Chapter 2

O then 'twas his, 'twas Jabez Gray's
Reward and recompense,
To hear his Sire bespeake ye Mayde,
In fond and future tense,

He pry'd it in ye dark of night,
Beyond ye garden gate,
"I'll wed thee Sue, myself, to save
Thy name from evil prate."

He heard ye Sire bespeak ye Mayde,
In tender guise, ye same,
As he did plead, before ye split,
To save ye Sire, his name.
He heard ye Parent, tell to Sue,
Ye lack of manly sense,
Of him, ye son, and with ye kiss,
He spake in future tense.

Ye little month did pass, and then,
Ye Parent wed ye Mayde,
And this, ye counsel to ye son,
In confidence he say'd,
"Ye Spinster Sue is now ye Wife,
Of fair and goodly fame,
Be duteous to her, as ye son
Respect thy Sire, his name!"

IN BURTON Crescent, on the semi-circle apex there,
I lodged some little period up a six flight four foot stair,
It came about by freak of chance, 'twas in a cul-de-sac,
I found myself one morning, and compelled to tramp it back,
Whilst blessing gates of London town that bar the traffic yet,
I saw a window label, lettered, "lodgings to be let,"
A gloomy habitation 'twas, to give the nerves the creep!
But possibly a comfortable roosting place to sleep,
Of knockers on its oaken door, it bore a double stock,
I took those knockers, and I struck duet of double knock,
And just as I was rounding off my rallantando din,
The door was gently opened and a lady cried "Come in!"
I must confess, I fluttered with a flick of some surprise,
To see a lady so petite, and with such piercing eyes,
An artificial bloom was on her cheek, and nose, and neck,
Her gown was of a quaint brocade in antique floral check.
By transmutating hand of time, and his assistant care,
The golden sheen to silver light was paling thro' her hair,
And from the dentistry of art, that crowned her rippled chin,
She greeted me with pearly smile, the moment I stepped in.
I noted on her fingers small, some antique diamond rings,
And in her slippers russet brown, she tripped as 'twere on springs,
A dainty wrap, completed her little quaintly self,
She seemed a living Watteau, that stepped from off a shelf.
She seemed a living Watteau, from out a canvas sprung,
She wasn't--no, she wasn't--well you could not call her young.
She greeted me upsmiling, with business kindled fire,
And volunteered the question,
"What rooms do you require?"
It wasn't my intention, to move upon that day,
My humor was to dawdle, in idle sort of way,
So left it to her option, if twenty rooms or one,
In earth upon the basement, or garret near the sun.
She showed her approbation of my eccentric style,
And greeted me politely, with confidential smile,
"I have a room, the lodger is yet remaining there,
But leaving soon--I'll show it, if you will step the stair.--
She mounted up before me, her little cloak, like wings,
Did supplement her flexor, and her extensor springs,
She paused upon each lobby, to note the pleasing scene,
Of leaves amongst the chimneys, that lent a tint of green.
The sanitary question, she settled with some pains,
Explained, the County Council had just been down the drains,

And thus discussing features, and questions to be met,
We landed on the landing of lodging to be let.
Upon the door with knuckle she struck a low rum-tin,
And tardily was answered by husky voice "Come in."
To purpose of her visit, he gave a mild assent,
Which somewhat indicated a debt of backward rent.
We entered the apartment, and gaunt, and wan, and scared!
From tangle of the blankets, blear-eyed, and towsel-haired,
A moment rose the lodger, then underneath the clothes,
He snapped himself like oyster, and only left his nose.

I took a swift synopsis, again we stepped the stair,
She bowed me to her parlour, and all around me there,
Were virtue objects, suited for curioso sale,
Art of the reign of Louis, and good old Chippendale,
Cameo ware of Wedgewood, and Worcester bric-a-brac,
Miniatures of beauties, and oriental lac,
A cabinet and tables, in marquetry of buhl,
And feminine arrangements, of bombazine and tulle.
Old mezzotint engravings of Regent, buck and lord,
Between the window curtains, an agèd harpsichord.--
The instrument she fingered, and sang an olden rune,
She sang with taste, but slightly, the strings were out of tune,
She warbled of the Regent, of Sheridan and Burke,
Buck Nash, and of Beau Brummel, and of the fatal work,
Enacted in a duel, then struck a broken string,
And with a sigh she faltered, and then she ceased to sing.
I told her, composition of song, was in my line,
Then, with a look intended as tender and divine,
And mode of days of Brummel, in manner and in style,
She lauded up the bedroom with captivating smile,
Electro-biologic, magnetic in her glance,
She fixed me like a medium, as tenant in advance!

