Sir John Piers

OH! BOLD BAD BARONET

YOU NEED NO CORONET

YOU SIGN YOUR WARRANT WITH

       A BLOODY HAND.

INTRODUCTION

“In 1807, Sir John Piers, the last of the name who resided in Tristernagh, and who was a gambler, duellist, and spendthrift, was a school-fellow of the patriot, Lord Cloncurry. Shortly after the marriage of that nobleman, Piers, who shared his hospitality, and even received pecuniary aid from him, made a diabolical wager to ruin for life the happiness of the wedded pair. Mr. W. J. Fitzpatrick, the able biographer of Lord Cloncurry, says: ‘… A more unlikely person than Lady Cloncurry to prove unfaithful to him she had vowed to love, honour and obey, did not, perhaps, exist in Christendom. Can it be believed that such was the character which Sir John Piers resolved by every art of hell to wither and destroy? A bet, or agreement, as we have heard, was entered into between the monster and some kindred spirit, that in the event of the utter and complete ruin of Lord and Lady Cloncurry’s happiness, a sum of money would be placed to the credit of his (Piers’) account in a certain Dublin Bank. In case of failure, the operation was, of course, to be reversed.…’

“On the 19th of February, 1807, the celebrated trial, Cloncurry v. Piers, for crim. con., commenced in the Court of King’s Bench before Lord Chief Justice Downes. Damages were laid at £100,000. The case created great interest and resulted in a verdict for the plaintiff, £20,000 and costs. John Philpot Curran and Charles Kendal Bushe were the leading Counsel for Lord Cloncurry, and their speeches were what might be expected from such gifted advocates. Those who would wish to read the speeches should consult Curran and His Contemporaries, by Charles Philips. Piers put in no appearance at the trial. Haunted by the near approach of retribution, he packed his portmanteau and fled to the Isle of Man. By this proceeding his recognizances became, of course, forfeited to the Crown. After a time the strong arm of the law secured him; he gave what he could reluctantly enough, and his bond for the remainder. Assailed on all sides by creditors, Sir John Piers had a cottage built at Tristernagh, surrounded by a high wall, to protect himself from the minions of justice; but ruin and misfortune overtook him; his estates were sold out in the Encumbered Estates Court.”

(Annals of Westmeath, Ancient and Modern, by James Woods.)

 

I. The Fête Champêtre

Oh, gay lapped the waves on the shores of Lough Ennel

And sweet smelt the breeze ’mid the garlic and fennel,

But sweeter and gayer than either of these

Were the songs of the birds in Lord Belvedere’s trees.

The light skiff is push’d from the weed-waving shore,

The rowlocks creak evenly under the oar,

And a boatload of beauty darts over the tide,

The Baron Cloncurry and also his bride.

Lord Belvedere sits like a priest in the prow,

’Tis the Lady Mount Cashel sits next to him now.

And both the de Blacquieres to balance the boat,

Was so much nobility ever afloat?

The party’s arranged on the opposite shore,

Lord Clonmore is present and one or two more,

But why has the Lady Cloncurry such fears?

Oh, one of the guests will be Baronet Piers.

The grotto is reached and the parties alight,

The feast is spread out, and begob! what a sight,

Pagodas of jelly in bowls of champagne,

And a tower of blancmange from the Baron Kilmaine.

In the shell-covered shelter the grotto affords

The meats and the pies are arranged on the boards,

The nobility laugh and are free from all worry

Excepting the bride of the Baron Cloncurry.

But his lordship is gayer than ever before,

He laughs like the ripples that lap the lake shore,

Nor thinks that his bride has the slightest of fears

Lest one of the guests be the Baronet Piers.

A curricle rolling along on the grass,

The servants make way to allow it to pass,

A high-stepping grey and the wheels flashing yellow

And Sir John in the seat, what a capital fellow!

Huzza for Sir John! and huzza for the fête,

For without his assistance no fête is complete;

Oh, gay is the garland the ladies will wreathe

For the handsomest blade in the County Westmeath.

The harness is off with a jingle of steel,

The grey in the grass crops an emerald meal,

Sir John saunters up with a smile and a bow

And the Lady Cloncurry is next to him now.

