Part 9

Now in just this position was poor Murphy placed, He could scarcely perceive Joan was prettily faced; She was handy, he knew, in the kitchen and dairy, But for beauty--he thought that tastes widely must vary. It was living together so long, I suppose, Made him blind to the charms of this beautiful rose. For he's not what folks call a man really hard-hearted, And his conscience now pricked him, and terribly smarted, As he thought on the kindness she ever had shown him Since the days of his boyhood, when first she had known him.

Then the dame was asked next, If she aught had to say; She look'd sad, much perplexed, And her head turned away As she said, "On my word, Till to-day I ne'er saw, No, nor even have heard Of this maiden before. Still it seems very plain She was first in the field; So her rights she shall gain, For all claims I now yield. She has loved him, it seems, all her life pretty nigh, So I'm sure she deserves him far better than I, Who all hope--yea, the wish--now for ever resign Of beholding young Murphy a bridegroom of mine. Unless (and she here had a slight tickling cough), Your rev'rence think right I should keep to my troth."

"Please to stop," said the priest; "this is pretty, no doubt; Still when Justice begins she must have her say out. We have well scanned the subject on every side, But have not yet decreed which by law is the bride; Though, as some great philosopher wisely observed, 'They who come up the first ought to be the first served.' While the difference of ages compels me to fear, That a storm will arise ere the close of the year; For of course the old lady must have her own way, As 'age before honesty goes,' the folks say. It is true she may not get the like chance again; But she's had her turn once, so must patient remain. Unless that the jury, when packed, shall think best To remake her a wife, and deny her request."

Then the jurors were chose, But so plainly he shows How the guests cannot impartial be, That such aid they refuse, And the number out choose From eyes that unprejudiced see. Who like peers soon pair out, To consider about In whose favour they ought to agree. Now what thrilling suspense! (To poor Joan how intense!) To the rest in a lesser degree.-- All but Murphy, who ne'er Seemed to have the least care What Fate or what Justice decree. But the Jury return, and the maid droops her head, While her fair bosom heaves with a feeling of dread; As nigh breathless she listens the verdict to hear, Which shall fill her with transports of pleasure or fear. "And pray what's your decision?" the Abbot inquired; In the tones of a pig who has, murdered, expired. "Have you settled the point who the fair bride's to be? They seem terribly anxious to hear your decree." Then a very tall man with a very sharp nose, All their wisdom united and cleverness shows, "'Tis the young one, we think, is by justice the bride, So we deem it our duty on her to decide." Then again a loud shout Ran the chamber throughout, While the maiden had fainted with bliss Had not Murphy arose, Who both arms round her throws, And revives her at once with a kiss; And whispers that once he but loved as a brother, But now is most anxious to love as some other.

But the Abbot, of course, must again interfere. Loud he calls, "Mr. Culprit, just step, sir, up here; And you, monks, keep your eyes on the door. For our sentence is this,--that the maiden you wed; Yes, and live with her too till you're dead, sir--quite dead. Oh, you ne'er shall escape from her more! And Miss Bride, you'll oblige by just letting me know If he does not behave himself properly, so I may think of some punishment sore. Now, before I unite In the conjugal rite This unhappy young pair, Is there any one here Has the slightest idea Of a like rash affair? If there is, I advise, Ere the chance from him flies, That he hither repair. For, as Romulus said, you should never delay Till to-morrow what can be as well done to-day. For delays dang'rous are, as the widow can prove, And time never returns, but is still on the move." Then he silent remained, as if buried in thought, While his eyelids dropt down as if slumber they sought; Till the beautiful Clare, by young Flanagan Ted (Her long-betrothed lover), was joyfully led. When "Ah!" he exclaimed; and again closed his eyes, Just to ponder, no doubt, on some subject more wise;-- On the frailty, perhaps, of the masculine sex, Who allow pretty faces their thoughts to perplex, And their hearts twirl about like a conjurer's plate, While they kindly persuade them they can't avoid Fate. "O dear May! dearest May!" Whispered Samuel Delhay; "I scarce know what I say, But just listen, I pray. I've loved you so dearly, A twelvemonth or nearly, Most truly, sincerely,-- Not for your looks merely, But the bewitching grace In each action I trace; With which no charm keeps pace But your beautiful face. Oh, if you would hear me! To be ever near me! What joy would then cheer me! Though trembling I fear me, Lest you now should say Nay; Your dear face turn away, Or should wish for delay, Which were death to obey." Then May blushed crimson deep, While her eyes downward keep, As she seems most intensely to think. Till her gaze slily peeps; Tow'rds her mother it creeps, Who she saw nearly audibly wink. Then, no more time to waste, In his hands hers she placed, Who appeared with such rapture possess'd That he screamed with delight, Put poor May in a fright, And exceedingly startled each guest.