* * * * *

I entered occupation, as soon as I could get,
And everything in order, was for my comfort set,
The room was daily garnished, and swept, my bed was made,
In this was comprehended the lot for which I paid,
My daily mastication, in public grill was frayed,
Monotonous, and easy, with quiet self-content,
I went and came in silence, in silence came and went,
Was no domestic welcome when I came in, not one!
And in the morning ditto, till I was up and gone.
No sound of brush or bucket! no jar of door, or delph!
No foot upon the stairs, except the pair I have myself!
No smutty wench to greet me with cloud of dusty mat!
No snarl of vicious lap dog, or hiss of humping cat!
No slavey whiting up the steps, did ever strike my sight!
Yet everything was fixed for me, when I came home at night!

But often on my pillow, when darkness was my ward,
I heard the muffled numbers of distant harpsichord!
I heard a plaintive ballad, to measured cadence set,
Of long ago, that sounded for lordly minuet!
In wierdly notes it fluttered and lingered on the wing,
With wailing for the duel! the sigh! and broken string!

* * * * *

But once when I was taking a smoking circumflex,
Around the Burton Crescent, and just at its apex,
I heard a voice behind me, that put me on some toast,
"Look! there's the man, that's living with Madame Stiffin's Ghost!"
I turned, and in the lamplight, distinctly I could see,
A woman's dexter finger, was indicating me!
"He's living as a lodger, above the second floor
Of yonder house, that's haunted, with double-knockered door,
Look! isn't he a cough-drop? it's only such a scare,
Would live in such a lodging, with Madam Stiffin there!"

I never felt so worried at anything before!
Could scarcely find the keyhole of double-knockered door,
And up the stairs I tottered, as in a walking trance,
Next morning, she'd be coming for payment in advance,
Next morning, at the striking of twelve upon the clock,
I started from my slumber, it was her double knock!

I jumped up at the summons, and leaping out of bed,
I answered, and she entered, and unto her I said,
"I'm here thro' false pretences; _I understand you're dead_!"

A peal of mocking laughter, the little Watteau shook,
And with her arms akimbo, an attitude she struck,
She made an accusation of drink, and with a glance
Of keen reproach, demanded, her payment in advance!

I had already promised myself, that none should boast,
Of knowing me in future, as tenant of a ghost,
So got my cash, pretending to settle there, and then,
And just as she was lifting my eagle pointed pen,
Said I "Perhaps you'll give me receipt for also this?"
With that I would have tested her presence with a kiss!
I think my arm went thro' her, of that I can't be sure,
But with the table circuit, she took the bedroom door,
I took it quite as quick, and abreviated sight,
I caught of her next landing, and on her hasty flight,
From lobby down to lobby I chased her like a hare,
I tracked her to the kitchen, but lo! she wasn't there!
I flew into the area, back up the stairs I flew,
In drawing-room and parlour, in every bedroom too,
To overtake and seize her, with skidding foot I sped,
And under every sofa, and under every bed,
I searched,--it was a marvel!--exploited every flue,
Unlocked a couple of wardrobes and looked them thro' and thro',
Until in all its horror, the grim conviction grew,
I had in fact been lodging unconscious with a spook!
I rushed to get my waistcoat, pants, traps, and took my hook!

HE travelled by the mail,
On incognito scale,
With cautious care, and reck,
Of varied tricks of art.

For he had made a bag,
Of most extensive swag,
From bank where he was sec.,
And didn't want to part.

But story of his trick,
By telegraphic tick,
Brought him to book, and check,
It gave him quite a start,
He had it by a neck,
'Twas rough to have to part!

IT HAS been proved by more than one observant social Philosopher, that
the impressionable star gazer of the Music Halls is one who often
scatters rose leaves, and harvests thorns; let us hear what Muffkin
Moonhead has to sing, concerning his own experience.

IT cost a florin square,
Her photo I declare,
To wear,
With care
Of uttermost esteem,
In pocket of my breast,
That picture lay at rest,
And blest,
With zest,
That fluttered thro' my dream;
My dream of love, where she
Was posed, in extacy,
Of gay phantasmagoria,
Of beauty unto me.

Ten other bobs, I pay,
For hothouse plant bouquet,
When she,
On tree,
Of pantomimic treat
In semi-raiment stood,
As geni of the good,
I could,
And would,
Down cast them at her feet.
The feet of love where she
Was posed, in extacy,
Of bright phantasmagoria,
Of beauty unto me!

