That when he was mouldering in the cold grave
His enemies never should have it to boast
His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost;
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry,
For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he’d die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem on;
There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
An’ sogers on guard, an’ dhragoons sword-in-hand;
An’ the court-house so full that the people wor bothered,
An’ attorneys an’ criers on the pint iv bein’ smothered;
An! counsellors almost gev over for dead,
An’ the jury sittin’ up in their box overhead;
An’ the judge settled out so detarmined an’ big,
With his gown on his back, and an illigant new wig;
An’ silence was called, an’ the minute ’twas said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead.
An’ they heard but the openin’ of one prison lock,
An’ Shamus O’Brien kem into the dock.
For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An’ he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong,
An’ he saw that he had not a hope, nor a friend,
A chance to escape, nor a word to defend:
An’ he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
And they read a big writin’, a yard long at laste,
An’ Jim didn’t undherstand it, nor mind it a taste.
An’ the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, an’ he says,
“Are you guilty or not, Jim O’Brien, av you plase?”
An’ all held their breath in the silence of dhread,
An’ Shamus O’Brien made answer, and said,
“My lord, if you ask me, if in my life time
I thought any treason, or did any crime
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death blow,
Before God and the world I would answer you, no;
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in The Rebellion I carried a pike,
An’ fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,
An’ shed the heart’s blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, yes, an’ I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, it’s my glory that-, then
In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, — .
An’ that now for her sake I am ready to die.”
Then the silence was great, an’ the jury smiled bright,
An’ the judge wasn’t sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it’s himself was the crabbed ould chap,
In a twinklin’ he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus’ mother in the crowd standing by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry,
“Oh, judge, darlin’, don’t, oh, don’t say the word,
The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord;
He was foolish, he didn’t know what he was doin’ —
You don’t know him, my lord, oh, don’t give him to ruin —
He’s the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted —
Don’t part us for ever, we that’s so long parted.
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An’ God will forgive you, oh, don’t say the word!”
That was the first minute that O’Brien was shaken,
When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An’ down his pale cheeks at the words of his mother, —
The big tears wor runnin’ fast, one after th’other.
An’ two or three times he endeavoured to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;
But at last by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and masthered his grief’s swelling tide,
“An’,” says he, “mother, darlin’, don’t break your poor heart,
For sooner or later the dearest must part;
And God knows it’s betther than wandering in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountains among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave where the head, heart, and breast
From thought, labour, and sorrow for ever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin’, don’t cry any more,
Don’t make me seem broken in this my last hour,
For I wish when my head’s lyin’ undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!”
Then towards the judge Shamus bent down his head,
An’ that minute the solemn death-sintence was said.
The mornin’ was bright, an’ the mists rose on high,
An’ the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky —
But why are the men standin’ idle so late?
An’ why do the crowds gother fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An’ why does the long rope hang from the crosstree?
Oh! Shamus O’Brien pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
Pray fast an’ pray strong, for the moment is nigh,
When sthrong, proud, an’ great as you are, you must die.
An’ fasther an’ fasther the crowd gathered there,
Boys, horses and gingerbread, just like a fair;
An’ whiskey was selling, an’ cussamuck too,
And ould men and young women enjoying the view.
An’ ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark,
There wasn’t sich a sight since the time of the Ark;
An-’ be gorra ’twas thrue for him, divil such a ‘ scruge,
Sich divarshin and crowds was known since the deluge.
For thousands was gothered there, if there was one,
Waitin’ till such time as the hangin’ id come on.
At last they threw open the big prison gate,
An’ out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state,
An’ a cart in the middle, an’ Shamus was in it;
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
An’ as soon as the people saw Shamus O’Brien,
Wid prayin’ and blessin’, and all the girls cryin’;
A wild wailin’ sound kem on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin’ thro’ trees.
