Part 6

"Hush!" said Murphy; "what's that?" "Oh, 'tis naught but the cat," Said the dame, while her voice seemed confusing: "She has been there all day, And is most like at play With her kittens, who are so amusing." But the cough was repeated, And the dame felt defeated, While quick Murphy tore open the door; Crying, "Come out, you sinner! Can such charms as yours win her, While I love from my very heart's core? But I'll make you pay dear For thus listening here." And he raised up his foot for a kick. When the dame rushed between, Or a struggle there'd been Which on hearing would turn your heart sick. For, though choking, could Peter scarce utter a word, Of which Murphy enraged not a syllable heard, But he took up his hat to be gone. "For your sake, dame, I spare That old wretch, but take care That I never him catch out alone. For, as sure as I live, Such a hiding I'll give, As shall make him feel sore in each bone." Then he turned on his heel and went out of the door; When, recov'ring his voice, Peter called to implore Him a moment to stop, as he wished to explain How in such a position by chance he became. "Which as soon as I've done I shall surely expect You'll apologize, too, for your want of respect." Murphy turned and re-turned, With a frown sat him down, And a glance which bespoke great attention. "Sir, proceed; but take heed. To deceive, I believe Is your plan, and your present intention." (But, alas! when a thing we much wish to be true, We are apt to believe it is really so, too. So the news Murphy heard was so sweet to his ear That of present detection the monk had no fear.) "Hush, hush, unbeliever!" the friar exclaimed; "Such terms, in my presence, should ne'er once be named. For of Mary's a monk I've the honour to be; Which, if not so enraged, by my dress you might see. Now although there's no reason why I should explain, Still, as 'tis for your good, if you choose to remain I will tell all I know, when with pleasure you'll find, That instead of a foe I am friendly inclined. First, your love from its source and beginning I've traced, Which on Widow O'Neal for her beauty was placed, Till the various graces which decked out her mind, To obtain her esteem made you feel more inclined; While you felt in your heart you would rather have died, Than ere chance to behold her another man's bride. Now, is it not so? Yes, I see by those eyes; No wonder at first they are filled with surprise, To hear me your thoughts and your actions disclose, But we monks know far more than you mortals suppose, And that what I affirm is correct, hear, and know, For the thoughts of your heart at this moment I'll show. You are thinking why I, In a cupboard should fly, As if of my actions ashamed, When a dinner I'd got Of nice trout, smoking hot. It looks as if I should be blamed. But so certain I was, and convinced in my mind, That the question to pop you felt strongly inclined, Which should make you despair, or else happy for life (I just mean about making this good dame your wife), That I thought I had better slip out of the way, Lest my presence might check what you wished so to say: It is true I regretted my dinner to lose, But to cross all my plans I at once did refuse; For an in'trest I take In the match, for her sake, For I'm positive sure she a good wife will make. And as now on that point you seem both resolved quite, I am ready this moment your hands to unite, For your hearts by each other have long been held tight." "Oh, forgive me! dear father," cried Murphy, with glee: "Thus your acts to mistake, what a fool I must be! Sure your pardon I crave for the words that I might In my flurry have said, in the moment of fright; It was catching you hid made me think all not right, But upon that head now I am satisfied quite. Still I fear, though I'm anxious my fate to unite With this beautiful dame, that it can't be to-night; For the dress is not bought which I meant to provide her, And the friends are not asked she would fain have beside her. Then, besides, there's not whisky enough in the house To intoxicate more than a newly-weaned mouse: But the day after next, if my charmer is willing, I will snap, for her eyes are than fish-hooks more killing. Oh, then say, dearest, say, Will it suit you that day, From O'Neal into Murphy to change? But if you would delay I will cheerful obey-- For I would not your plans disarrange."

Now the widow scarce knew What on earth she should do, There was nothing, she thought, to prevent it; And although she had rather have been all alone, Than the state of her heart 'fore another to own, Still refusing he might think she meant it. And the chance would be gone, Which her hopes had upborne, For a twelvemonth and some few days more. So she said, "If you please, sir, I find on reflection, That I really have not got the slightest objection, But I could not be ready before; For a bit of a party we must have at night, As there's many I've promised I would then invite, Who, neglected, would feel very sore. I should next week have liked, but had rather a fear That with washing or baking it might interfere, So we'll make it the day you wished for."

She had scarcely said this, When a good hearty kiss Flew plump on her lips ripe as cherry; While an arm round her waist At the moment was placed,-- She did not dislike it much very. Then the friar took leave, While the good people grieve That he of his meal was bereft; For he'd not been the least fed, Though in fancy he feasted (As that now was all that was left) On the banquet to come, When he'd surely make one Of the guests on the grand bridal day: When right good farm-house cheer, With prime ale and strong beer, And proof whisky, would make all hearts gay.