I took a numbered seat,
In stall select, and neat,
To treat
My sweet!
And when she did appear,
I flung the flow'rs I wis,
She took them, and with this,
O bliss
A kiss!
That thrilled me, while the cheer
Of gods applaudingly,
Did greet with storm of glee,
The loved phantasmagoria
Of beauty unto me!

Sweet osculating scene
Of bouquet, and my queen,
And smug
Chaste hug,
Of posies to her nose,
As poising on her toe,
And then subsiding low,
A glow
Flushed so,
On my cheek, like a rose,
The while she bowed the knee,
Then skipped away O.P.,
That lithe phantasmagoria,
Of beauty unto me!

* * * * *

I waited by the door,
Classic door! out they pour,
A score,
Or more,
Escorting her, I say!
And ha! may I be blest,
Upon each jerkin breast,
Confest,
Were drest,
The buds of my bouquet!
Said she to me "ta ta!
Go home to your mamma!"
It wrought the rude evanishment
Of love of her from me!

The moral it is this,
Don't dally with such bliss,
A miss,
Is kiss
Unto thee from the play,
A kiss for gods, and stall,
The pit, and tier, on all
To fall
And small
The fig, for your bouquet,
When it has brought the balm,
Of the applauding palm,
She shares it with the supers, and
She gives the chill to thee!

THE sun was setting in a gloam of purple and gold, as I basked in the
grass on the Staball hill one autumn evening, the stirring tuck of the
tattoo rolled up the slope from the adjacent barracks; it affected me
like a tonic, my blood circulated quicker, the spirit of an amateur
ghostly seer took possession of me! I felt as one inspired.

A scene of early days of Anglo-foreign strife rose before me like a
wraith of second sight. The tramp of sea-bound red coats, fifes and
drums, the woe-mongering cries of parting wives. I saw two lovers on the
Staball hill, heard their vows.

A rhyming fever tingled to my fingers' ends, my only manuscript medium
to hand, the stump of a lead pencil, and blank margin of the morning
paper. Upon that virgin border I jotted the sketch of the following
founded on fact ballad. The reader will perceive in it a beautiful
inverse lesson of the mutual commotion of two loving hearts.

THE bugle horn was sounding through the streets of Castlebar,
And many a gallant soldier, was bound unto the war,
And one upon the Staball hill, his sweetheart by his side
Swore many a rounded warlike oath, that she should be his bride.

"O Maggie!" cried the Corporal, "There's war across the sea,
And when I'm parted from thee, I would you'd pray for me,
And I will tell you what you'll do, when I am far away,
You'll come up to the Staball, and kneel for me, and pray."

And this to him she promised, and this to him she said,
"I'll still be ever true to thee, be thou alive, or dead!
I'll still be ever true to thee, and O if thou dost fall,
Thy soul at eve will find me here, upon the old Staball."

And then he swore a clinker oath, of what a vengeful doom,
Would him befal, who dared to win her from him, then the bloom
Came to her cheek again, "O Jim I'll never love but you,"
"I'm blowed but I'm the same!" he cried, and then they tore in two!

She saw her soldier leaving, she heard the music sweet,
Of "The girl I left behind me" sounding sadly up the street,
She saw the shrieking engine, that bore him far away,
Then went back to the Staball, to weep for him and pray.

And as the summer faded, and gloaming nights came round,
A maid anon was kneeling, upon that trysting ground,
And fearless of the winter, and of its falling snow,
That maiden sweet, and constant, unto her tryst would go.

Till on a certain evening, a stranger in the town,
Came sauntering up the Staball, and found her kneeling down,
He tipped her on the shoulder, and speaking soft, and low,
"O what on earth possesses you, to pray upon the snow."

She told him all her story then, and why so kneeling there,
She told him of her sorrowed heart, the object of her prayer,
She told him of her soldier lad, so far across the sea,
"I'd like to be a soldier lad, with you to love!" said he.

Said he "You're very lonely: If you have need to pray,
I'll come agrah! and help you, with 'Amens' if I may,
It's very hard acushla! to pray alone each night,"
And the colleen shyly answered, "She thought perhaps he might."

The tryst became more social for while the colleen prayed,
The stranger tooted "Amens" unto the kneeling maid,
Until at last he muttered "This pantomime must stop,
I'll buy the ring to-morrow, I've got a watch to pop!"