On, on to the gallows, the sheriffs are gone,
An’ the cart an’ the sodgers go steadily on;
An’ at every side swellin’ around of the cart,
A wild sorrowful sound that ‘id open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
An’ the hangman gets up wid the rope in his hand;
An’ the priest having blest him, goes down on the ground,
An’ Shamus O’Brien throws one last look around.
Then the hangman dhrew near, and the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts went chill;
An’ the rope bein’ ready, his neck was made bare,
For the gripe iv the life-stranglin’ cord to prepare:
An’ the good priest has left him, havin’ said his last prayer.
But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound,
And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground;
Bang, bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabres,
He’s not down! he’s alive still! now stand to him neighbours.
Through the smoke and the horses he’s into the crowd,
By the heavens he’s free! than thunder more loud
&n
bsp; By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken —
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin’, it’s yourselves you must hang;
To night he’ll be sleepin’ in Aherloe Glin,
An’ the divil’s in the dice if you catch him again.
The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An’ father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
An’ the sheriffs wor both of them punished severely,
An’ fined like the divil, because Jim done them fairly.
PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE
Oh, Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy,
And he stood six foot eight,
And his arm was as round as another man’s thigh,
’Tis Phaudhrig was great, —
And his hair was as black as the shadows of night,
And hung over the scars left by many a fight;
And his voice, like t e thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,
And his eye like the lightnin’ from under the cloud.
And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil,
And sweet when he chose it, for he was the divil.
An’ there wasn’t a girl from thirty-five undher,
Divil a matter how crass, but he could come round her.
But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, one
Was the girl of his heart, an’ he loved her alone.
An’ warm as the sun, as the rock firm an’ sure,
Was the love of the heart of Phaudhrig Crohoore;
An’ he’d die for one smile from his Kathleen O’Brien,
For his love, like his hatred, was sthrong as the lion.
But Michael O’Hanlon loved Kathleen as well
As he hated Crohoore — an’ that same was like hell.
But O’Brien liked hint, for they were the same parties,
The O’Briens, O’Hanlons, an’ Murphys, and Cartys —
An’ they all went together an’ hated Crohoore,
For it’s many the batin’ he gave them before;
An’ O’Hanlon made up to O’Brien, an’ says he:
“I’ll marry your daughter, if you’ll give her tome.”
And the match was made up, an’ when Shrovetide came on,
The company assimbled three hundred if one:
There was all the O’Hanlons, an’ Murphys, an’ Cartys,
An’ the young boys an’ girls av all o’ them parties;
An’ the O’Briens, av coorse, gathered strong on that day,
An’ the pipers an’ fiddlers were tearin’ away;
There was roarin’, an’ jumpin’, an’ jiggin’, an’ flingin’,
‘An’ jokin’, an’ blessin’, and kissin’, and singin’,
An’ they wor all laughin’ — why not, to be sure? —
‘How O’Hanlon came inside of Phaudhrig Crohoore.
An’ they all talked an’ laughed the length of the table,
Atin’ an’ dhrinkin’ all while they wor able,
And with pipin’ an’ fiddlin’ an’ roarin’ like tundher,
Your head you’d think fairly was splittin asundher;
And the priest called out, “Silence, ye blackguards, agin!”
An’ he took up his prayer-book, just goin’ to begin,
An’ they all held their tongues from their funnin’ and bawlin’,
So silent you’d notice the smallest pin failin’;
An’ the priest was just beg’nin’ to read, whin the door
Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore —
Oh! Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy,
An’ he stood six foot eight,
An’ his arm was as round as another man’s thigh,
’Tis Phaudhrig was great —
An’ he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye,
As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky,
An’ none sthrove to stop him, for Phaudhrig was great,
Till he stood all alone, just apposit the sate
Where O’Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride,
Were sitting so illigant out side by side;
An’ he gave her one look that her heart almost broke,
An’ he turned to O’Brien, her father, and spoke,
An’ his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong, and loud,
An’ his eye shone like lightnin’ from under the cloud:
“I didn’t come here like a tame, crawlin’ mouse,
But I stand like a man in my inimy’s house;
In the field, on the road, Phaudhrig never knew fear
Of his foemen, an’ God knows he scorns it here;
So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four,
To spake to the girl I’ll never see more.”
