Part 8

It was Flanagan John Sang this snatch of a song, Though the tune he was far from correct in; But he's one that don't care, And will do and can dare What he likes, without ever reflecting. "Let's encore it!--Encore!" "No," said Murphy, "no more, I must really the pleasure decline; 'Tis now some lady's turn, They such pretty songs learn, When their voices to singing incline. Ask the fairy-like May, Who with Samuel Delhay In a corner like two birds are caged. Here, my sweet pretty Miss, May I ask for a kiss, When those sweet lips are quite disengaged?" "Oh, for shame!" Said the dame, "Dearest Murphy, you really should never Say such things, For it brings A deep tint to the fairest cheek ever. But I'm sure Miss Maguire will oblige with a song, I have heard her fine voice, though some time ago, long; When a child she was, under my care." "Well," said Jerry Maguire, "She has at my desire Set her voice to an enchanting air; Which with pleasure she'll sing, 'Tis exactly the thing, Will amuse our old friend sitting there." "Oh, do sing, dearest May," Whispered Samuel Delhay; "Pray oblige us," said every guest; "Now then, May, don't be shy," Said her brother, "when I Can assist if you aid should request." "And," said Murphy, "I, too, Will be sure to clap you, If you will but oblige with your best." "I will try my best style," She replied with a smile; "If you'll promise you'll not be offended. Nor will go so far wrong, As to think that my song As a close to your tale is intended." "Dear, what can the girl mean? 'Twill be presently seen," Muttered he as the promise he gave. Then her voice mounted high, As a lark in the sky, As she warbled each beautiful stave. Ev'ry ear it arrests, ev'ry whisper soon dropt, Even breathing that moment appeared to be stopt. While each bosom seem'd touched by the soft, thrilling strain, And few eyes quite unwashed to the end could remain. The good dame as she hears Gently melts into tears As she thinks of disconsolate Joan. Who, heart-broken and sad, Or from grief nearly mad, Is bewailing her hard fate alone. The words simply are these, Which fair May sang to tease Mr. Murphy, though it she'll not own.

"Oh, my beautiful flow'ret has faded, Is drooping its once joyous head; For the bee with its sweetness has laded His wings and away with it fled.

And the fierce, cruel wind, it hath broken The stem which the bright blossom fed; While the leaves by their sad looks have spoken Their grief for the kind parent dead.

So my heart's fondest hope has been slighted, Ev'ry joy has been stolen from me. I am drooping, am with'ring, am blighted; But the wreck of life shattered you see.

Never more shall the sun by its brightness Illumine my dark gloomy fate; Nor can peace to my spirit bring lightness, For he comes to this bosom too late."

Now to scatter the gloom Which pervaded the room, Murphy piles all the chairs into heaps. Flings his arm round the dame (Declares he's not to blame), And with her to the room's centre creeps. While Maguire struck up soon Such a capital tune, That like magic each youth forward leaps To the side of some fair, Who, with pleasure, steps where She in dancing can best show her feats. In and out, Round about, It appears quite a riddle. Hands across, Turn of course, And then rush down the middle. Back again, Pleasant pain! Sure he'll wear out his fiddle. "Quicker play!" "Scrape away!" Cries each pair as they pass by; As whirling And twirling They still swifter and fast fly; And in spite, Though fagged quite, Who can keep up the last try. Till whizzy And dizzy They sink into a seat; If they aint Fit to faint In a terrible heat. When to cool, As by rule, To some draught they retreat. Where the fair one imbibes such a delicate chill That her frame is refreshed; but ere morning she will Find the thoroughfare stopped in her organ of smell; With a rising blockade in the thorax as well. While her forehead of snow into pieces seems splitting, As the pain ev'ry moment is worse and worse getting. And her bright eyes are streaming regret for the folly Which has garnished her lungs with a feeling like holly; And has changed her sweet voice, as a matter of course, From the nightingale's tone to sound dreadfully hoarse.

"Oh, how funny it seems to one not fond of dancing, To see women and men just like animals prancing! Roaming forwards and back like two bears in a cage, And then galloping round as if put in a rage. Working harder--I'll bet ten young pigs to a sow, Than they've been all day long at the tail of the plough." "Stop!" I fancy I hear some fair maiden exclaim, In a tone full of ire strongly mixed with disdain. "'Tis some horrid old man has been writing this tale, Who will make his remarks, though so stupid and stale." Now, kind reader, of this I must beg to assure you, That 'twas Flanagan muttered those words placed before you.

