Part 5

’Twas in the summer season, and the flies that skirmished round Discovered that that cow’s soft ears were A 1 feeding ground, And they gathered in their masses and formed animated plugs, In perpetual convention, in her sorely troubled lugs; And when, in her congested ears, agrarian troubles rose, The poorer flies migrated and they colonized her nose, But that cow knew neither tenant right, fair rent, nor yet free sale, For she exercised coercion very strongly with her tail.

When round her nose the leading flies had taken plots on tick, She would liquidate arrears and clear the district with a flick; And the enterprising settlers that her ears would fain divide, With the same obstructive weapon she would scatter far and wide. Her practice made her perfect, and she grew so strong behind That when her tail would whisk, ’twas like a gust of stormy wind. Why, even when Pat Duggan split the handle of his flail, That cow came in and threshed the oats completely with her tail.

Well, still to mass Pat Duggan every Sunday morning went, And the Orange farmers round him grew insanely discontent, Till they held a parish meeting, and decided there and then That the time for speech was past--the knife was mightier than the pen. They deputed Bill Mulvany, who was handy with the shears, And Ned Malone, who’d often sang of clipping Croppy ears, To see that Duggan’s butter would not pay another gale, But they little knew his cow had such an energetic tail.

When darkness kicked the daylight out, Mulvany and Malone Had somehow found their way about Pat Duggan’s byre alone. The wind that whistled through the trees no warning signal gave, As Ned Mulvany seized a hoof intended for the grave. Malone was smart and ready with his fingers on the hasp, But before the pride of victory their eager hands could grasp, That dirty cow deposited Mulvany in a pail, And created much confusion with a flourish of her tail.

And she wasn’t quite content with that: she rushed from out the byre, Her horns curled up in anger, and her mighty tail on fire; She seized (with cool indifference to very touching groans) Malone around the waist and smashed his most important bones; And when the jury gathered round his mangled fragments there, And his friends had somehow recognized the mush of skin and hair, That jury placed Pat Duggan’s cow on very heavy bail, Because in their opinion she had rather too much tail.

And this is how, in Macaroon, it strangely came to pass, That Pat Duggan, unmolested still, pursued his way to mass; And that cow was so respected that no bigot would offend her Bovine susceptibilities with shouts of “no surrender.” Why, even on the glorious, immortal twelfth July, The enthusiastic drummers in dread silence pass her by; They would rather that the glory they commemorate should pale, Than again tempt Duggan’s awful cow to exercise her tail.

THE SEA-SICK SUB-COMMISSIONERS.

[In the Common Pleas Division of the High Court of Justice, during the League agitation, the court heard an application on behalf of the Earl of Bantry to substitute service on twenty-one tenants on the Island of Dersey, about a quarter of a mile from the main land, in the barony of Bore, county of Cork. Counsel said that the island was so inaccessible that rents had not been collected there for over two years. Mr. Justice Harrison asked how were the Land Commissioners to get over when they went down to fix fair rents? Counsel said that they would find it difficult enough to get off. The place was so wild that it was only on fine days it was possible to cross Dersey Sound. They went over, however, and these verses record the exploit:]

There were three Sub-Commissioners went sailing sou-sou-west, With due responsibility on each official breast, To the lonely isle of Dersey they travelled with intent To investigate and regulate each pining tenant’s rent. Oh, Moses! how the tempest blew adown the channel wild, It made the oldest lawyer feel as helpless as a child, Whilst the chairman had to exercise the greatest legal tact, For fear his conscience might disgorge a portion of the Act.

They felt, did those commissioners, such physical defaults As the toper who indulges by mistake in Epsom salts, And not upon the future were their aspirations cast, They wanted first to scatter round some relics of the past. The fish that followed in their wake, cod, mackerel, and fluke, Had never witnessed so much bait before without a hook, They were ignorant entirely of the all-important fact That their unexpected _dejeuner_ was owing to the Act.

They were very sick commissioners upon those troubled seas, There was something quite seditious in the waves and in the breeze, And when their tottering footsteps pressed on solid earth once more, They used up all their handkerchiefs on Dersey’s barren shore, And they couldn’t relish joyfully the wild delirious sport That awaited but their presence in the Land Commission Court; They wanted all to go to bed, and miserably lacked The enthusiastic courage to administer the Act.

They seemed, those Sub-Commissioners, more circumspect than gay While hearing Irish evidence interpreted all day, Although alternate intervals were taken to allow Opportunities to each of them to wipe his clammy brow. That evening, at supper, they sought vainly to conceal A variety of feelings unbecoming to that meal; And when they sought their couches, with their constitutions racked, They had tortures worse than striving to elucidate the Act.

CAOINE OF THE CLARE CONSTABULARY.