"Is there no one else then to be married, I pray? Mr. Hymen is not found at work every day," Said the Abbot; "can no other man boast a heart? Have you all really 'scaped from young What's-his-name's dart?" Just as if he was only essaying to fill Up the number required to form a quadrille; And had cried, Take your partners, and no more time waste, You young people might surely make rather more haste.

"Oh, pray catch me! Oh, dear! I'm so dreadfully queer-- I shall faint--I shall die-- I must have a good cry"-- Said Miss Riley, who could not her feelings command, As she seized and kept hold of young Donoghue's hand. "Shall you tell them? Oh, no; Though I'm very so-so. And my heart beats so fast, It will sure burst at last. No! 'tis useless cold water to throw on my grief, Far too deep are my sorrows for such a relief. Oh, could you but feel What my tongue must reveal-- How much I love you, My dear Donoghue! Your heart surely would melt, though it very hard aint, And you'd try all you could to relieve my complaint." "Well," thinks he, "I don't care, Though in truth she's not fair; Still there's hundreds far worse, that I'm sure." So he said, "You're so kind, Miss, I'd fain ease your mind; But why did you not speak up before? For you really have taken me quite by surprise, Though great presence of mind at emergence will rise. Still, be quick; for should we by some chance be too late, I must leave you to struggle alone with your fate."

But the course of true love it can never run smooth, As this tale will, as others, undoubtedly prove. There is always some guardian, or cruel old Pa, Who won't give his consent; or some tiresome Ma, Who don't think the young man is quite well enough off For her beautiful daughter to wed; and so forth. Now old Donoghue tries all he can to find out What so busies his son, till he leaps out of doubt, And jumps at the conclusion, which proves to be true, That he means to get married the old maid unto. "I won't give my consent!" he exclaims in a rage; "And you shall not yourselves to each other engage. I'll disinherit you sure if you dare to resist My commands, and shall still in this madness persist." "Oh, oh! what's the matter? What means all this clatter?" Said the Abbot, who seemed much amused; "It is really too bad! Sure the man must be mad: Such an offer, what maid could refuse? Sir, you'd better allow me for life to provide For your child, by converting her into a bride. As her poor little heart will undoubtedly break, If you cruelly make her her first love forsake." "But it is not a daughter," the other replied; "'Tis the man is my boy, who, if now he decide To be snared by yon penniless girl, for himself Must look out, for no finger he lays on my wealth." "Well, that alters the case; But I really must own That, were I in your place, I would leave them alone, For Love's arrows sink deep, and our heart's blood they quaff, While the little wretch dares at e'en locksmiths to laugh. So it really is wiser to give your consent, For you know you can't really the marriage prevent. For what's gold, may I ask, when its charms you compare With bright smiles, with such looks, and with features so fair? And, besides, the young people are quite old enough To decide for themselves; and advice would seem stuff And great nonsense, I fear, to their prejudiced ears; For their eyes are so blinded they won't see your fears." Then the old man sat down With a dark gloomy frown, As he muttered he never would give them a "brown." But the obstinate son Could be ruled o'er by none; When he made up his mind he would have a thing done. So he still stood his ground, And the fearful maid found That she now had a chance of her fate getting bound; Not just stitched, or bound half, But quite whole bound with calf. How she chuckles with joy, as she grins forth a laugh! As she says the few words which proclaim her the wife Of as stupid a man as e'er lived out a life!

Now the eight are but four, for a pair forms but one; They have each one been halved, so they all are undone. Though the ladies of course (now pray don't make a jest of it), As the bettermost half, have for ever the best of it. Having two votes to one in nigh every dispute, And as much more to say if their words you compute.

See, the bridegrooms are kissing their beautiful brides, Who a kiss too receive from the Abbot besides. All but Dame Donoghue, who by chance seems forgot; Or, perhaps, he had thought he had much rather not. Then the Abbot and train prepare to go; They fall into ranks in a double row; While the chief, at their head, walks on before, Without ere a word or a syllable more. But old Peter just tarries behind to state Why the Abbot had come there, and why so late. He had noticed the monk who was rambling out, And, inquiring, had learnt all the facts about. When to Peter's surprise he declared his mind, That to marry the couple he felt inclined. "I was very much vexed that he tarried so late, As I feared that for me you might probably wait. For I know very well, without being told twice, That when victuals are tepid they're not very nice. But I now must be gone; he will miss me, I fear; Though 'twould pleasure me much to await awhile here."