Rat-a-tat! "Who is that?" Murphy cried; "pray come in." And a priest walked inside who had listening been. How the widow's heart beat as he stept up to greet her! He was very much like, still he was not old Peter. "Sure I'm in for it now," Murphy inwardly thought; "I would fly, but must own I've been quite fairly caught. No I aint!--'tis but Pat, though in clever disguise; He may cheat his old Mother's, but not these young eyes. But I'll not spoil the fun; I'm reprieved by his aid. Ah! his voice, as I feared, has the secret betrayed; And the good little dame appears quite in a pet. P'rhaps she'll wait longer still for a young bridegroom yet! For I rather repent having scouted poor Joan, She is prettier far, though I don't like her home. Still a second-hand wife, and four babes ready made, Must be popped in the scale and against that be weighed. "Now, Murphy," cried Flanagan, "your comical song! Why, you look black as if all on earth had gone wrong! Come, I'll bet what you like I can guess what you thought (If you did take the trouble to meditate aught), 'Tis a bother, I own, and you well may look blue (Still you're quite green enough if your friends all speak true). Oh, I fear you are out both of temper and tune, But I'll give you a song which shall banish care soon." Then he whetted his whistle, and clearing his voice, In a very gruff tone sang this ditty so choice:--

"Oh, those that like, let them be sad, For my part I'll be merry. A life like theirs would drive me mad, So I'll be jolly, very.

If Cupid should catch hold of me, And from my love me sever, And into woe would turn my glee, Shall he succeed?--no, never!

If valued friends prove false, unkind, When any scrape I get in; I'll drive their memory from my mind, And thus no sorrow let in.

If Miss Fortune should use me ill, And steal my only penny, Contentedly I'll jog on still, As happy without any.

Though Landladies may bore for rent, And duns may loudly bellow; I'll tell them, though my money's spent, I'm still a jolly fellow.

For love in sparkling wine I'll drown All care and melancholy; They are but fools who sigh and frown; For my part I'll be jolly."

Then again the wild dance Does each young toe entrance, And p'rhaps many an old one beside. There's antique Miss O'Riley Has coaxed Donoghue slily Just to waltz, which he ne'er before tried. For she chatted so pretty, And talked, oh, so witty, That he guessed at her age rather wide. But the maiden soon found She must drag him right round, For he could not his steps at all guide. While his arms stuck out still, Like the sails of a mill-- How young Flanagan laughed till he cried! And called out, "Take care, Tom, what sweet words you are saying; For the breach of a promise you'll not like the paying." "What are breaches of promise?" said Donoghue laughing, Who was not so well versed as his friend was in chaffing. "Oh," said Flanagan Ted, who was comical rather, "They are breeches you'll get when worn out by your father." "Oh, look, Mother!" cried Pat; "all the wood seems on fire; It was first but a spark, but it now rises higher. We shall surely get burnt, for 'tis coming this way: What a flare-up to finish a grand bridal day!" But the dame felt depressed In her feelings, and guessed He was only a-joking again. So that no heed she took, No, not even a look, Although calling he still would remain. Like the boy that we read of in old AEsop's fable, He has jested till none to believe him are able. "Come, niece, give us some punch, And of cake a slight hunch, May it taste as it looks, so uncommonly nice, That I've wished for some long, But I feared 'twould be wrong, And might p'rhaps be thought greedy to ask for a slice. All the dancers, 'tis clear, Very hungry appear, And would much be refreshed by that snow-looking ice; While some hot whisky will Perhaps warm up the chill They imbibed at the draught by not taking advice." 'Twas old Jonas thus spoke, Half in earnest, half joke, The good dame from her rev'rie to rouse. But the lady felt sad, And thought just cause she had For the grief which her spirit allows.

Still the punch she prepared, Though she sharply declared She had rather not cut up the cake; For the event it should grace Had not yet taken place, And much trouble it took her to make.

"Hark! what voices are those?" Murphy cried, as he rose And went to look out at the door. But soon entered again, And admitted a train Of monks, about twenty or more. All in darkness arrayed, With their heads in a shade, Although each one a flaming torch bore. At the head of the band Marched the Abbot so grand, Whom the beaux lowly bend soon before. For him ev'ry one knows As his very best clothes, And his mitre so gorgeous he wore. Which seemed covered with gold, Then made sticky and rolled Among jewels to spangle it o'er; And which glittered so bright As they shot back the light, That most folks the real gems took them for.

Now young Patrick had noticed this monkish array, As amid the dark forest it wended its way; But as no one would answer the first time he spoke, He considered that p'rhaps it might be a good joke If the crew on the party came unawares in As they're dancing, or drinking: things deemed a great sin By the Abbot, he knows--who had vexed been right sore When he stumbled on much the same party before. And truly it did cause a little confusion, For the liquors just mixed in the greatest profusion Filled the air with a grateful perfume. But as for the present they're too hot for drinking, The ladies were sniffing the odour, and thinking, When he first had stept into the room; Though some rather too bold were near choked, by the bye, And got burnt in their fright, till a tear leaves each eye, Which their temper does rather consume.