* * * * *

_CHAPTER THE FIFTH._

'Twas a day of days, And birds to its praise Their very best lays Sung out. While the sheep and cows, Who their carols rouse O'er the meadows, browse About. Not a cloud was seen The bright sun between And the pastures green, When forth The good widow crept, Who had scarcely slept, Though 'twas bright thoughts kept Sleep off. She was up with the sun, As there's much to be done, And great numbers of things to provide For the grand bridal meal (Ere her fate she may seal), But in showing her skill feels much pride. There's the butter to make, All the new bread to bake, And a very large plum-cake beside; While she'd think with much dread She's not properly wed If aught ill to that cake should betide. Yea, she has quite a doubt If a marriage without Would be legal, if lawyers it tried.

Now Jonas the miller (her uncle) for dower Had sent her a sack of the best wheaten flour; So on tarts, puddings, pies, she may work away fast As she likes, for materials her time out will last.

She is rambling now To look after the cow, Who of course to a distance would stray. But she did not get cross, Though of time thus there's loss, For p'rhaps Murphy might chance come that way. He had toiled away fast, For the day or two past, To make the house fit for his bride. As he felt quite inclined, And had made up his mind, That there 'twould be best to reside.

"Sure this morning he's late," Thought the dame, as a gate She approached which led into a lane, When a voice loud in song Was heard strolling along; Oh, she thought it a beautiful strain! "Oh, my love she is merry, And beautiful, very; Her lips are as red as a ripe juicy cherry.

"Her neck than snow's whiter, Her eyes than stars brighter, Her step than the gentle gazelle's is far lighter.

"Her fine sculptured nose is Surrounded with roses, And tulips, whose sweetness fresh beauty discloses.

"Than the lark her voice sweeter, Yea, so perfect 's each feature, She is without doubt a most beautiful creature."

"Oh, good morning, dear Murphy," the dame cried with pleasure, As she stept into sight when he finished the measure, "A most beautiful song that, and sung with much feeling; Quite enraptured, all care from my heart it seemed stealing, Like the music of birds, which will sometimes come creeping O'er our dreams in that state betwixt waking and sleeping." "Ah, you've listening been! I myself have betrayed, And the praises you've heard of a beautiful maid. Now, as oft I've heard said by those proverb-wise elves, That sly listeners never hear good of themselves, It could ne'er have been you to whose praise I sung out: But I see by that smile that there lingers a doubt, And you still think 'tis you from the kind of description. Well, 'tis true you seem made after such a prescription; But it does not do justice, as I can assure ye. I'll remand you till eve, when assemble the jury, And then if this gown that I've bought you'll appear in, The verdict of guilty I'm certain of hearing: For all of your guests will of envy be dying,-- The women, because you their charms are out-vieing; The men, 'cause I've won you while vain they were trying." Then on they walked, And blithely talked Of happiness in store. The cow soon caught Was homeward brought,-- Her rambling days are o'er; For Murphy all the hedges patched, The wicket swung and firmly latched, As it had hung before. The rotten roof with great dispatch Received an outer coat of thatch, While boards soon frame a door. And time he in the garden found To sort the bed from paths around, And with the weeds wage war. Meanwhile the hours onward rolled, The clock the time had often told, The dame her cooking had completed, The pots and pans had all retreated, The house in ev'ry point seemed righted, Naught's out of place but those invited, Just to witness the sticking of two soles together, Tight as e'er gutta percha has stuck unto leather. Now although 'tis not late The dame likes not to wait, It puts her in such a great fidget; There is nothing to do She can put her hand to, Or her fever would crawl to each digit. The fair maidens for hours Had been decking with flow'rs The kitchen, and made it look gay As a ribbon-clad sweep Who from chimneys may creep To dance round a green (first of May). 'Tis a quarter to five, And the guests fast arrive, And each with him some present brings: One a roast pig had got, One a goose smoking hot, And numbers of other nice things. There were rabbits and hares, And prime roast-ducks in pairs, And pigeons delightfully cooked. Like a pic-nic it seemed, But might well have been deemed A banquet, so noble it looked. But a fear rising lest Some nice girl might like best To hear how the bride than the victuals were dress'd, In few words I'll express, Although feminine dress Is out of my line I must really confess; For when I've had a look, it Has but been to hook it,-- I never then thought I might chance have to book it. So I beg you'll excuse Me if strange terms I use,-- Such a trifling request you will scarcely refuse.

