"It"s yours," said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss Macan"s finger; "and now for your promise."
"Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song has one, and here it is."
"Miss Macan"s song!" said Power, tapping the table with his knife.
"Miss Macan"s song!" was re-echoed on all sides; and before the luckless General could interfere, she had begun:--
"Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone?
Oh! she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the widow Malone, Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.
"Of lovers she had a full score, Or more; And fortunes they all had galore, In store; From the Minister down To the Clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.
"But so modest was Mrs. Malone, "Twas known No one ever could see her alone, Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne"er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.
"Till one Mr. O"Brien from Clare,-- How quare, It"s little for blushing they care, Down there, Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses, at laste,-- "Oh," says he, "you"re my Molly Malone,"
My own; "Oh," says he, "you"re my Molly Malone."
"And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye!
Ne"er thought of a simper or sigh; For why?
But "Lucius," says she, "Since you"ve now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone."
"There"s a moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And, one comfort, it"s not very long, But strong; If for widows you die, Larn to kiss, not to sigh, For they"re all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone!
Oh! they"re very like Mistress Malone."
Never did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan"s.
"I insist upon a copy of "The Widow," Miss Macan," said Power.
"To be sure; give me a call to-morrow--let me see--about two. Father Magrath won"t be at home," said she, with a coquettish look.
"Where pray, may I pay my respects?"
Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few lines, saying, as she handed it--
"There, now, don"t read it here before all the people; they"ll think it mighty indelicate in me to make an appointment."
Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macan"s carriage was announced.
When she had taken her departure, "Doubt it who will," said Power, "she has invited me to call on her to-morrow--written her address on my card--told me the hour she is certain of being alone. See here!" At these words he pulled forth the card, and handed it to a friend.
Scarcely were the eyes of the latter thrown upon the writing, when he said, "So, this isn"t it, Power!"
"To be sure it is, man. Read it out. Proclaim aloud my victory."
Thus urged, his friend read:--
"Dear P.,--Please pay to my credit--and soon, mark ye--the two ponies lost this evening. I have done myself the pleasure of enjoying your ball, kissed the lady, quizzed the papa and walked into the cunning Fred Power.--Yours,
"FRANK WEBBER.
""The Widow Malone, Ohone!" is at your service."
Sam Wham and the Sawmont.
BY SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON (1810-1886).
"Knieving trouts" (they call it tickling in England) is good sport. You go to a stony shallow at night, a companion bearing a torch; then, stripping to the thighs and shoulders, wade in, grope with your hands under the stones, sods, and other harbourage, till you find your game, then grip him in your "knieve" and toss him ash.o.r.e.
I remember, when a boy, carrying the splits for a servant of the family, called Sam Wham. Now, Sam was an able young fellow, well-boned and willing, a hard headed cudgel player, and a marvellous tough wrestler, for he had a backbone like a sea serpent--this gained him the name of the Twister and Twiner. He had got into the river, and with his back to me was stooping over a broad stone, when something bolted from under the bank on which I stood, right through his legs. Sam fell with a great splash on his face, but in falling jammed whatever it was against the stone. "Let go, Twister!" shouted I; ""Tis an otter, he will nip a finger off you." "Whist!" sputtered he, as he slid his hand under the water. "May I never read a text again if he isna a sawmont wi" a shoulther like a hog!" "Grip him by the gills, Twister," cried I. "Saul will I!" cried the Twiner; but just then there was a heave, a roll, a splash, a slap like a pistol-shot: down went Sam, and up went the salmon, spun like a shilling at a pitch-and-toss, six feet into the air.
I leaped in just as he came to the water, but my foot caught between two stones, and the more I pulled the firmer it stuck. The fish fell into the spot shallower than that from which he had leaped. Sam saw the chance, and tackled to again; while I, sitting down in the stream as best I might, held up my torch, and cried, "Fair play!" as, shoulder to shoulder, through, out, and about, up and down, roll and tumble, to it they went, Sam and the salmon. The Twister was never so twined before.
Yet, through cross-b.u.t.tocks and capsizes innumerable, he still held on; now haled through a pool; now haling up a bank; now heels over head; now head over heels; now, head over heels together, doubled up in a corner; but at last stretched fairly on his back, and foaming for rage and disappointment; while the victorious salmon, slapping the stones with its tail, and whirling the spray from its shoulders at every roll, came boring and snoring up the ford. I tugged and strained to no purpose; he flashed by me with a snort, and slid into deep water. Sam now staggered forward with battered bones and pilled elbows, blowing like a grampus, and cursing like nothing but himself. He extricated me, and we limped home. Neither rose for a week; for I had a dislocated ankle, and the Twister was troubled with a broken rib. Poor Sam! He had his brains discovered at last by a poker in a row, and was worm"s meat within three months; yet, ere he died, he had the satisfaction of feasting on his old antagonist, who was man"s meat next morning. They caught him in a net.
Sam knew him by the twist in his tail.
Darby Doyle"s Voyage to Quebec.
_From "The Dublin Penny Journal," 1832._
BY THOMAS ETTINGSALL (17----1850).
I tuck the road one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an" got up to the Cove safe an" sound. There I saw many ships with big broad boords fastened to ropes, every one ov them saying "The first vessel for Quebec." Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager; this one siz she"ll be first, and that one siz she"ll be first. I pitched on one that was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax the fare, who shou"d come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould townsman ov my own.
"Och, is it yoorself that"s there, Ned?" siz I; "are ye goin" to Amerrykey?"
"Why, an" to be shure," sez he; "I"m _mate_ ov the ship."
"Meat! that"s yer sort, Ned," siz I; "then we"ll only want bread. Hadn"t I betther go and pay my way?"
"You"re time enough," siz Ned; "I"ll tell you when we"re ready for sea--leave the rest to me, Darby."
"Och, tip us your fist," siz I; "you were always the broath of a boy; for the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a bite to ate."
Many"s the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to leave it all to him, and how comfortable he"d make me on the voyage. Day afther day we spint together, waitin" for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to grow very light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther dinner:--
"Darby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow--you"d betther go on boord an" pay your way."