But how sudden the spirits have vanished from sight! Far more rapid, I'm certain, than conjuring quite. For the Abbot, in spite of the scent, is believing That his nose plays him false, and has been him deceiving. Not the shade of a cork can he anywhere see, Though the kettle is boiling--it may be for tea.

But I often have seen the same trick played before When I was but a young one, about half a score, As my ma has been mending some portion of dress, (What the garment might be I will leave you to guess). If a loud double-knock has been heard at the door, Quick as thought the said garment has rolled to the floor; And been under the sofa kicked out of the way, Till the visit has ended the guest came to pay.

Now no one had spoken, Till silence was broken By the Abbot, who said,-- "Friends, I'm come to unite By the conjugal rite The young pair who would wed. But, pray, which is the bridegroom, and which is the bride?-- Are you firmly resolved, then, to have your fates tied In a very tight knot, which you neither can sever, Though you're sick of each other, as folks must get ever? As the poet so justly has said, (who so wise?) 'In the best-ordered families rows will arise.' So I'll wait a few moments, just out of humanity, Till you've thought o'er again what may prove quite insanity. Now, young bridegroom, just think--are you feeling quite sure That for life you the ways of this dame can endure; And with joy hear her chatter from morning till night (About nothing at all, mind,)--with unfeigned delight? For Plato remarks, 'That he ne'er in his life Heard an orator speak half so much as his wife. She would prate when she woke, and still chattering keep Until night, and would even then talk in her sleep.' Now, could you bear this to the end of your days, Supposing that always she spoke to your praise? Which by no means the case is, as sages declare, (For of course in such matters we priests have no share). Now I somewhere have read, but where, by mishap, Can't remember at present--the fair are a trap Made to catch the poor men, just like so many birds, With a few pretty looks and a lot of sweet words, Which persuade them to think they would not mind it much, And they yield as a prey to the feminine clutch. When, lo!--but I'll not track this sad history farther; Than e'er marry myself I would really die rather." "Sour grapes! sour grapes!" whispered Jonas, "'tis plain. But how lucky that single he still can remain! Sure I married have been thirty years, and ne'er found The discomforts with which the said state does abound." "Very likely," was Flanagan's smothered reply; "But _I've_ found all he said more than true by the bye; So it is, after all, but a matter of taste, And it really seems foolish so much time to waste. But that Murphy is mad there is less than no doubt, Or he would the young wife, not the old one seek out. For I've seen the fair damsel of whom he was speaking, As pretty a girl as you'd find, though far seeking; With such beautiful eyes, such a sweet little nose; And such neat little ankles, and delicate toes: That, though t'other's your niece, sir, you fain must agree He must have some good reasons, or lunatic be. Sure I felt much surprised when I heard he was going To marry dame Neale, for I thought he was sowing All the seeds of affection in little Joan's heart. But most likely they've quarrelled, and settled to part." "Hush," said Jonas; "the Abbot is speaking again; That a screw has got loose appears perfectly plain. How I wish I could speak with the dame all alone! I should learn rather more, then, concerning poor Joan. But he seems in a hurry to marry them, now,-- I've a good mind to stop him, but don't like a row." "Then you really intend Both your fortunes to blend Into one; And promise you'll never From each other sever Till life 's done? When as, sir, from your youth you will most like survive, To provide for these babes will you promise to strive? For, deprived of their ma, if I right understand, Most young ladies are likely to stick long on hand. Unless (and I here must the failings unfold Of the world), all their pockets are stuffed full of gold; When all other attractions--O thought most distressing! Are considered no more than the regular blessing Which the milkman bestows after measuring out The pale chalk-coloured fluid he carries about. Yes! sweet temper and truth are of little avail When proud Wealth takes his seat in the opposite scale. As the proverb declares, which we all so well know, That 'tis money alone that the mare makes to go. But of course, sir, 'twas nothing at all of this kind Which has thus to stern fate made you meekly resigned! It was love--purely love, caused your heart to prefer, From all others to flee, and reside here with her. But what's this I hear? Who dares interfere, With such racket and unseemly noise? Mr. Bridegroom go, see, (We will tarry for thee), Please to flog 'em if 'tis your two boys." Then not one of them spoke, Though all thought 'twas some joke Of that monkey, young Patrick O'Neale, Till the urchin they saw Fast asleep on the floor, Where he fled in the hopes to conceal The disguise he still wore, For he felt more and more That the wrath of the Abbot he'd feel.

"Let me go! let me go!" cried a voice from without; And up many arose from their seats to rush out, When a female dashed through, cast her eyes swift around, ntAnd exhausted fell down, overwhelmed, to the ground, At the feet of the dame, who was too much affected To afford the assistance the fair one expected.