At length the war was over, she heard the beaten drum,
And up again thro' Castlebar, the scarlet men did come,
And her heart grew cold within her, to think how wroth he'd be
To learn she had been faithless, while he was o'er the sea.

Then, pleading to her husband "O hide yerself!" she said,
"Aye even up the chimbledy, or undhernate the bed!
For if he ketches howld of you, I don't know what he'll do,
It's maybe let his gun go off, an' maybe kill the two!

I'll try an' coax the grannies, to brake it to him first,
For if he's towld it sudden by me, 'twill be the worst,
They'll have to put it softly, I cannot be his bride,
So while I'm gone to tell them, do you run off an' hide."

* * * * *

"O break it to him, Grannies, the shocking news," she said
"That I have wed another, and him I cannot wed!
O put it to him gently, for great will be his pain,
That we'll never more be meeting on the Staball hill again."

They broke it to him softly, 'twas in a public bar,
A foaming pint before him, and on his brow a scar,
They broke it to him gently, and spoke it to him plain,
He needn't think to meet her, on the Staball hill again.

He swigged the pint before him, then heaved a bitter sigh,
"What? blow me, your a chaffin'!" "O divil a word o' lie!"
Then first he took his shako, and tossed it to the roof,
Then to each nervous grannie, "Here take the bloomin' loof."

"Come, wots yer shout for liquor? It's dooced well!" cried he,
"I'm buckled to a blackimoor, I met beyond the sea,
"You've taken a load from off of me! my mind is now at par,
She wouldn't have left a ribbon on the Girl of Castlebar!"

VE are ze vhandering Shermans,
Ve cooms vrom o'er ze sea,
Ve plays ze lovely music,
Of all ze great countree,
Ve all of us have romance,
Of life, so bigs to say,
I'll sing a verse for each man,
Ze vile ze band vill play.

Vings zerring zanzeraza,
Ve cooms from o'er ze sea,
Ve plays ze lovely music,
Of all ze great countree.

Zare's Herr Von Zingerpofel,
No prouder man vos he,
Zan ven he loved ze Fraulien
Afar in Shermanie.
But ven he found ze noders
Golds ring upon her hand,
He played on ze thriangles,
Und left ze Sherman land!

Zare's Blunder Bogle Fogen,
Vot bangs on ze big dhrum,
Thought all ze poor, und rich man,
Should own ze even sum;
Ze government vos differed,
But on ze prison valks,
He doubled up ze gaoler,
Und zen, he valked ze chalks!

Zare's Dreker Mandertoofel,
Ze opheclide he plays,
He'll never more see nodings,
Of all his happiest days;
He only blows ze music,
Because it brings ze cheer,
Of great big pipes of shmokin',
Und shugs of Lager Beer!

Zare's him vot puffs ze oboe,
In oder days vos he,
Of Heidelberg, a student
Ze pride of Shermanie,
But he did love der Lager,
Zoo mooch of Docter-Vien,
He killed ze man in duel!
Und he vos no more seen.

Zare's Mungen Val Tarara,
A Sherman born in Cork,
Und he vos von too many,
Because he vould not vork,
He left his home von mornings,
Mit all his back hair curled,
He jangs upon ze cymbals,
To bring him round ze vorld.

Now you vill be imagine,
Zat I must oondherstand,
Zat I vill tell ze story
Of leader of ze band,
But if I must, I'll speaks it,
All in ze simple rune,
So I vill stop ze music,
Ze tale is out of tune!

'Twas I vos vonce a Uhlan, who rode mit all ze band,
Zat von Alsace, und Lorraine, from Vrance vor Vaterland,
Ven in ze pits at Gravelotte, I lay von night to die,
I voke! for I vos faintings to hear ze voman sigh!

Und shust vere I vas vounded, I saw ze voman's zere,
Vos bound mine arm from bleeding, mit her own golden hair!
She nursed me through ze danger, und ven zere's peace again,
I svore zat I vould ved her, ze Fraulein of Lorraine.

I kissed my love von mornings, her vite face on my heart,
Mit sobs her eyes vos veeping, ze time vos come to part.
Ze Var vas not yet ended, I heard ze thrompet blow,
Zat I must rise, und answer, und leave ze sveetheart so!

Mine blood run cold zat mornings, und I felt somedings here,
Vos in my throat come choking, und on my cheek ze tear,
Vor O I vould not lose her, ze glory on me now,
Zat I vos hope to bless me, mit Cosette vor mine Frau.