So, you’re goin’ out to Aigypt, wirrasthrue! An’ we’ll niver see your faytures any more, Millia murther! what in thunder shall we do Whin you turn your crookid back upon our shore? All innocint divarsion with yourself will be departin’ An’ existence will become a dreary void; Ochone an’ ullagone! we must vainly sigh an’ groan; Philalu! a long adieu to Clifford Lloyd!

No more at midnight’s melancholy stroke Shall we revel in our customary fun Of scaring all the humble women folk In sarchin’ for the shadow of a gun. There’s an ind to legal riot, they may sleep in peace an’ quiet, An’ their slumbers niver more will be annoyed; We’re dejected an’ neglected, an’ we cannot be expected To be happy after banished Clifford Lloyd!

No more cartridges of buckshot we desire, ’Tis a burden whin we’re not allowed to use it, An’ our batons may be thrown into the fire-- We may see a peasant’s head an’ dar not bruise it, The girls may take to coortin’ an’ the boys resume their spoortin’, An’ life by common people be enjoyed, In contint, without lamint, since to Africa they’ve sint That inimy of laughter, Clifford Lloyd!

Misther Healy, you have always been unkind. But we didn’t think you positively cruel Till we noticed how you changed ould Gladstone’s mind, And made him sind away our darlin’ jewel. Our feelins are diminted an’ our souls are discontinted, Troth! we’re altogether ruined an’ destroyed, We’re wailin’ an’ we’re quailin’ and we’re failin’ since the sailin’ Of that father of coercion, Clifford Lloyd!

CLAUSE TWENTY-SIX.

(A COTTER’S REVERY ON THE EMIGRATION CLAUSE OF THE LAND ACT.)

I’ve been towld there’s a chance in the distance, For struggling poor sowls like myself, To brighten our dreary existence, An’ even to gather some pelf, In a land where the soil is but waitin’ The wooin’ of shovels an’ picks That we’ll take whin we’re all emigratin’ To fortune by Clause Twenty-six.

It’s hard and it’s sad to be hurried Away from the strings of my life-- From the spot where my mother lies buried, The place where I coorted my wife. Sweet home of my birth, to forsake you, My conscience remorsefully pricks-- I can’t tell if to lave or to take you, Bewilderin’ Clause Twenty-six.

For it’s rather too bitther my fate is, When my luck like a stranger goes by, When blight settles down on the praties, An’ the cow that I trusted turns dry; Whin the turf is too damp to be fuel, An’, crouched o’er a handful of sticks, I curse you, misfortune so cruel, An’ pray for you, Clause Twenty-six.

Whin the rain through the thatch finds a way in, Till we sleep in a cheerless cowld bath; Whin the hens are teetotal at layin’, An’ the pig is as thin as a lath, Whin the childer are pinin’ an’ ailin’, An’ losin’ their mirth an’ their tricks-- Oh, I long for the ship to be sailin’ That’s chartered by Clause Twenty-six.

And often at night I’ve a notion, Whilst hungry they’re lyin’ in bed, In that plintiful land o’er the ocean They wouldn’t be cryin’ for bread; They might even an odd pat of butther Along with their stirabout mix; Oh, my heart is too full for to utter Its thoughts of you, Clause Twenty-six.

To see the health-roses assimble On the cheeks of my boys, an’ the curls Once again in the bright mornin’ trimble With the innocent laugh of my girls; An’ to feel that herself would be aisy, Nor frettin’ at trouble or fix. Mavrone! but I’m mighty nigh crazy Considerin’ Clause Twenty-six.

JENKINS, M. P.

Mr. Jenkins, M. P., from St. Stephen’s came o’er To address the electors he’d soothered before, But he found in their feelings toward him a change, Manifested in ways both alarming and strange; He had scarcely extolled their warm hearts in the south When a wet sod of turf hit him square in the mouth, And the force of its logic ’twas plain he could see, For “your argument’s striking,” said Jenkins, M. P.

Then a cat long deceased was propelled at his pate; Says Jenkins, “Your animal spirits are great.” A two-year-old egg on his cheek went to batter; “I’d rather,” he murmured, “not speak of that matter.” They set fire to the platform, he gasped in affright, “The subject’s appearing in quite a new light.” He appealed to his friends to protect him, nor flee, “For unity’s strength,” argued Jenkins, M. P.

But in vain was their aid from that circle so fond; He was torn and well soused in a neighboring pond, And as it was freezing it needn’t be told That his ardor was damped by a greeting so cold. And the peelers came up in a charge like the wind-- Not knowing the member, they stormed him behind, And when he felt bayonets where they shouldn’t be, “I won’t dwell on these points,” muttered Jenkins, M. P.

He fled to his inn, but avoided the bar, Where some patriots waited with feathers and tar. “Sweet creatures,” quoth he, with a satisfied grin, “Their charity sha’n’t cover much of my sin.” All bruises and scratches he sought the first train; “I leave you, electors,” he whispered, “with pain. ’Tis plain that our sentiments do not agree; I’ll express them elsewhere,” shouted Jenkins, M. P.