Then young Patrick O'Neal out of pity, or jest, Took the half of a duck, which with onions was drest, And to old Peter gave it, unseen by the rest; Who declared he of boys was undoubted the best. Then he passed through the door and was soon with the throng Who by torchlight were marching the forest along. And 'twas lucky he did; for the Abbot inquired After him, who to walk by his side he desired. When a lecture he gave which the folly proved quite Of rich dainties employing to cure appetite. "They're the seed," he remarked, "of nigh ev'ry disease Which frail mortals invent, them to rob of their ease. What is gout, may I ask, but these victuals condensed And forced into the blood to create pain intense? Then, just look at your teeth; when compared with a brute, They're surpassed quite as much as a flower does its root. One is even, as smooth, and as white as a nut; While the other is jagged, and blacker than soot. Slow decaying away, from the poisonous food, Which, to pleasure the palate, the victims have chewed. Still, in spite the result, as of sense quite bereft, They persist, like the lunatics lately I've left. I can't drive the _foul_ smell from my nose," he exclaimed; "The effluvia such hold on my sense has obtained."

Then weeks and weeks rolled slowly by, And nothing strange had met the eye. The birds had ris'n every morn, And frightened been from off the corn. The bees had sipped the flow'ry juice, Preparing it for private use. The sheep had parted with their fleece; They held it on uncertain lease. The fruit had all been plucked, or fell, And made more ill than tongue can tell. The golden grain by reapers' care, Had strewn the rich fields everywhere; And filled the barns with Nature's store, For winter's use when summer's o'er. For Autumn's sunny days are past, And gloomy clouds are gathering fast. While northern gales assail the trees, Their treasures scattering to the breeze. Poor Peter, through unlucky fate, Has not been fishing out of late. He cannot fly that fearful dream, Which in the dusky night will seem To float before his slumb'ring gaze To fright his heart, and thoughts amaze. The Abbot fills him, too, with fear; He fancies he is always near, He cannot from his presence get, But feels like some one dunn'd for debt. And trembles when he meets those eyes That love to catch him by surprise.

But dogs can't always watchful keep; Most wide-awake men sometimes sleep; And Peter gains a short respite From thoughts which needlessly affright. For really he was watched by none, Save what his conscience may have done.

O day of bliss! O joyful day! The Abbot hastens far away, And comes not back till morrow's night! Old Peter seems delighted quite. "I will dine and will sup too off Jack," said he; "Nicely lined with veal stuffing. What joy! what glee! Let me see, where's my tackle? In yonder hole; I must catch a few gudgeon and have a troll. O I know a snug spot where the river runs deep, And there I will be ere they wake from their sleep. I will see that their breakfast is nicely made, And that, also, the reckoning's duly paid.

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_CHAPTER THE EIGHTH._

The morn was dull when Peter rose; And stormy, like the north wind blows; While the dark sky too plainly shows Ere long there will be rain. "But still," thinks he; "I'll go in spite; 'Twill sharpen up their appetite, And make them all the better bite; Such chance to lose gives pain. I tarry may a month or more, Till Christmas comes perchance, before I shall another day secure; If so, I'll go again. Then, with what food he could procure, He hurried through the Abbey door; But oft looked back to make quite sure; His fears were really vain.

Pray, angling reader, was it ne'er your fate, When fish were biting to be short of bait? Have you ne'er roked about in terra-firma To find a grub, a chrysalis, a worm--or For e'en a grasshopper searched o'er a field Which would not e'en a caterpillar yield, While droves of perch, impatient to be hooked, Have vainly round for some temptation looked?

Now, in such a position was poor Peter placed; He had flown to the river in very great haste. Still, although he had sought out a gravelly nook, But a pair of young gudgeons approached near his hook. In the space of an hour--so a trimmer he set; While he tried, though in vain, a few others to get. "There's a bite! there's a bite! see the reel how it turns!" He exclaimed, and his face with excitement fierce burns, "Ah, it now has stopt short! 'tis to pouch it," he thought; "Look! 'tis running again, and the fellow is caught!" But, alas! when he struck, to his grief and dismay He discovered, the jack had his bait torn away. "O how foolish," he said; "it was of me to throw That fine gudgeon away! I might guess 'twould be so. I detest using live bait, you're certain to lose them, For it seems the fish think they're put to amuse them, And away he will drag them, or into bits chews them-- Just avoiding the hook, which might stick in their teeth. Oh, their cunning it really surpasses belief! One would think they were brought up from birth as a thief. But I'll try trolling now, as they seem on the feed, They must swallow the hook if the bait they then heed. But vain his hope, though time away Skips fast; the fish admire delay, And scarce to him attention pay. Perchance, his want of skill they saw, And from destruction quick withdraw To where they may their lives insure.

