Part 1

AN IRISH CRAZY-QUILT.

SMILES AND TEARS, WOVEN INTO SONG AND STORY.

BY ARTHUR M. FORRESTER.

BOSTON: ALFRED MUDGE & SON PRINTERS, 24 FRANKLIN STREET. 1891.

COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY ARTHUR M. FORRESTER.

TO THE

“FELONS” OF IRELAND,

THE BRAVE AND FAITHFUL FEW,

WHO HAVE BEEN EXILED OR IMPRISONED OR EXECUTED

BECAUSE THEY LOVED THEIR NATIVE LAND MORE THAN HOME OR LIBERTY OR LIFE,

This Volume

IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

SONGS AND BALLADS.

PAGE.

The Church of Ballymore 7

The Old Boreen 9

The Irish Schoolhouse 11

Pat Murphy’s Cows 13

Father Tom Malone 16

You Can Guess 18

Only! 19

Songs of Innisfail 20

The Lord of Kenmare 32

An Old Irish Tune 39

Harvey Duff 45

Ivan Petrokoffsky 52

The Emperor’s Ring 54

Black Loris 56

The Red Heart Daisy 67

The Tide is Turning 68

Our Own Again 70

The Tale of a Tail 71

The Seasick Sub-Commissioners 75

Clare Constabulary Caione 77

Clause Twenty-six 78

Jenkins, M. P. 80

Thady Malone 81

Rory’s Reverie 83

Our Land Shall be Free 102

The Felons of Our Land 111

An Official Valuation 112

A Bewildered Boycotter 113

A Complaint of Coercion 115

O’Neil’s Address (Benburb) 118

The Fenian’s Dream 119

The Speaker’s Complaint 126

Erin Machree 128

Balfour’s Wish 135

Our Cause 136

Served Him Right 138

Rapparee Song 140

To the Landlords of Ireland 141

Balfour Rejoices 142

The Irish Brigade 149

Faithful to the Last 156

Fenian Battle Song 158

The Grave of the Martyrs 159

Death’s Victory 160

The Green Flag at Fredericksburg 161

The Flag of Our Land 162

Hurrah for Liberty 163

The Messenger 165

John Bull’s Appeal 175

The Story of a Bomb 177

Avenging, Though Dim 180

Christmas Dirge of London Police 180

Ireland’s Prayer 182

John Bull’s New Year 183

Ready and Steady 185

The Charge of the Guards 193

An Address to Slaves 195

The Lion’s Lamentation 200

Memorial Ode to Irish Dead 202

Song of King Alcohol 209

Contrary Cognomens 210

An Æsthetic Wooing 211

The Drunkard’s Dream 212

Constable X 222

Lucifer’s Laboratory 223

The Monopolist’s Moan 224

With the Grand Army Veterans 225

The Irish Soldier at Grant’s Grave 228

Maine and Mayo 229

The Priest with the Brogue 238

Arab War Song 240

The Linguist of the Liffey 247

Peggy O’Shea 250

The Boston Carrier’s Plaint 253

New England’s Marksmen 260

Calcraft and Price 270

Entitled to a Raise 272

The Postman’s Wooing 273

Sonnets to a Shoemaker 275

At the College Sports 278

Mulrooney: A Trooper’s Tale 286

STORIES AND SKETCHES.

Taming a Tiger 22

Ryan’s Revenge 34

Harvey Duff 40

A Seditious Slide 47

Who Shot Phlynn’s Hat? 58

A Double Surprise 86

Philipson’s Party 103

That Traitor Timmins 129

A Picturesque Penny-a-Liner 144

Snooks 151

Caledonian Candlesticks 152

A Typical Trial 168

Why Smithers Resigned 186

Exploits of an Irish Reporter 197

A Political Lesson Spoiled 199

An Orange Oration 205

Frederick’s Folly 215

A Sandy Row Skirmish 232

Hobbies in Our Block 241

Not a John L. Sullivan 244

A Windy Day at Cabra 248

Apropos of the Census 256

A Mixed Antiquarian 261

Jones’s Umbrella 263

Lessons in the French Drama 265

A Commercial Crisis 276

A Musical Revenge 280

A Liar Laid Out 282

AN IRISH CRAZY-QUILT.