Now the gown Murphy gave her, That expense he might save her, Though not quite bran new, still looked elegant rather, Of a sky-coloured blue, Without flounces, 'tis true, And being scanty in skirt rather tight round her drew; It was smothered with bows, Which descended in rows From her fine swelling chest to her neat little toes, Just like scarlet-runners,-- Love, sure, they had won hers, If at the beginning had been but for fun hers. At the top it was low, That her neck it might show, As white as a turnip or two-days'-back snow. Then her rather red face Was embedded in lace, With large green rosette, garnished to heighten each grace. But a bright crimson shawl Was her pride above all, Whose folds graceful descended the ground down to fall.

The young ladies in white Will appear towards night, Their frocks from the mangle are not yet dry quite. So like _grubs_ they appear, Till through starching they're clear, And then prouder than _butterflies_ up their heads rear. With sweet roses entwined They their fair brows will bind, To make most of themselves they are really inclined.

Little Michael was drest Out in his very best, With a pinafore over, lest they might be messed. He had watched with great int'rest the good things provided, And much longed for the time when they should be divided.

"O you beautiful creature!" said Flannagan Ted, "How I wish it was me, and not Murphy instead; I quite think we must fight till there's one of us kilt, Unless he runs away that no blood may be spilt." "Oh, the false, faithless man!" cried a beauty beside him; "When I thought him so true, sure his words have belied him! To speak so in my presence,--oh, really, 'tis shocking! How often do men seem our best feelings mocking!' But the good dame replied, with a kind-hearted smile, "'Twas but flattery, Clare, his heart's your's all the while." Yet the beautiful maid still continued to pout, Till a loud, smacking kiss, rubbed the wrinkles all out.

Look! there's old Farmer Jonas arrived in his cart, With a pair of twin daughters and wife dressed so smart, Whose plump cheeks are so covered with ribbons and bows, That like owl from out ivy appears each peak'd nose. That the maidens were fair is a fib I can't tell you, And, what was most strange, 'twas a fact they both well knew, For their eyes tow'rds each other were friendly inclined, While their locks would bring carrots at once to your mind. But their tempers were sweet as the extract of bees, And where'er they might go they were certain to please. The old farmer himself is a jovial fellow, With a loud, pealing laugh, as melodious and mellow As the music of calves when for mammy they bellow. In stature he's stumpy, approaching to fat, With a very broad face and a still broader hat, Which, perched all on one side, like an avalanche sat; And so brightly would twinkle his little black eyes (When he uttered his jokes, which would often arise) That like di'monds they gleamed of first water and size.

His good lady, however, was quite his reverse,-- She was scraggy and lanky, and, what was far worse, For ever was teased with a terrible cough, That threatened each moment to carry her off.

Now old Jonas was richer than any around, He'd a farm and a mill--besides acres of ground, Where the ripe, waving corn, like an ocean appears, While than even King Midas he boasts longer ears; And like to that fabulous monarch of old, Whatever he touch'd was transformed into gold. No harm to his horses there ever befel, And his cattle had never at all felt unwell. His crops were all good, and increased fast his store;-- Thus contented he lives, nor once wishes for more. By all ranks he is held in the greatest esteem; Which is justly his due, as will presently seem, For his house, always open, scarce wanted a door, And was styled a depot for the wants of the poor.

"Dear Uncle, to see you it gives me much pleasure, The present you sent me was really a treasure," The young widow exclaimed, as a kiss on her brow Was descending, as light as a bird on a bough. "Dearest Aunt and sweet cousins, I felt it most kind, That the state of my wardrobe you still kept in mind, For without those fair garments, though hidden from view, I had sorely been puzzled whatever to do: They're a beautiful fit, though the hooks will not meet; Still the gown fastened over them keeps all things neat."