Her eyes on the landscape, she don’t seem to hear

The passing remark he designs for her ear,

For smooth as a phantom and proud as a stork

The Lady Cloncurry continues her walk.

 

II. The Attempt

I love your brown curls, | black in rain, my colleen,

    I love your grey eyes, | by this verdant shore

Two Derravaraghs | to plunge into and drown me,

    Hold not those lakes of | light so near me more.

My hand lies yellow | and hairy in your pink hand,

    Fragilis rubra | of the bramble flower,

Yet soft and thornless, | cool and as caressing

    As grasses bending | heavy with a shower.

See how the clouds twist | over in the twilight,

    See how the gale is | ruffling up the lake;

Lie still for ever | on this little peninsula,

    Heart beat and heart beat | steady till we wake.

Hear how the beech trees | roar above Glencara,

    See how the fungus | circles in the shade,

Roar trees and moan, you | gliding royal daughters,

    Circle us with poison, | we are not afraid.

Gothic on Gothic | my abbey soars around me,

    I’ve walks and avenues | emerald from rain,

Plentiful timber | in a lake reflected,

    And creamy meadowsweet | scenting my demesne.

Press to your cheeks | my hand so hot and wasted,

    Smooth with my fingers | the freckles of your frown,

Take you my abbey, | it is yours for always,

    I am so full of | love that I shall drown.

                      I lie by the lake water

                           And you, Cloncurry, not near,

                      I live in a girl’s answer,

                           You, in a bawd’s fear.

 

III. The Exile

On Mannin’s rough coast-line the twilight descending

    With its last dying rays on thy height, O Snaefell!

A refuge of dark to the Island is lending

    And to yon cottage ornée that lies in the dell.

Its helpless inhabitant dare not appear in

    The rain-weathered streets of adjacent Rumsaa,

But he sees in his dreams the green island of Erin

    And he sits in an orat’ry most of the day.

Yet sometimes, at night, when the waves in commotion

    Are tumbling about round the long point of Ayr,

He strides through the tamarisks down to the ocean

    Beyond the lush curraghs of sylvan Lezayre.

Alone with his thoughts when the wild waves are beating

    He walks round to Jurby along the wet sand,

And there, where the moon shows the waves are retreating,

    He too would retreat to his own native land.

 

IV. The Return

My speculated avenues are wasted,

    The artificial lake is choked and dry,

My old delight by other lips is tasted,

    Now I can only build my walls and die.

I’ll nail the southern wall with Irish peaches,

    Portloman cuttings warmed in silver suns,

And eastwards to Lough Iron’s reedy reaches

    I’ll build against the vista and the duns.

To westward where the avenue approaches,

    Since they have felled the trees of my demesne,

And since I’ll not be visited by coaches,

    I’ll build a mighty wall against the rain.

And from the North, lest you, Malone, should spy me

    You, Sunderlin of Baronstown, the peer,

I’ll fill your eye with all the stone that’s by me

    And live four-square protected in my fear.

Blue dragonflies dart on and do not settle,

    Live things stay not; although my walls are high,

They keep not out the knapweed and the nettle,

    Stone are my coffin walls, waiting till I die.

 

V. Tristernagh To-day

In the ivy dusty is the old lock rusty

    That opens rasping on the place of graves,

’Tis no home for mortals behind those portals

    Where the shining dock grows and the nettle waves.

Of the walls so ferny, near Tristernagh churchyard,

    Often the learned historians write,

And the Abbey splendificent, most magnificent,

    Ribbed and springing in ancient night.

Kyrie eleison! blessed St. Bison!

    Holy Piran! Veronica’s Veil!

SS. Columb, Colman and St. Attracta,

    Likewise St. Hector, please aid my tale!

Holy Virgin! What’s that emergin’?

    I daren’t go down in the place of graves,

Head of a dragonfly, twenty times magnified,

    Creeping diagonal, out of the caves!

Dockleaves lapping it, maidenhair flapping it,

    Blue veins mapping it, skin of the moon,

Suck of the bog in it, cold of the frog in it,

    Keep it away from me, shrouded cocoon.

The worms are moving this soft and smooth thing

    And I’m the creature for foolish fears,

There’s not a feature that’s super nature

    ’Tis only rational, ’tis

                         SIR

                                JOHN

                                            PIERS.