An’ to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone,
For he thought of the days when he called her his own,
Though his eye blazed like lightnin’ from under the cloud
On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud,
An’ says he: “Kathleen bawn, is it thrue what I hear,
That you marry of your own free choice, without fear?
If so, spake the word, an’ I’ll turn and depart,
Chated once, and once only, by woman’s false heart.”
Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb,
An’ she thried hard to spake, but the words wouldn’t come,
For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her,
Wint could on her heart as the night wind in winther.
An’ the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin’ to flow,
O’er her cheek pale as marble, like moonshine on snow;
Then the heart of bould Phaudhrig swelled high in its place,
For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face,
That though sthrangers an’ foemen their pledged hands might sever,
Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever.
An’ he lifted his voice, like the agle’s hoarse call,
An’ says Phaudhrig, “She’s mine still, in spite of yez all!”
Then up jumped O’Hanlon, an’ a tall boy was he,
An’ he looked on bould Phaudhrig as fierce as could be,
An’ says he, “By the hokey! before you go out,
Bould Phaudhrig Crohoore, you must fight for a bout.”
With that then, said Phaudhrig, “I’ll do my endeavour,”
An’ with one blow he stretched proud O’Hanlon for ever.
In his arms he took Kathleen, an’ stepped to the door;
And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before;
An’ they all were so bother’d, that not a man stirred
Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard.
Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm,
An’ they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm,
An’ they ran, and they raced, and they shouted galore;
But Kathleen and Phaudhrig they never saw more.
But them days are gone by, himself is no more;
An’ the green grass is growin’ o’er Phaudhrig Crohoore,
For he couldn’t be aisy or quiet at all;
As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall.
And he took a good pike — for Phaudhrig was great —
And he fought, and he fell in the year ninetyeight.
An’ the day that Crohoore in the green field was killed,
A sthrong boy was sthretched, and a sthrong heart was stilled.
MOLLY, MY DEAR
Since last I held your hand, dear Molly, ’tis many’s the year,
But altho’ you have wed with another, I still was true,
For I never could fancy a girl, dearest Molly, but you,
And the love of my heart was still with you, Molly,
my dear.
When last I held your hand, you were goin’ to be married, my dear,
But I knew by the paleness no cold words of yours could disguise,
And I knew by the tears that were dimming your beautiful eyes,
That in spite of them all, dear Molly, you loved me alone.
Since last I held your hand? I am changed from what I was then,
In battle, in danger, in storm, in strife I have stood,
Won honour arid glory and riches as much as I would;
But in this world, dear Molly I’ll never be happy again.
ABHAIN AU BHUIDEIL: ADDRESS OF A DRUNKARD TO A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY.
From what dripping cell, through what fairy glen,
Where ‘mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes his den;
Over what lonesome mountain,
Acuishla machree!
Where gauger never has trod,
Sweet as the flowery sod,
Wild as the breath
Of the breeze on the heath,
And sparkling all o’er like the moonlighted fountain,
Are you come to me —
Sorrowful me?
Dancing — inspiring —
My wild blood firin.’;
Oh! terrible glory —
Oh! beautiful siren —
Come, tell the old story —
Come, light up my fancy, and open my heart.
Oh, beautiful ruin —
My life — my undoin’ —
Soft and fierce as a pantheress,
Dream of my longing, and wreck of my soul,
I never knew love till I loved you, enchanthress!
At first, when I knew you, ’twas only flirtation,
The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye;
But ’tis different now— ’tis desperation!
I worship before you,
I curse and adore you,
And without you I’d die.
Wirrasthrue!
I wish ’twas again
The happy time when
I cared little about you,
Could do well without you,
But would just laugh and view you;
’Tis little I knew you!
Oh! terrible darling,
How have you sought me,
Enchanted, and caught me?
See, now, where you’ve brought me —
To sleep by the roadside, and dress out in rags.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 868
