"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon."

"You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,

He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,

"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,—the featherbed,"—says he,

"I'll guard you, by the barracks of the Polis, at Glencree,

An' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the Royal Mail!

Whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!"

I gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip,

An' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip,

I bowled upon me journey, with the load of John McKune,

An' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to Knockmaroon;

An' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed,

The boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he said

Some hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him,

Presentin' arms, "Dhrive on," they cried, "God speed you Wicklow Jim!"

I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip,

We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip,

We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air,

When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?"

It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon,

Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"—

He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone,

Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on!

He leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more,

"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"

But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,

He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!

Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,

You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;

We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,

So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,

Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!

Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,

An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,

Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!"

I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose,

To bid him go to blakers!—but the barrel at me nose,

Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue,

An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue!

I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an' then,

He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again,

Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,

I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;

I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,

That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!

When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,

I read it on a paper,—in the Bowry of New York,—

Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,

Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"

He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor;

And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door,

He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon;

Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!"

He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip,

The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip,

He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart,

Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!

"Hands up!" they shouted "Damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb;

We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"

Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,

An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"

He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,

From collar