I marched avay to Paris, vere all around vos dire,
Mit shmoke, und blood, und thunder, und fret, und woe und fire!
Und ven ze siege vos over, mit thrumpet und mit dhrum,
Vonce more again thro' Lorraine, ze Sherman bands did come.

I vent to find ze sveetheart, but grass vos on ze slain,
Ze cruel Var had murdered ze Fraulein of Lorraine!--
Shust vere mine heart is beating, I keep ze treasure zare,
Mit mine own blood upon it, von braid of golden hair,
Und all dried up und vithered, und gone to dust again,
Von flower zat vonce vos jewelled ze grave zats in Lorraine.

Ah vot is deed of glory, ven blood is on ze vings
Of love, zat makes ze heaven on earth, und vot are kings?
Auch! I vill have no patience. Strike up ze Band again,
Or I grow mad mit dhreamings, vot happened in Lorraine!

Vings zerring zanzaraza, ve cooms from o'er ze sea,
Ve plays ze lovely music, of all ze great countree.
Ve all of us have romance of life so bigs to say,
Vings zerring zanzaraza, ze vile ze band vill play.

I LAID out pounds, and pounds,
In entertainment rounds,
And worked a score of credit pretty thick,
For I heard she had a plumb,
So invited her to come,
To the altar at shortest notice quick,
When I asked her for my plumb,
She was all but deaf and dumb,
I found that I was married thro' a trick,
To have lifted off the shelf,
A maiden without pelf,
Was unbusiness-like, I felt it was a stick,
Of the candle, all I had was but the wick,
A moody retrospection, makes me sick!

He WAS a cabman grey I feck,
All weird and wry to see;
His face was ribbed like the turtle's neck,
His nose like the strawberrie.
If you think he was old, to you I say,
Your thought obscures the truth--
Despite the years that had passed away,
He was still in his second youth.

"Ha! ha!" quoth he, "how fair she looks,"
One morn, as he did see,
A maiden sweet with her school-books,
A ward in the Chancerie.
"How fair she looks!" quoth he, and put
A load in his old black clay,
And he didn't care if he hadn't a fare,
The whole of the live-long day.

That night he looketh into the glass,
With his nose like a strawberrie,
"I know they'll say I'm a bloomin' goose
But fate is fate you see."
And he looketh into the glass once more,
Where yet was another drain.
Quoth he, "I've wedded three before,"
"The fourth I'll wed again."

Next day he was out in the open street,
And standing upon the stand,
He heard the trip of her coming feet,
'Twas sweet as a German band.
And forth he went and accosted her,
He could not brook delay,
"Hey up, look here, little gurl," said he,
"I saw you yesterday."

"I saw you yesterday. My 'eart
Went out across your feet,
And from your beauty came a dart
That fixed me all complete;
And all last night I dreamed a dream,
To my bedside you came--
You'll marvel at these words of him
Who does not know your name.

"I saw you yesterday. You smile."
His eyes, like burning beads,
Took root in her inmost soul the while,
As deep as the ditch-grown weeds.
"You smile. Ha, ha! to smile and laugh
Is better than aye to frown
It's fitter to whiffle away the chaff
That covers a golden crown.

"It's better to whittle away the cheat
Of mankind if you can."
And he cracked his whip. "It's a fair deceit
And I am a curious man--
Yes I am a curious man, my badge
Is seventeen seventy-seven,
But wot is a badge? It's a very small thing
To the matches wot's made in Heaven!"

"How sweet he speaks!" the maiden thought
"He's a lord in a rough disguise,
As a cabman old he's coming to woo
And give me a grand surprise;
He seeks to hide himself in a mask,
With a nose like a strawberrie,
But I've read too many of three vol. novs.,
He couldn't disguise from me.

"The Lord of Burleigh while incog.
Did wed an humble bride,
And legend lore recounteth more
Of love like his beside.
I've heard the ballad of Huntingtower,
And some I forget by name,
And when he's got rid of his strawberrie nose
He'll maybe be one of the same!"

And she fondly looked on him, I ween,
Sweet as the hawthorn spray,
When all in bloom of white and green,
It decks the month of May.
"Oh, dearest Cabman," spoke she then,
"No brighter fate were mine
Than this: to be thine own laydee,
My life with thee to twine.

"But I am poor and lowly born,
And never a match for thee--
A girl a man like you would scorn,
A ward in the Chancerie,
With only a hundred thousand pounds,
It may be less or more;
But do not wreck a confiding heart,
It often was done before."

