drunk!
Well, who should he fall in wid, in that childish condition, as he was deploying
along the road almost as straight as the letter S, an’ cursin’ the girls, an’ roarin’ for more whisky, but the recruiting-sargent iv the Welsh Confusileers.
So, cute enough, the sargent begins to convarse him, an’ it was not long until he had him sitting in Murphy’s public-house, wid an elegant dandy iv punch before
him, an’ the king’s money safe an’ snug in the lowest wrinkle of his breeches-pocket.
So away wid him, and the dhrums and
fifes playing, an’ a dozen more unforthunate bliggards just listed along with him, an’ he shakin’ hands wid the sargent, and
swearin’ agin the women every minute, until, be the time he kem to himself,
begorra, he was a good ten miles on the road to Dublin, an’ Molly and all behind him.
It id be no good tellin’ you iv the letters he wrote to her from the barracks there, nor how she was breaking her heart to go and see him just wanst before he’d go; but the father an’ mother would not allow iv it be no manes.
An’ so in less time than you’d be thinkin’ about it, the colonel had him polished off into it rale elegant soger, wid his gun
exercise, and his bagnet exercise, and his small sword, and broad sword, and pistol and dagger, an’ all the rest, an’ then away wid him on boord a man-a-war to furrin
parts, to fight for King George agin Bonyparty, that was great in them times.
Well, it was very soon in everyone’s
mouth how Billy Malowney was batin’ all before him, astonishin’ the ginerals, an frightenin’ the inimy to that degree, there was not a Frinchman dare say parley voo
outside of the rounds iv his camp.
You may be sure Molly was proud iv
that same, though she never spoke a word about it; until at last the news kem home that Billy Malowney was surrounded an’
murdered by the Frinch army, under Napoleon Bonyparty himself. The news was
brought by Jack Brynn Dhas, the peddlar, that said he met the corporal iv the regiment on the quay iv Limerick, an’ how he brought him into a public-house and thrated him to a naggin, and got all the news about poor Billy Malowney out iv him while they
war dhrinkin’ it; an’ a sorrowful story it was.
The way it happened, accordin’ as the corporal tould him, was jist how the Jook iv Wellington detarmined to fight a rale tarin’ battle wid the Frinch, and Bonyparty at the same time was aiqually detarmined to fight the divil’s own scrimmidge wid the British foorces.
Well, as soon as the business was pretty near ready at both sides, Bonyparty and the general next undher himself gets up behind a bush, to look at their inimies through spy- glasses, and thry would they know any iv them at the distance.
‘Bedadad!’ says the gineral, afther a divil iv a long spy, ‘I’d bet half a pint,’ says he, ‘that’s Bill Malowney himself,’ says he, ‘down there,’ says he.
‘Och!’ says Bonypart, ‘do you tell me so?’ says he–‘I’m fairly heart-scalded
with that same Billy Malowney,’ says he; ‘an’ I think if I was wanst shut
iv him I’d bate the rest iv them aisy,’ says he.
‘I’m thinking so myself,’ says the
gineral, says he; ‘but he’s a tough bye,’ says he.
‘Tough!’ says Bonypart, ‘he’s the divil,’ says he.
‘Begorra, I’d be better plased.’ says the gineral, says he, ‘to take himself than
the Duke iv Willinton,’ says he, ‘an’ Sir Edward Blakeney into the bargain,’
says he.
‘The Duke of Wellinton and Gineral
Blakeney,’ says Bonypart, ‘is great for planning, no doubt,’ says he; ‘but Billy Malowney’s the boy for ACTION,’ says he– ‘an’ action’s everything, just now,’ says he.
So wid that Bonypart pushes up his
cocked hat, and begins scratching his head, and thinning and considherin’ for
the bare life, and at last says he to the gineral:
‘Gineral Commandher iv all the Foorces,’ says he, ‘I’ve hot it,’ says he: ‘ordher out the forlorn hope,’ says he, ‘an’ give them as much powdher, both glazed and blasting,’ says he, ‘an’ as much bullets do ye mind, an’ swan-dhrops an’ chain-shot,’ says he, ‘an’ all soorts iv waipons an’ combustables as they can carry; an’ let them surround Bill Malowney,’ says he, ‘an’ if they can get any soort iv an advantage,’ says he, ‘let them knock him to smithereens,’ says he, ‘an’ then take him presner,’ says he; ‘an’ tell all the bandmen iv the Frinch
army,’ says he, ‘to play up “Garryowen,” to keep up their sperits,’ says he, ‘all the time they’re advancin’. An’ you may
promise them anything you like in my name,’ says he; for, by my sowl, I
don’t think its many iv them ‘ill come back to throuble us,’ says he, winkin’ at him.
So away with the gineral, an’ he ordhers out the forlorn hope, all’ tells the band to play, an’ everything else, just as Bonypart desired him. An’ sure enough, whin
Billy Malowney heerd the music where he was standin’ taking a blast of the dhudheen to compose his mind for murdherin’ the
Frinchmen as usual, being mighty partial to that tune intirely, he cocks his ear a one side, an’ down he stoops to listen to the music; but, begorra, who should be
in his rare all the time but a Frinch grannideer behind a bush, and seeing him stooped in a convanient forum, bedad he
let flies at him sthraight, and fired him right forward between the legs an’ the small iv the back, glory be to God! with what
they call (saving your presence) a bum-shell.
Well, Bill Malowney let one roar out
iv him, an’ away he rowled over the field iv battle like a slitther (as Bonypart
and the Duke iv Wellington, that was watching the manoeuvres from a distance, both consayved) into glory.
An’ sure enough the Frinch was overjoyed beyant all bounds, an’ small blame
to them–an’ the Duke of Wellington, I’m toult, was never all out the same
man sinst.
At any rate, the news kem home how
Billy Malowney was murdhered by the Frinch in furrin parts.
Well, all this time, you may be sure, there was no want iv boys comin’ to
coort purty Molly Donovan; but one
way ar another, she always kept puttin’ them off constant. An’ though her father and mother was nathurally anxious to get rid of her respickably, they did not
like to marry her off in spite iv her teeth.
An’ this way, promising one while and puttin’ it off another, she conthrived to get on from one Shrove to another, until near seven years was over and gone from
the time when Billy Malowney listed for furrin sarvice.
It was nigh hand a year from the time whin the news iv Leum-a-rinka bein’ killed by the Frinch came home, an’ in place
iv forgettin’ him, as the saisins wint over, it’s what Molly was growin’ paler and
more lonesome every day, antil the neighbours thought she was fallin’ into a
decline; and this is the way it was with her whin the fair of Lisnamoe kem
round.
It was a beautiful evenin’, just at
the time iv the reapin’ iv the oats, and the sun was shinin’ through the red
clouds far away over the hills iv Cahirmore.
Her father an’ mother, an’ the boys an’ girls, was all away down in the fair, and Molly Sittin’ all alone on the step of the stile, listening to the foolish little birds whistlin’ among the leaves–and the sound of the mountain-river flowin’ through the stones an’ bushes–an’ the crows flyin’
home high overhead to the woods iv
Glinvarlogh–an’ down in the glen, far away, she could see the fair-green iv Lisnamoe in the mist, an’ sunshine among the grey rocks and threes–an’ the cows an’ the
horses, an’ the blue frieze, an’ the red cloaks, an’ the tents, an’ the smoke, an’ the ould round tower–all as soft an’ as sorrowful as a dhrame iv ould times.
An’ while she was looking this way,
an’ thinking iv Leum-a-rinka–poor Bill iv the dance, that was sleepin’ in his
lonesome glory in the fields iv Spain–she began to sing the song he used to like so well in the ould times–
‘Shule, shule, shale a-roon;’
an’ when she ended the verse, what do you think but she heard a manly voice just at the other side iv the hedge, singing
the last words over again!
Well she knew it; her heart flutthered up like a little bird that id be wounded, and then dhropped still in her breast.
It was himself. In a minute he was
through the hedge and standing before her.
‘Leum!’ says she.
‘Mavourneen cuishla machree!’ says he; and without another word they were locked in one another’s arms.
Well, it id only be nansinse for me
thryin’ an’ tell ye all the foolish things they said, and how they looked in one
another’s faces, an’ laughed, an’ cried, an’ laughed again; and how, when they came
to themselves, and she was able at last to believe it was raly Billy himself that was there, actially holdin’ her hand, and lookin’ in her eyes the same way as ever, barrin’ he was browner and boulder, an’ did not, maybe, look quite as merry in himself
as he used to do in former times–an’ fondher for all, an’ more lovin’ than ever –how he tould her all about the wars
wid the Frinchmen–an’ how he was
wounded, and left for dead in the field iv battle, bein’ shot through the breast, and how he was discharged, an’ got a pinsion iv a full shillin’ a day–and how he was come back to liv the rest iv his days in the
sweet glen iv Lisnamoe, an’ (if only SHE’D consint) to marry herself in spite iv them all.
Well, ye may aisily think they had plinty to talk about, afther seven years without once seein’ one another; and so signs on, the time flew by as swift an’ as pleasant as a bird on the wing, an’ the sun wint down, an’ the moon shone sweet an’ soft instead, an’ they two never knew a ha’porth about it, but kept talkin’ an’ whisperin’, an’ whisperin’ an’ talkin’; for it’s wondherful how often a tinder-hearted girl will bear to hear a purty boy tellin’ her the same story constant over an’ over; ontil at last, sure
enough, they heerd the ould man himself comin’ up the boreen, singin’ the ‘Colleen Rue’–a thing he never done barrin’ whin he had a dhrop in; an’ the misthress walkin’ in front iv him, an’ two illigant Kerry
cows he just bought in the fair, an’ the sarvint boys dhriving them behind.
‘Oh, blessed hour!’ says Molly, ‘here’s my father.’
‘I’ll spake to him this minute,’ says Bill.
‘Oh, not for the world,’ says she; ‘he’s singin’ the “Colleen Rue,” ‘ says she,
‘and no one dar raison with him,’ says she.
‘An’ where ‘ll I go, thin?’ says he, ‘for they’re into the haggard an top iv us,’ says he, ‘an’ they’ll see me iv I lep through the hedge,’ says he.
‘Thry the pig-sty,’ says she, ‘mavourneen,’ says she, ‘in the name iv God,’ says
she.
‘Well, darlint,’ says he, ‘for your sake,’ says he, ‘I’ll condescend to them animals,’ says he.
An’ wid that he makes a dart to get in; bud, begorra, it was too late–the pigs was all gone home, and the pig-sty was as full as the Burr coach wid six inside.
‘Och! blur-an’-agers,’ says he, ‘there is not room for a suckin’-pig,’ says he, ‘let alone a Christian,’ says he.
‘Well, run into the house, Billy,’ says she, ‘this minute,’ says she, ‘an’ hide yourself antil they’re quiet,’ says she, ‘an’ thin you can steal out,’ says she, ‘anknownst to them all,’ says she.
‘I’ll do your biddin’, says he, ‘Molly asthore,’ says he.
‘Run in thin,’ says she, ‘an’ I’ll go an’ meet them,’ says she.
So wid that away wid her, and in wint Billy, an’ where ‘id he hide himself bud in a little closet that was off iv the
room where the ould man and woman
slep’. So he closed the doore, and sot down in an ould chair he found there convanient.
Well, he was not well in it when all the rest iv them comes into the kitchen, an’ ould Tim Donovan singin’ the ‘Colleen Rue’
for the bare life, an’ the rest iv them sthrivin’ to humour him, and doin’
exactly everything he bid them, because they seen he was foolish be the manes iv the liquor.
Well, to be sure all this kep’ them long enough, you may be sure, from goin’ to
bed, so that Billy could get no manner iv an advantage to get out iv the house, and so he sted sittin’ in the dark closet in state, cursin’ the ‘Colleen Rue,’ and wondherin’ to the divil whin they’d get the ould man into his bed. An’, as if that was not delay enough, who should come in to stop for the night but Father O’Flaherty, of Cahirmore, that was buyin’ a horse at the fair! An’ av course, there was a bed to be med down for his raverence, an’ some other attintions; an’ a long discoorse himself an’ ould Mrs.
Donovan had about the slaughter iv Billy Malowney, an’ how he was buried on the
field iv battle; an’ his raverence hoped he got a dacent funeral, an’ all the other
convaniences iv religion. An’ so you may suppose it was pretty late in the night before all iv them got to their beds.
Well, Tim Donovan could not settle to sleep at all at all, an’ so he kep’ discoorsin’ the wife about the new cows he bought,
an’ the stripphers he sould, an’ so an for better than an hour, ontil from one thing to another he kem to talk about the pigs, an’ the poulthry; and at last, having nothing betther to discoorse about, he begun at his daughter Molly, an’ all the heartscald she was to him be raison iv refusin’ the men. An’ at last says he:
‘I onderstand,’ says he, ‘very well how it is,’ says he. ‘It’s how she was in love,’ says he, ‘wid that bliggard, Billy Malowney,’ says he, ‘bad luck to him!’ says he; for by this time he was coming to his raison.
‘Ah!’ says the wife, says she, ‘Tim
darlint, don’t be cursin’ them that’s dead an’ buried,’ says she.
‘An’ why would not I,’ says he, ‘if
they desarve it?’ says he.