"It is Joan! it is Joan!" ran in whispers about, And in truth on that subject there seemed little doubt; For poor Murphy kept popping his head in and out, Till the Abbot requested he'd walk in instead, When he took to his heels and ran off with his head, And as fast out of sight as a pickpocket fled. "Fetch him back!" cried the Abbot, in thundering tone, And far swifter than light'ning the monks out have flown; Oh, such speed you'd have thought that they never could own! It is true that old Peter kept quite in the rear, Still he bustled along though without an idea Of beholding the sport till his friends brought it near. Yet 'tis true (though you choose to believe it or not), He was one of the first to return to the spot When the captors their pris'ner in safe keeping had got.

Now all through this commotion the beautiful maid Veiled her face in her hands, as if really afraid To encounter the gaze of the numbers of eyes Which she felt stared upon her with unfeigned surprise. So reclining she sat on the brick-covered floor, And so mournfully sobbed, 'twould have made your heart sore To behold one so tender, so young, and so fair Almost broken in heart, and nigh crushed by despair; Nearly out of her mind, and without an idea Of what she should do, now she's found them out here. Then again silence reigned, And each tongue still remained, Till the monks back returned With their captive, held tight, Who seemed breathless with fright, While his face fiercely burned, Like a red-hot coal blowed, Which to all plainly showed He had punishment earned. For the Abbot was one who but rarely had missed The least chance that he had of his toe getting kissed. Not exactly saluting his bunions, I mean, But of causing his sway to be visibly seen. By all other folks humbling he thought he should rise, So had made it a point all the world to despise; Ev'ry small fault exposing which hidden might pass, Was tracked out like a snake by the trail in the grass. "Sir, I'm sorry," he said, in a sarcastic tone, "If from other appointments I keep you: unknown To my sight till this hour you perhaps may have been, Still your character now I have readily seen; And would say a few words ere we part for the night, On a subject perhaps you can give us some light. Be so kind as to give that young lady a seat." But before he could move Joan had rose to her feet, And exclaimed, "Oh, base man! you might well flee with shame! 'Twas to warn these good people I hitherward came. Oh, how could you thus serve me, who lov'd you so dearly! Whom you promised to wed once or twice--very nearly. Is it thus all our kindness and trust you repay? Such ingratitude never I met till to-day. Still I'll wish you no worse, but your heart may relent, And for all the grief caused me may quickly repent." Then again into tears she was melting away, Having said all she had for the present to say. While her beautiful hair (dark and soft as black silk) Trickled down her fair neck (whiter far than new milk) In the greatest disorder, without comb or pin; For to be in good time, such a haste she was in; And unto the dame to support her she clung-- With her head on her shoulder, her face downward hung; For the crimson tide rising rushed through ev'ry vein, With a pang piercing sharper than actual pain.

"Come, Sir, Mr. Bridegroom, or whatever 's your name, Let me hear some excuse which shall ward off the blame Which you richly deserve, if appearance tells true. But they say--and their saying shall benefit you-- That folks ought not to go by appearances ever, But should judge from plain facts, as more law-like and clever. So I'll hear all you have, sir, to say in defence Of what seems to these ladies a serious offence."

Now, between you and I, the good Abbot enjoys This dispute quite as much as a child does his toys; And his eyes wander oft to the beautiful maid, To whose cause he inclines, I am sadly afraid. And so too you would feel if your heart be not stone, Though, like him, p'rhaps the feeling you'd not care to own. Still I'm sure your compassion would so far arise, That you'd lend her your kerchief to wipe up her eyes; And would feel much inclined, and with justice, I'm fearing, To condemn the poor culprit before his case hearing.

But he speaks! and relates all he stated before, And declares he ne'er promised to marry her, nor Had said anything pointed, to give her to think That his fate unto hers he was wishing to link. "Stop--I did call her pretty, one time, by the bye, But she took not the trouble my words to deny; So 'tis plain she thought them not so out of the way, But a kind of a tribute that folks ought to pay. Then I lived in the house, and so might once have kissed her, For I treated her just as if she'd been my sister; Going out with her walks when she wanted fresh air, And by treating her always at every fair."

Now I've heard a remark, which I know to be true, That a man is no judge of the kind of a view Which a sister presents to unprejudiced eyes. For I've seen brothers stare with a look of surprise When I talked of a sister, and thought I would flatter If I made a remark, or but cast a glance at her. I, by chance, once myself made this very mistake (Near as awkward a one as a man can well make), For I have a few sisters, but never once thought Them much out of the way, till more properly taught. They explained I was wrong, and I could not well doubt it, For they proved that I really knew nothing about it.