'Tis but midday, yet darkness shrouds the sky, For clouds of blackness furiously roll by. The watery sun has fled, but not to rest-- Behind a cloud which overflows the West-- The distant thunder strikes the list'ning ear, And streams of lightning pour down far and near. Yet still dame Nature grasps the slippery rains, Who, struggling, long to scour the dusty plains.

But all these signs of tempest are forgot As soon as seen, or p'rhaps are heeded not, By our friend Peter, for behold his line Gently unrolls and cleaves a watery mine. With patient, anxious, fate-imploring look, He trembling hopes that now his laden hook May sink low down into the dark abyss, Midst fishes' entrails, where it cannot miss Its deadly hold; and where, till life shall fly, The barbed hook immoveable may lie. But, oh! his chicks he counts before they're hatched, For by his foe, in skill, he's more than matched, (The scaly monster,) who at length of line, The close acquaintance sharply does decline. He tugged, it pulled, but all, alas! was vain, For one on t'other not an inch could gain. First Peter, winding, thought his foe waxed faint, But quickly Jack untwisting--cried, "I aint." Thus passed an hour, but still he keeps the water, Though Peter stormed, and vowed he'd give no quarter When land he reached; but Jack thought all this fun, And cried "No quarter! I'll 'scape whole or none." Then the friar, impatient, began to use force, When his line snapt in two, as a matter of course.

Oh! how then enraged, from his head he tore The little of hair that his cropped pate bore, As he flung himself down out of breath to the ground, And furious raved at each object around. While such very bad words at the fish he said, That I'm sure they should never in print be read. For, pray why should a muse, for amusement who sings, Fill her kind readers' mouth with another's foul things. 'Tis a fault I lament, so I'll not have a share in The habit some have of quotation in swearing. In heavy drops the water now descends; And earth with sky the darkening torrent blends. Which soaking through the friar, tries to cool His anger, and persuade him he's a fool. "But still," said he; "I will not leave in spite, Till one I've caught, although the coming night Shall fling down shadows to obscure my sight; Here will I stop until they choose to bite."

Then Time rushed past, but unsuccessful still His firm resolve he tarries to fulfil. While louder yet the tempest wildly roars, And drives the torrent o'er surrounding shores. Whence down, resistless, onward bounding hurls The bubbling current, and like whirlpool curls. The frightened fish, too nervous, far, to feed, Dive down and hide beneath a battered reed. Yet to measure the stream with his line he persists, Though his arms they feel sprained, and ache down to the wrists; And the darkness of night appeared really approaching, As quick shade after shade on his light came encroaching.

But, wearied now, the rain gives o'er the fight, Though thundering clouds have not expended quite Their rumbling yet; and oft the forked light Illumes the stream, which to the friar shows How high the waters o'er its margin flows.

It is supper-time now, and a fish growing bold, On the bait as it neared him caught suddenly hold. How the fisherman grins as the cord outward rolled, Though he shivers, and all his teeth chatter with cold. "How it runs! how it runs! like an arrow it flies! I am certain," he said; "'tis a fish of great size. For my patience, though late, I shall still gain a prize. Sure, I think, it down straight Must have swallowed the bait; For, of line but a few yards are left. I must strike, or I fear They will too, disappear, And he then may walk off with his theft." 'Twas a capital stroke, But his top-joint he broke, So he seizes the line with his hand. And then works it about, Till he's tired quite out, For the fish seems averse to the land. "Patience, patience!" he said, Talking inside his head; "Have you not tried for hours, and have yet taken naught? Then be patient and wait, Though it p'rhaps may be late, Still the fish at the end of your line is half caught."

An hour passed, and every gleam of light Flies, with the sun afraid of gloomy night. Yet still our friend is in the selfsame plight, The fish is lively, though he's wearied quite. And shakes, not now with cold alone, but fright, For every tree he fancies is a sprite. His sport, I fear, is not unmix'd delight. He once or twice had drawn the line up tight, And thought by strength to drag the fish out right, But feared that, p'rhaps, it like the other might Escape; so slackening, granted a respite To Jack, who, rushing forth with new delight, Seemed much astonished at this act polite.

Another hour! and lively as before The pike appears; while Peter, wearied sore, With itching fingers longs his fate to try, Yet dares not stand the hazard of the die. But with a dash the fish the die has cast, For through his hand the slippery line ran fast; And, tangling 'mongst his fingers, drew him close The rapid stream; which o'er its banks had rose, A slip, a plunge, headforemost in the tide He dived; then rising--vainly struggling--tried To reach the bank; but not a ray of light Appeared to guide; so deeper in his fright He sank; while waves fast closing o'er his head, In murmurings whispered, that all hope had fled. Then down the stream, still powerful and strong, The fish his breathless body drags along.

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_MORAL._