THADY MALONE.

Hurrah for our tight little, bright little nation, The earth’s brightest jewel, the gem of the say; The garden of Europe, the flower of creation, Where no sarpints with legs or without them can stay. Were once we united Our wrongs should be righted And ours be the brightest of emerald isles, But still some intraygur, Or bastely renayger, Sells the pass on the cause just as victory smiles. Yet, no matter, we’ve planned A divarsion so grand That we’ll soon have the land altogether our own; And the rogue who’ll consent To contribute rack rint Will meet with the fate of old Thady Malone!

The tailor refused to patch up his torn breeches, The cobbler declined to take charge of his soles, An’ though he was rowlin’ in ill-gotten riches, The heels of his stockin’s were nothin’ but holes, For his wife wint away On the very next day With his mother-in-law (though he didn’t mind that), An’ sisters and cousins Departed in dozens, Till there wasn’t a sowl in the place but the cat. Why, sorra a doubt, Sure, the fire it wint out An’ left him in cowld and in darkness to moan, Till he felt that the rint Had been badly ill-spint That wint to the landlord of Thady Malone!

The praties grew mowldy and bad in the ridges, The mangolds an’ turnips got frosted an’ sour, In summer the cows were desthroyed with the midges, An’ the ass wint an’ drowned himself out in a shower. The sparrows, diminted, Grew quite discontinted, An’ wouldn’t remain in the cabin’s ould thatch; The pigs tuk to fittin’, An’ hins that were sittin’ Wint off upon thramp an’ deserted the hatch. A polis inspector, A taxes collector, Came out to protect him from kippeen or stone, An’ there now he’s stuck, Without hope, grace, or luck, Misfortunate, boycotted Thady Malone!

[B] RORY’S REVERIE.

Death o’ my soul! the lot is cast, and mine will be the hand To free from curse than plague spot worse this corner of the land, To quench the light of eyes that never glared except in hate, To stifle evermore the tongue that mocked the poor man’s fate. ’Tis I am proud that from the crowd ’twas I, and I alone, Was chosen out to pay the debts that half the parish own; My faith! the country side will ring before the mornin’ light, Though little knows rack-rentin’ Phil that Rory walks to-night!

How Thade M’Gurk and Redmond Burke across the spreadin’ say, Driven from home for years to roam ’mid strangers far away, Will shout with glee the day they see their black and cruel lot, Their woes, their tears, paid off in years by my avenging shot! An’ they must know--the tale will go ’twas I, their boyhood’s friend, That brought at last the tyrant to his well-earned bitter end. Why, when I meet them next they’ll shake my arms off with delight-- I’m longin’ for the hour of gloom when Rory walks to-night!

Mary’s asleep. Now heaven keep her slumbers safe and sound,-- (“Heaven,” said I? Well, that’s wrong; ’tis Hell is surging hotly round),-- And, nestled closely by her side, my little Kathleen’s face Seems smiling like an angel’s through the darkness of the place. She kissed me ere she sank to rest--I’d think it sin just now To press my burnin’ lips again upon her childish brow; Perhaps she’d dream about my scheme, and after shun my sight-- I mustn’t think of this--No! no! for Rory walks to-night!

Where’s that ould gun? But softly, so; I’d better make no noise, I wouldn’t like the wife to know I’d dealings in such toys. The barrel’s rather rusty: it’s been in the thatch too long-- Musha! the pull is heavy. Well, my trigger-finger’s strong. And just to think! with this ould thing you lie behind a ditch, When there’s silence all around you, an’ the night is dark as pitch, An’ your landlord comes up whistlin’, an’ you spot his shirt-front white, An’ his tune is changed immediately to “Rory walks to-night!”

And that black Phil has never done kind deed to me or mine; If he were dead a thousand times none of my blood would pine; My wife might even bless the hand by which his end was wrought; My child--but, no, Great God forbid her wronged by such a thought! She prayed for me at bedtime; sure I stood beside her when She asked God’s blessing on me, and I dar’ not say Amen: Amen to such a prayer as that! ’Twould be a curse, a blight, To pray at all to God or saint, when Rory walks to-night!

What ails me? Am I coward turned? I, who had ever sneer For every one that showed at all of priest or preacher fear; I, who have sworn, were once I asked to play a man’s stern part, No quiver of a nerve should swerve the bullet from his heart! I’m shakin’ like an aspen--Faugh! I can’t afford to spend My time in trembling, when I’m due down at the boreen’s end-- What? but a dream? Now God be praised for this sweet mornin’s light, I’m better plased that, after all, no Rory walked last night.

A DOUBLE SURPRISE.

I.

GALLAGHER’S GOOSE.