Now they all are arrived but the bridegroom and priest, But of guests at a wedding they form not the least; And the dame gets more anxious her true love to see, Who had left to adorn, but had promised to be Back in less than no time--but his word had not kept. She was angry and vexed, and had certainly wept, But she would not her friends should suppose her infirm, And so tries to explain why he does not return. Which, while she is doing, I'll try and describe The friends of the bridegroom as well as the bride. There is Jerry Maguire (Who has brought, by desire, His fiddle to strike up a dance), He has long, curly hair, Which delights ev'ry fair, Who at him oft cast a sly glance. He is not very tall, Yet looks down upon all, And considers himself just the thing, In his rough, white frock coat, Green cravat round his throat, And broad collar turned down o'er each wing. His young sister's there too (Quite a picture to view), A sweet, rosy-cheeked, plump, little maid, Who appears rather shy, And will cast down her eye When she's spoke to, as if she's afraid. Close beside her there sat, Full of kind, friendly chat, Her young cousins, the Misses Delhay, With their big brother Sam, Who, quite certain I am, Is in love with Maguire's sister May. For attention he paid her, Such presents oft made her, And ever was close by her side, While the mother oft winks, When she's asked how she thinks Pretty May would look dressed like a bride. In a corner remote, Where each look she may note, At this very moment she's sitting, And attention scarce pays To what old Jonas says, Who is rather fidgetty getting. For she scarcely had spoke, Though a pun and a joke On the bride and the wedding he made; So for fear they'd be lost, He uprose--the room crossed, And them safe to the widow conveyed; Who said, "Dear me, how funny!" and laughed till she cried With a fit of convulsions, which nigh cracked her side (As a prelude to draw all attention). "I must tell it them, uncle, although you say nay." "And screw up your dear mouth in that comical way?" "'Tis is a great deal too good not to mention."

"I've a riddle to ask, though against me the jest,-- Why are you all betrayed, and not one e'er a guest? What, can none of you guess? Why, through those who so late are, There is nowhere a guest, for each person's a waiter!" "What a dreadful bad pun!" whispered Samuel Delhay, As his red lips approached nigh the ear of fair May; But perceiving he's watched, he could do nothing more, Than just smile for a moment, and them back withdraw.

But I now must return without further delay, To describe all the guests of the grand wedding day. There is tall Miss O'Riley, In a queerish old style she Appears to be made; by the cut of her phiz Though a spinster,--'tis sure, She can flirting endure; Her age when truth calculates right is Forty--but, O dear me, pray what am I about? I shall get by the fair sex kicked certainly out; I should only have said what is true, by the bye, That though out of her teens she has ne'er got a tie.

But pray who is that beauty of very great size, Who can't sit on one chair though she struggling tries, With large gooseberry eyes, and complexion as sallow As a half-melted dip of inferior tallow? By her beak her I know, which is long and red, rather-- She is spouse to the man who is Flanagan's father.

Now, O'Flanagan's self is as brown as a berry, Tallish, stout-built, ferocious, and fightable, very; For no fray could you name in which he hadn't been, While where'er he may go his shillaly is seen Tucked under his arm, whence in less than a minute It would leap to his hand, and deal blows ere quite in it. He is partial to racing, to gambling, to liquor, Can the value of horses than dealers tell quicker; Can run, wrestle, and fight, any man in the village, And, when safe from detection, objects not to pillage; I don't housebreaking mean, but just causing a sheep To have unpleasant dreams, and to walk in its sleep. Now, although much disliked by most people, yet still, Go wherever you may, there you certainly will Meet O'Flanagan John--though he's only invited Just to keep his wrath cool, which oft boils when he's slighted; And like steam must find vent in some malice-fraught trick, Or will burst into flame like a smould'ring rick. His son, Flanagan Ted, is a nice little feller, At least, so says Clare--and pray, who should know weller? He is tall, handsome, well-made, and folks say they never Have beheld a young man more polite, or so clever. Near, of course, to his side, Sat his young future bride, Who seems much inclined to be jealous. Speaks he but to another, She her thoughts can scarce smother, And sighs like a pair of new bellows. Her old father and brother are somewhere about,-- With O'Flanagan talking, I have not a doubt, Of the state of the crops, for of him land they rent, (Not, p'rhaps, over well-tilled, but of wondrous extent), Near O'Flanagan Lodge, which are fixed by entail, Or, through winds often raised, they ere now had set sail. Now O'Donoghue senior's a cunning, shrewd man, Who had sketched out his life to the following plan:-- "Just take care of your money when once, 'tis obtained; For a penny when saved is a penny well gained." He is short, ugly, shrivelled, and bowed down with care; What is styled a spare man, or a man all could spare. He is harsh, much despised by the people around, For the lab'rers in him a severe master found. And the poor never called, for they knew 'twas no use, As he gave naught away but a show'r of abuse. It was not quite respect made him seek for his daughter Such a partner for life, but he wisely had taught her His favourite maxim of--Get all you can; For 'tis money alone manufactures the man.

Young O'Donoghue, too, Is a bit of a screw, For he wears an old coat which has never been new. The plain English of which is, That, in spite of their riches, 'Twas a pair and a half of his father's old breeches. He has shouldered two legs--for the tails split another; While his back took a seat which his neck too will cover.