CHAPTER XXX

PEG OF LIMAVADDY

Between Coleraine and Derry there is a daily car (besides one or two occasional queer-looking coaches), and I had this vehicle, with an intelligent driver, and a horse with a hideous raw on his shoulder, entirely to myself for the five-and-twenty miles of our journey. The cabins of Coleraine are not parted with in a hurry, and we crossed the bridge, and went up and down the hills of one of the suburban streets, the Ban flowing picturesquely to our left; a large Catholic chapel, the before-mentioned cabins, and farther on, some neat-looking houses and plantations, to our right. Then we began ascending wide lonely hills, pools of bog shining here and there amongst them, with birds, both black and white, both geese and crows, on the hunt. Some of the stubble was already ploughed up, but by the side of most cottages you saw a black potato-field that it was time to dig now, for the weather was changing and the winds beginning to roar. Woods, whenever we passed them, were flinging round eddies of mustard-coloured leaves; the white trunks of lime and ash trees beginning to look very bare. Then we stopped to give the raw-backed horse water; then we trotted down a hill with a noble bleak prospect of Lough Foyle and the surrounding mountains before us, until we reached the town of Newtown Limavaddy, where the raw-backed horse was exchanged for another not much more agreeable in his appearance, though, like his comrade, not slow on the road.

Newtown Limavaddy is the third town in the county of Londonderry. It comprises three well-built streets, the others are inferior; it is, however, respectably inhabited; all this may be true, as the well-informed Guide-book avers, but I am bound to say that I was thinking of something else as we drove through the town, having fallen eternally in love during the ten minutes of our stay. Yes, Peggy of Limavaddy, if Barrow and Inglis have gone to Connemara to fall in love with the Misses Flynn, let us be allowed to come to Ulster and offer a tribute of praise at your feet--at your stockingless feet, O Margaret! Do you remember the October day (‘twas the first day of the hard weather), when the way-worn traveller entered your inn? But the circumstances of this passion had better be chronicled in deathless verse.

PEG OF LIMAVADDY

Riding from Coleraine (Famed for lovely Kitty), Came a cockney bound Unto Derry city; Weary was his soul, Shivering and sad he Bump’d along the road Leads to Limavaddy.

Mountains stretch’d around, Gloomy was their tinting, And the horse’s hoofs Made a dismal clinting; Wind upon the heath Howling was and piping, On the heath and bog, Black with many a snipe in: ‘Mid the bogs of black, Silver pools were flashing, Crows upon their sides Picking were and splashing. Cockney on the car Closer folds his plaidy, Grumbling at the road Leads to Limavaddy.

Through the crashing woods Autumn brawl’d and bluster’d, Tossing round about Leaves the hue of mustard; Yonder lay Lough Foyle, Which a storm was whipping, Covering with mist Lake, and shores, and shipping. Up and down the hill (Nothing could be bolder), Horse went with a raw, Bleeding on his shoulder. ‘Where are horses changed?’ Said I to the laddy Driving on the box: ‘Sir, at Limavaddy.’

Limavaddy inn’s But a humble baithouse, Where you may procure Whisky and potatoes; Landlord at the door Gives a smiling welcome To the shivering wights Who to his hotel come. Landlady within Sits and knits a stocking, With a wary foot Baby’s cradle rocking.

To the chimney nook, Having found admittance, There I watch a pup Playing with two kittens; (Playing round the fire, Which of blazing turf is, Roaring to the pot Which bubbles with the murphies); And the cradled babe Fond the mother nursed it, Singing it a song As she twists the worsted!

Up and down the stair Two more young ones patter (Twins were never seen Dirtier nor fatter); Both have mottled legs, Both have snubby noses, Both have--Here the host Kindly interposes: ‘Sure you must be froze With the sleet and hail, sir, So will you have some punch, Or will you have some ale, sir?’

Presently a maid Enters with the liquor, (Half a pint of ale Frothing in a beaker). Gods! I didn’t know What my beating heart meant, Hebe’s self I thought Enter’d the apartment. As she came she smiled, And the smile bewitching, On my word and honour, Lighted all the kitchen!

With a curtsey neat Greeting the new-comer, Lovely, smiling Peg Offers me the rummer; But my trembling hand Up the beaker tilted, And the glass of ale Every drop I spilt it; Spilt it every drop (Dames, who read my volumes, Pardon such a word) On my whatd’yecall’ems!

Such a silver peal! In the meadows listening, You who’ve heard the bells Ringing to a christening; You who ever heard Caradori pretty, Smiling like an angel Singing ‘Giovinetti,’ Fancy Peggy’s laugh, Sweet, and clear, and cheerful, At my pantaloons With half-a-pint of beer full!

Witnessing the sight Of that dire disaster, Out began to laugh Missis, maid, and master; Such a merry peal, ‘Specially Miss Peg’s was (As the glass of ale Trickling down my legs was), That the joyful sound Of that ringing laughter Echoed in my ears Many a long day after.

When the laugh was done. Peg, the pretty hussy, Moved about the room Wonderfully busy; Now she looks to see If the kettle keep hot, Now she rubs the spoons, Now she cleans the teapot: Now she sets the cups Trimly and secure, Now she scours a pot, And so it was I drew her.

Thus it was I drew her Scouring of a kettle,[33] (Faith! her blushing cheeks Redden’d on the metal!) Ah! but ‘tis in vain That I try to sketch it; The pot perhaps is like, But Peggy’s face is wretched. No: the best of lead, And of Indian rubber, Never could depict That sweet kettle-scrubber!

See her as she moves! Scarce the ground she touches, Airy as a fay, Graceful as a duchess; Bare her rounded arm, Bare her little leg is, Vestris never show’d Ankles like to Peggy’s; Braided is her hair, Soft her look and modest, Slim her little waist Comfortably boddiced.

This I do declare, Happy is the laddy Who the heart can share Of Peg of Limavaddy; Married if she were, Blest would be the daddy Of the children fair Of Peg of Limavaddy; Beauty is not rare In the land of Paddy, Fair beyond compare Is Peg of Limavaddy.

Citizen or squire, Tory, Whig, or Radical would all desire Peg of Limavaddy. Had I Homer’s fire, Or that of Sergeant Taddy, Meetly I’d admire Peg of Limavaddy. And till I expire, Or till I grow mad, I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy!