ERIN.
Erin! thou art indeed of ancient race,
Erynnys bore thee, she who brought with her
That apple which retain’d in endless strife
Three Goddesses on Ida, she who urged
A few years later the fierce son of Thetis
To threaten Agamemnon: hardly could
Pallas withhold him and his lifted sword.
Forgettest thou thy merriment, thy jokes,
Thy genial hours, thy hospitable heart
Swift to fly open with the whiskey-cork?
Forgettest thou thy bard who, hurried home
From distant lands and, bent by poverty,
Reposed among the quiet scenes he loved
In native Auburn, nor disdain’d to join
The village dancers on the sanded floor?
No poet since hath Nature drawn so close
To her pure bosom as her Oliver.
Thou hearest yet the melodies of Moore,
Who sang your blue-eyed maidens worthily
If any voice of song can reach so high.
Why art thou, Erin, like a froward child
Struggling with screams to scratch its nurse’s face,
And, pincht by hunger, throwing food away?
Thy harp sounds only discords: wilt thou never
Awake from dreams of murder? Shall the priest
Chaunt vobiscum and, before he leaves
The chapel, thrust a dagger in a hand
Working to grasp it?
But not all who chaunt
Are alike bloody-minded: one I knew
Familiar with his flock, nor much averse
To fare with it the seventh day, or sixth,
Or any other in the calendar.
By summer’s heat his lips were often parcht,
By winter’s cold as often. The Right Reverend
My lord the bishop scantily provided
For this poor brother; was it not enough
To own him, and to ask him how he did?
His modesty might have been deeply hurt
Had he seen sundry rents in certain parts
Where rents are most unseemly, and the girls
Might titter at ‘em as they sew’d ‘em up.
Then, had not the Eight Reverend given him
Quite as much food as raven gave Elijah
By that divine commission from above?
Elijah was no curate, but a prophet,
And men should feed according to their station.
Poor were my friend’s parishioners: he met
The wealthiest of them: “Faith and troth!” he cried,
“My eyes are ready to leap out to see
Thy merry face, Mic! Are all well at home?
Judy, that pattern wife, Bess, that brave girl,
Match for a lord, if lord were match for her.”
“Bedad! my eyes would have met yours halfway,”
Said honest Mic, and kist the proffer’d hand.
“Ours are all well; but Bess hath two feet lame
With chilblains, broken or about to break;
They plague her, and our Judy plagues her worse
Because she would put stockings on, the minx!
And how the divil find another pair
Entire and dacent for Saint Patrick’s day?
Judy’s will fit no other leg than hers,
And she has only one to bless her with,
This one she can not spare; it may please God
To send another in His own good time,
And then, who knows? we all must live in hope.
Now, father, will your Reverence step indoors?”
“Impossible. I must be home to dinner.
What have you? buttermilk?”
“The cow is kilt
And barrel’d, and at Bristow by the stamer.”
“A slice of bacon?”
“Bacon? plenty, plenty,
Come Michaelmas’, my blessed saint’s own day.
Look yonder; there he lies and winks at us,
And rises not, even to your Reverence.
But he shall pay for it, come Michaelmas,
The pay-day and the saint’s day the world over.
Grunt, grunt away, boy! thou shalt change thy note
For shriller, longer-winded; wait awhile.
“Mic, we must all await the appointed hour.
Let him be aisy, and don’t bother him
Because thou art the luckier of the two,
For thou canst shove thy sins upon my shoulder
And leave wet eyes behind when thine are dry.”
“Father! that ugly baist hath made you low.”
“Well, I do think I would be better for
A drop, or half a drop, of cool nate whiskey.”
“Was ever such bad luck since stills were stills!
Jue drank the last to comfort her poor child.”