THE CHURCH OF BALLYMORE.

I have knelt in great cathedrals with their wondrous naves and aisles, Whose fairy arches blend and interlace, Where the sunlight on the paintings like a ray of glory smiles, And the shadows seem to sanctify the place; Where the organ’s tones, like echoes of an angel’s trumpet roll, Wafted down by seraph wings from heaven’s shore-- They are mighty and majestic, but they cannot touch my soul Like the little whitewashed church of Ballymore.

Ah! modest little chapel, half-embowered in the trees, Though the roof above its worshippers was low, And the earth bore traces sometimes of the congregation’s knees, While they themselves were bent with toil and woe! Milan, Cologne, St. Peter’s--by the feet of monarchs trod-- With their monumental genius and their lore, Never knew in their magnificence more trustful prayers to God Than ascended to His throne from Ballymore!

Its priest was plain and simple, and he scorned to hide his brogue In accents that we might not understand, But there was not in the parish such a renegade or rogue As to think his words not heaven’s own command! He seemed our cares and troubles and our sorrows to divide, And he never passed the poorest peasant’s door-- In sickness he was with us, and in death still by our side-- God be with you, Father Tom, of Ballymore.

There’s a green graveyard behind it, and in dreams at night I see Each little modest slab and grassy mound; For my gentle mother’s sleeping ’neath the withered rowan tree, And a host of kindly neighbors lie around! The famine and the fever through our stricken country spread, Desolation was about me, sad and sore, So I had to cross the waters, in strange lands to seek my bread, But I left my heart behind in Ballymore!

I am proud of our cathedrals--they are emblems of our love To an ever-mighty Benefactor shown; And when wealth and art and beauty have been given from above, The devil should not have them as his own! Their splendor has inspired me--but amidst it all I prayed God to grant me, when life’s weary work is o’er, Sweet rest beside my mother in the dear embracing shade Of the little whitewashed church of Ballymore!

THE OLD BOREEN.

Embroidered with shamrocks and spangled with daisies, Tall foxgloves like sentinels guarding the way, The squirrel and hare played bo-peep in its mazes, The green hedgerows wooed it with odorous spray; The thrush and the linnet piped overtures in it, The sun’s golden rays bathed its bosom of green. Bright scenes, fairest skies, pall to-day on my eyes, For I opened them first on an Irish boreen!

It flung o’er my boyhood its beauty and gladness, Rich homage of perfume and color it paid; It laughed with my joy--in my moments of sadness What solace I found in its pitying shade. When Love, to my rapture, rejoiced in my capture, My fetters the curls of a brown-haired colleen, What draught from his chalice, in mansion or palace, So sweet as I quaffed in the dear old boreen?

But green fields were blighted and fair skies beclouded, Stern frost and harsh rain mocked the poor peasant’s toil, Ere they burst into blossom the buds were enshrouded, The seed ere its birth crushed in merciless soil; Wild tempests struck blindly, the landlord, less kindly, Aimed straight at our hearts with a “death sentence” keen; The blast spared our sheeling, which he, more unfeeling, Left roofless and bare to affright the boreen.

A dirge of farewell through the hawthorn was pealing, The wind seemed to stir branch and leaf with a sigh, As, down on a tear-bedewed shamrock sod kneeling, I kissed the old boreen a weeping good-by; And vowed that should ever my patient endeavor The grains of success from life’s harvest-field glean, Where’er fortune found me, whatever ties bound me, My eyes should be closed in the dear old boreen.

Ah! Fate has been cruel, in toil’s endless duel With sickness and want I have earned only scars; Life’s twilight is nearing--its day disappearing-- My weary soul sighs to escape through its bars; But ere fields elysian shall dazzle its vision, Grant, Heaven, that its flight may be winged through the scene Of streamlet and wild-wood, the home of my childhood, The grave of my kin, and the dear old boreen!

AN IRISH SCHOOLHOUSE.

Upon the rugged ladder rungs--whose pinnacle is Fame-- How often have ambitious pens deep graven Harvard’s name; The gates of glory Cambridge men o’er all the world assail, And rulers in the realm of thought look back with pride to Yale. To no such Alma Mater can my Muse in triumph raise Its Irish voice in canticles of gratitude and praise; Yet still I hold in shrine of gold, and until death I will, The little schoolhouse, thatched with straw, that lay behind the hill.