"Wo! ho!" quoth he, and in his sleeve
He grinned, "It's a big mistake.
The Chancerie is only a blind,
But, yet, I am wide awake.
If a hundred thousand pounds wor her's,
She wouldn't be makin' free;
I'd have to court her a little bit more,
Before she'd be courtin' me.

"I haven't the smallest doubt of this--
The truth you tell," he began;
"But I think that you misunderstand me miss,
I am not a marryin' man.
I only thought if you wanted a cab
That I wouldn't be high in my fare,"
And he shuffled the nose-bag round the jaw
Of his patient, hungry mare.

She walked away, nor bade good day,
While he thought of the Probate Court.
"She's a girl, I twig, could give me a dig
Of a barrister's wig for sport.

I have only escaped the courts of law,"
Quoth he, "by a single hair!"
As he finished the knot of his canvas bag
On the nose of his hungry mare.

MANY an intelligent reader will perceive that the following is a
pathetic plaint founded on fact. A moral, conveyed in a polyglot sample
of weak passages from many a knowing man's career.

In one noted instance, the writer while reciting the ballad, closely
escaped the chance of assassination, at the hand of a member of the
audience, that he fancied it was a versification of his own particular
experience, made public, and brought so circumstantially home to him,
that he felt the eyes of all were concentrated upon him as the hero of
the ballad. Happily he did not carry a revolver, or it would most likely
have exploded suddenly in the direction of the platform. But mutual
explanations and further enquiry elicited the information that more than
one man of that audience occupied the same lamplit boat of retrospect
misfortune.

Corney Keegan relates his adventure with the picturesque force, derived
from practical experience, and many an aching heart will go out to him
in sympathy. His story teaches a comprehensive, solemn, and beautiful
lesson.

ME mother often spoke to me,
"Corney me boy," siz she,
"There's luck in store for you agra!
You've been so kind to me!
Down be the rath in Reilly's Park
They say that Larry Shawn
That's gone away across the say,
Once cotch a Leprechawn.

He grabbed him be the scruff so hard,
The little crather swore,
That if bowld Larry'd let him go,
He should be poor no more!
"Just look behind ye Larry dear,"
Screeched out the chokin' elf,
"There's hapes of goold in buckets there,
It's all for Larry's self!
If Larry lets the little man
Go free again, he'll be
No longer poor but rich an' great!"
So Larry let him free.
Some say he carried home the goold
An' hid it in the aves,
But some say when the elf was gone
'Twas turned to withered laves.

"If Larry cotch a Leprechawn,"
Me mother then 'ed cry,
"Why you may ketch a fairy queen,
Ma bouchal by an' by!"
Near Balligarry now she sleeps,
Where great O'Brien bled,
And often since I took a thought,
Of what me mother said.

At last I came to Dublin town,
To thry an' sell some pigs,
And maybe then I didn't cut
A quare owld shine of rigs.
I sowld me pigs for forty pound,
For they wor clane an' fat,
An' thin we hadn't American mate,
So they wor chape at that!

"Well now," sez I, "me pocket's full,
I'll not go home just yit,
I'll take a twist up thro' the town
An' thrate meself a bit,"
I mosey'd round to Sackville Street,
When starin' round me best,
I seen a darlin' colleen there,
Most beautifully dhressed.

A posy in her leghorn hat,
An' round her neck, a ruff
Of black cock's feathers, jacket too,
Of raal expensive stuff,
A silver ferruled umberell'
In hand with yalla kid,
An' thro' a great big hairy muff
Her other hand was hid,

O like a sweet come-all-ye, in
A waltzin' swing, she swep'
The toepath, with the music of
Her silken skirt, an' step,
To see her turn the corner, thro'
The lamplight comin' down,
You'd think she owned the freehowld of
That part of Dublin town!
You'd think she owned the sky above,
It's moon with all the stars,
The thraffic in the streets below,
Their thrams, an' carts, an' cars!
You'd think that she was landlady,
Of all that she could see,
An' faith regardin' of meself,
She made her own of me!

"O Corney is it you?" siz she,
An' up to me she came,
I took a start, to hear her there,
Pronouncin' out me name;
"O Corney, there ye are!" siz she
Wid raal familiar smile,
An' thin begar she took me arm,
Most coaxingly the while;

I fluttered like a butterfly,
That's born the first of May,
Wid pride, as if I had the right
Hand side, the Judgment Day!