Constable Tom Gallagher, in December, 1880, was in charge of the Ballyblank Royal Irish Constabulary Barracks. A topographist might fail to discover Ballyblank on any Ordnance map of Ireland, but Constable Gallagher’s prototypes abound in every county of the island. He was tall, straight, stiff, red-complexioned, sandy-bearded, self-important, and imbued with that solemn sense of duty to Queen and Constitution which has deprived the Irish constabulary of all the ordinary feelings of weak humanity. He would bayonet with equally grim satisfaction a riotous peasant, a green-ribbon-bedecked maid or matron, or a recalcitrant pig which proved contrary at a rent seizure. Where he was born, who were his parents, what had been his history before he was evolved from the depot in Phœnix Park, Dublin, a full-blown sub in dark-green tunic, with prominent chest and prying eyes, that rested suspiciously and lingered long on every unaccustomed object not familiar to his code of instructions and mode of training--these were mysteries known only to himself, and possibly to the Director-General. The physiognomists of the quiet village of Ballyblank, a few of his own limited command, and a graceless scamp of a medical student, one Harry McCarthy, home for the holidays from the dissecting rooms of the metropolis, professed to trace a striking resemblance between the somewhat rugged contour of his countenance and that of the one man in the parish who disputed unpopularity with him--George Macgrabb, J. P., the agent of Lord Clonboy, the scourge of the district, the terror of its toilers, and the bugaboo of all the little children for miles around.

Certain it was, that, whether any physical affinities marked the two despots of the country side or not, their mental and moral--or immoral--characteristics had drawn them closely together. It was on the recommendation of Macgrabb, J. P., that Gallagher had been appointed to the command of that station. It was on the report of Macgrabb, J. P., that the chief secretary replied in the English Commons to a question about an excessive outburst of loyalty on the part of the constable, which had led that ardent enthusiast in the cause of law and order to direct a fusillade upon a crowd of little boy musicians, who were supposed to be opposing both by singing the chorus of “God Save Ireland.” The sapient secretary declared that the lives of the police were threatened, and the English members cheered the heroism of the constabulary whose lacerating buckshot had scattered the toddling crowd. Above and beyond all, this December, Macgrabb had shown, not only his magisterial approval of the constable as an official, but his interest in him as a man, by a kindly present. In the beginning of the month he had sent to Gallagher a goose.

“You are among strangers, Constable,” he said; “and the unfortunate feeling of disloyalty which pervades this county might reduce you to rougher fare than would be agreeable at the festive Christmas time. Accept this goose as a token of my good-will. Fatten it, and invite your comrades to partake of the hospitable cheer it may afford.”

Now, whether the early associations of that goose with the stingy and miserly household of the agent had accustomed it to a peculiar dietary, or that its depraved appetite was inherent, I cannot say, but the gastronomical horrors recorded of it during Gallagher’s custodianship are preserved among the most glowing traditions of the force. He tried to fatten it, as per invoice, so to speak. He expended all the fervor of a constable’s first love on it. He wrote to the editors of half-a-dozen agricultural papers for information as to the best kind of food to make his goose a sufficiently adipose victim for the sacrificial altar. But the perversity of that web-footed cackler was almost miraculous. The compiler of farm-yard items in the Dublin _Farmer’s Gazette_ recommended boiled Indian meal. The intelligent constable boiled the grain with his own loyal hands, and laid down a saucerful before his white-winged Christmas donation. It spurned the Indian meal, and devoured the saucer. The constable had to retire and read the Riot Act to himself before he could recover from this outrage to his judgment.

The assistant editor who lets himself loose on poultry in the _Barndoor Chronicle_ gave an elaborate recipe, which he warranted to convert Gallagher’s shadowy anatomy of legs and feathers into a pudgy monster of edible delicacy inside a week or so. The belted constabulary knight spent half a day mixing the recipe and stirring it in a canteen kettle. He laid it tenderly before the agent’s goose. The bird sailed into the kettle, and actually gorged the spout before peace was restored in Warsaw. But why continue? Every man in the barracks tried medicinal and culinary experiments upon Gallagher’s goose, but it refused to be fattened. It spent its leisure time in masticating broken bottles, half-bricks, nails, old shoes, copies of the official _Gazette_, tunic buttons, bayonet sheaths--anything, everything, except flesh-forming food. It exhibited a remarkable appetite for official documents. Private circulars from Col. Hillier, secret instructions from George Bolton, search-warrants, copies of information, it swallowed with an avidity that rendered its general abstinence all the more conspicuous.

I have devoted so much introduction to Gallagher’s goose because a knowledge of the physical and psychological eccentricities of that wonderful fowl, and a due appreciation of its literary tastes, will be necessary to the proper understanding of the memorable events that transpired during the Christmas week of 1880 at Ballyblank.

II.

A PLOT, AND ITS EXECUTION.