When in the balmy morning, racing down the green boreen Toward its portal, ivy-framed, our curly heads were seen, We felt no shame for ragged coats, nor blushed for shoeless feet, But bubbled o’er with laughter dear old master’s smile to meet; Yet saw beneath his homespun garb an awe-inspiring store Of learning’s fearful mysteries and academic lore. No monarch wielded sceptre half so potent as his quill In that old schoolhouse, thatched with straw, that lay behind the hill.

Perhaps--and yet ’tis hard to think--our boastful modern school Might feel contempt for master, for his methods and his rule; Would scorn his simple ways--and in the rapid march of mind His patient face and thin gray locks would lag far, far behind. No matter; he was all to us, our guide and mentor then; He taught us how to face life’s fight with all the grit of men; To honor truth, and love the right, and in the future fill Our places in the world as he had done behind the hill.

He taught us, too, of Ireland’s past; her glories and her wrongs-- Our lessons being varied with the most seditious songs: We were quite a nest of rebels, and with boyish fervor flung Our hearts into the chorus of rebellion when we sung. In truth, this was the lesson, above all, we conned so well That some pursued the study in the English prison cell, And others had to cross the seas in curious haste, but still All living love to-day, as then, the school behind the hill.

The wind blows through the thatchless roof in stormy gusts to-day; Around its walls young foxes now, in place of children, play; The hush of desolation broods o’er all the country-side; The pupils and their kith and kin are scattered far and wide. But wheresoe’er one scholar on the face of earth may roam, When in a gush of tears comes back the memory of home, He finds the brightest picture limned by Fancy’s magic skill, The little schoolhouse, thatched with straw, that lay behind the hill.

PAT MURPHY’S COWS.

[In one of the debates on the Irish land question, Chief Secretary Forster endeavored to attribute much of the poverty in Ireland to the early and imprudent marriages of the peasantry, and elicited roars of laughter by a comic but cruel description of one Pat Murphy, who had only two cows, but was the happy father of no less than eleven children.]

In a vale in Tipperary, where the silvery Anner flows, There’s a farm of but two acres where Pat Murphy ploughs and sows; From rosy morn till ruddy eve he toils with sinews strong, With hope alone for dinner, and for lunch an Irish song. He’s a rood laid out for cabbage, and another rood for corn, And another sweet half-acre pratie blossoms will adorn; While down there in the meadow, fat and sleek and healthy, browse Pat’s mine of wealth, his fortune sole--a pair of Kerry cows.

Ah, black were the disaster if poor Pat should ever lose The cows whose milk and butter buy eleven young Murphys shoes, Which keep their shirts upon their backs, the quilt upon the bed, And help to thatch the dear old roof that shelters overhead. And even then the blessings that they bring are scarcely spent, For they help brave Murphy often in his troubles with the rent; In bitterest hours their friendly low his spirits can arouse; He don’t mind eleven young Murphys while he’s got that pair of cows.

And when the day is over, and the cows are in the byre, Pat Murphy sits contented with his dhudeen by the fire; His children swarm around him, and they hang about his chair-- The twins perched on his shoulders with their fingers in his hair, Till Bridget, cosey woman, takes the youngest one to rest, Lays four to sleep beneath the stairs, a couple in the chest; And happy Phaudrig Murphy in his big heart utters vows Ere that eleven should be ten he’d sell the pair of cows.

Then in the morning early, ere Pat, whistling, ventures out, How they cluster all around him there with joyous laugh and shout! A kiss for one, a kiss for all, ’tis quite a morning’s task, And the twins demand an extra share, and must have what they ask. What if a gloomy thought his spirit’s brightness should obscure, As he feels age creeping on him with soft footsteps, slow but sure, He’s hardly o’er the threshold when the shadow leaves his brow, For his eldest girl and Bridget each is milking a fine cow.

Let us greet the name of cruel Buckshot Forster with a groan-- He hadn’t got the decency to leave those cows alone; He thought maternal virtue only fitting for a sneer, And made Pat Murphy’s little ones the subject of a jeer. Well, the people have more feeling than the knaves who make their laws, And when the people laugh ’tis for a somewhat better cause: They hate the whining coward who beneath life’s burden bows, But they honor men like Murphy, with his pair of Kerry cows.

