  illustration illustration THE man who confidently seeks to set up a new idea, by upsetting an old theory, or tradition, is one who lives in advance of his time, whereby he forfeits many valued amenities of contemporaneous courtesy. But he is to be extolled for the moral heroism that impells him, to advance new facts, into the study of history, or explode errors so steadfastly grounded on the popular belief, that he finds himself, pen to pen with a hostile army of Savants, Antiquarians, Historians, and Critics: some stirred with spirit of envy, others with a craving for notoriety, but all unanimous, and up in arms, with loaded pens and arsenal of inkpots. In this regard I find myself, by placing the correct revision of a popular tradition before my discerning readers. I have to confess that it was not thro' deep and industrious research, that I am thus enabled to challenge the truth, of the accepted records. It was thro' the chance, afforded by an hour of breezing sea-scape recreation, that I discovered the mysterious chronicle. The popular tradition, is thus related by Dr. Walsh. "The celebrated Grana Uille or Grace O'Mally, noted for her piratical depredations in the reign of Elizabeth, returning on a certain time from England, where she had paid a visit to the Queen, landed at Howth, and proceeded to the After a time, however, she restored the child; with the express stipulation, that the gates should be thrown open, when the family went to dinner—a practice which is observed to this day." WHEN the Hill of Howth was covered, by a city great, and grand, And nuggets still were gathered, like cockles on the strand; On the shore, around by Sutton, a children's maid was met, Who was wheeling of a baby, in a sky blue bassinet. And as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea, Down the boreen from the Bailey, came number 90 B; And he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set, That slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet. He held aloft his baton, saluted like a man, Said he "I'm almost certain, you're name is Mary Anne, The sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone, We'll make the distance greater, if you and I move on. For fifty years I've ambushed, and watched around me bate, But never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate, And what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone! I'm gone on you me darlin', let you and I move on." "O hoky smoke! avourneen, I never seen yer like, As sure's me name is Dooley, with the christian name of Mike, I sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see, I'm shockin' fond of you agra," said No. 90 B. He took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand, "A punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand, Put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox, "We'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks." Now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went, They stayed away much longer than was their first intent, A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight, The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight. Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt, The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt, And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still, With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill! But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark, And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!" Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose, "Howld on! I'll go, an' square it, I've got a schame, here goes!" The crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale, Of how the child was stolen by the Princess Granauille, He told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew, From information he received, that he had got a clew, When Granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could make A profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake, 'Twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob, Like every other baby's, so she could work the job. As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel, That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel, But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shocked Her, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked! She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then— And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again, In safety to its father, if he would leave the door, At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore. Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way, That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day, And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip, There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,— The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock, And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock, Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male," And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille. illustration And now about the baby, his voyaging began, Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man, He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew, Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard! Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard! And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo, As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago! Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet, He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet, He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found, But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound! He lives without a purpose, an object or intent, Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent, He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew, Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do! He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail! The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail; The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew, "O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks, Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix, Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew, "O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" illustration He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale, The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail, Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue! "O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here, He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near, The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet, Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet. Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day, In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big display Of capitals above it, of claimant, who will know, Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go! Now most of you will question, the record I recite, To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right, To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock, When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock! I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand, I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand, I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned, But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found. And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that he Had sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea, With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew, Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do? |
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