FATHER TOM MALONE.

A LAND LEAGUE REMINISCENCE.

Hair white as innocence, that crowned A gentle face which never frowned; Brow smooth, spite years of care and stress; Lips framed to counsel and to bless; Deep, thoughtful, tender, pitying eyes, A reflex of our native skies, Through which now tears, now sunshine shone-- There you have Father Tom Malone.

He bade the infant at its birth _Cead mille failthe_ to the earth; With friendly hand he guided youth Along the thorny track of truth; The dying felt, yet knew not why, Nearer to Heaven when he was by-- For, sure, the angels at God’s throne Were friends of Father Tom Malone.

For us, poor simple sons of toil Who wrestled with a stubborn soil, Our one ambition, sole content, Not to be backward with the rent; Our one absorbing, constant fear, The agent’s visits twice a year; We had, our hardships to atone, The love of Father Tom Malone.

One season failed. The dull earth slept. Despite of ceaseless vigil kept For sign of crop, day after day, To coax it from the sullen clay, Nor oats, nor rye, nor barley came; The tubers rotted--then, oh, shame! We--’twas the last time ever known-- Lost faith in Father Tom Malone.

We had, from fruitful years before, Garnered with care a frugal store; ’Twould pay one gale, but when ’twas gone What were our babes to live upon? We had no seed for coming spring, Nor faintest hope to which to cling; We would have starved without a moan, When out spoke Father Tom Malone.

His voice, so flute-like in the past, Now thrilled us like a bugle blast, His eyes, so dove-like in their gaze, Took a new hue, and seemed to blaze! “God’s wondrous love doth not intend Hundreds to starve that one may spend; Pay ye no rent, but hold your own.” _That_ from mild Father Tom Malone.

And when the landlord with a force Of English soldiers, foot and horse, Came down and direst vengeance swore, Who met him at the cabin door? Who reasoned first and then defied The thief in all his power and pride? Who won the poor man’s fight alone? Why, fearless Father Tom Malone.

So, when you point to heroes’ scars, And boast their prowess in the wars, Give one small meed of praise, at least, To this poor modest Irish priest. No laurel wreath was twined for him, But pulses throb and eyelids dim When toil-worn peasants pray, “Mavrone, God bless you, Father Tom Malone!”

YOU CAN GUESS.

There are grottos in Wicklow, and groves in Kildare, And the loveliest glens robed with shamrock in Clare, And in fairy Killarney ’tis easy to find Sweet retreats where a swain can unburden his mind; But of all the dear spots in our emerald isle, Where verdure and sunshine crown life with a smile, There’s one boreen I love, for ’twas there I confess I first met my fate,--what it was you can guess.

It was under the shade of its bordering trees, One day I grew suddenly weak at the knees At the thought of what seemed quite a terrible task, And yet it was but a short question to ask. ’Twas over, and since, night and morning, I bless The boreen that heard the soft whisper of “yes.” And the breezes that toyed with each clustering tress; And the question was this--but I’m sure you can guess.

ONLY!

Only a cabin, thatched and gray, Only a rose-twined door, Only a barefooted child at play On only an earthern floor. Only a little brain--not wise For even a head so small, And that is the reason he bitterly cries For leaving his home--that’s all.

Only the thought of her girlhood there, And her happier days as wife, In the shelter poor of its walls so bare, Have endeared them to her for life; What is the weeping woman’s cause? Why are her accents gall? What does she know of our intricate laws? It was only a hut--that’s all.

He’s only a peasant in blood and birth, That man with the eyelids dim, And there’s room enough on the wide, wide earth For sinewy serfs like him. Why had this pitiful, narrow farm, For his heart such a wondrous thrall? Why each tree and flower such a mystic charm? He was born in the place--that’s all.

* * * * *

The years have gone, and the worn-out pair Sleep under the stranger’s clay, And the weeping child with the curly hair Is a brave, strong man to-day; Yet still he thinks of the olden land, And prays for her tyrant’s fall, And longs to be one of some chosen band, With only a chance--that’s all.

SONGS OF INNISFAIL.