‘Whisht,’ says she, ‘an’ listen to that,’ says she. ‘In the name of the Blessed
Vargin,’ says she, ‘what IS it?’ says she.
An’ sure enough what was it but Bill
Malowney that was dhroppin’ asleep in the closet, an’ snorin’ like a church organ.
‘Is it a pig,’ says he, ‘or is it a
Christian?’
‘Arra! listen to the tune iv it,’ says she; ‘sure a pig never done the like is
that,’ says she.
‘Whatever it is,’ says he, ‘it’s in the room wid us,’ says he. ‘The Lord be
marciful to us!’ says he.
‘I tould you not to be cursin’,’ says she; ‘bad luck to you,’ says she, ‘for an ommadhaun!’ for she was a very religious woman in herself.
‘Sure, he’s buried in Spain,’ says he; ‘an’ it is not for one little innocent
expression,’ says he, ‘he’d be comin’ all that a way to annoy the house,’ says he.
Well, while they war talkin’, Bill turns in the way he was sleepin’ into an aisier imposture; and as soon as he stopped
snorin’ ould Tim Donovan’s courage riz agin, and says he:
‘I’ll go to the kitchen,’ says he, ‘an’ light a rish,’ says he.
An’ with that away wid him, an’ the
wife kep’ workin’ the beads all the time, an’ before he kem back Bill was snorin’ as loud as ever.
‘Oh! bloody wars–I mane the blessed
saints about us!–that deadly sound,’ says he; ‘it’s going on as lively as ever,’
says he.
‘I’m as wake as a rag,’ says his wife, says she, ‘wid the fair anasiness,’ says she. ‘It’s out iv the little closet it’s comin,’ says she.
‘Say your prayers,’ says he, ‘an’ hould your tongue,’ says he, ‘while I discoorse it,’ says he. ‘An’ who are ye,’ says he, ‘in the name iv of all the holy saints?’ says he, givin’ the door a dab iv a crusheen that wakened Bill inside. ‘I ax,’ says he, ‘who are you?’ says he.
Well, Bill did not rightly remember
where in the world he was, but he pushed open the door, an’ says he:
‘Billy Malowney’s my name,’ says he,
‘an’ I’ll thank ye to tell me a betther,’ says he.
Well, whin Tim Donovan heard that, an’ actially seen that it was Bill himself that was in it, he had not strength enough to let a bawl out iv him, but he dhropt the candle out iv his hand, an’ down wid himself on his back in the dark.
Well, the wife let a screech you’d hear at the mill iv Killraghlin, an’–
‘Oh,’ says she, ‘the spirit has him,
body an’ bones!’ says she. ‘Oh, holy St. Bridget–oh, Mother iv Marcy–oh, Father O’Flaherty!’ says she, screechin’ murdher from out iv her bed.
Well, Bill Malowney was not a minute
remimberin’ himself, an’ so out wid him quite an’ aisy, an’ through the kitchen; bud in place iv the door iv the house,
it’s what he kem to the door iv Father O’Flaherty’s little room, where he was jist wakenin’ wid the noise iv the screechin’ an’ battherin’; an’ bedad, Bill makes no more about it, but he jumps, wid one
boult, clever an’ clane into his raverance’s bed.
‘What do ye mane, you uncivilised
bliggard?’ says his raverance. ‘Is that a venerable way,’ says he, ‘to approach your clargy?’ says he.
‘Hould your tongue,’ says Bill, ‘an’ I’ll do ye no harum,’ says he.
‘Who are you, ye scoundhrel iv the
world?’ says his raverance.
‘Whisht!’ says he? ‘I’m Billy Malowney,’ says he.
‘You lie!’ says his raverance for he
was frightened beyont all bearin’–an’ he makes but one jump out iv the bed at the wrong side, where there was only jist a
little place in the wall for a press, an’ his raverance could not as much as turn in
it for the wealth iv kingdoms. ‘You lie,’ says he; ‘but for feared it’s the truth
you’re tellin’,’ says he, ‘here’s at ye in the name iv all the blessed saints together!’ says he.
An’ wid that, my dear, he blazes away at him wid a Latin prayer iv the strongest description, an’, as he said himself afterwards, that was iv a nature that id dhrive
the divil himself up the chimley like a puff iv tobacky smoke, wid his tail betune his legs.
‘Arra, what are ye sthrivin’ to say,’ says Bill; says he, ‘if ye don’t hould your
tongue,’ says he, ‘wid your parly voo;’ says he, ‘it’s what I’ll put my thumb on your windpipe,’ says he, ‘an’ Billy
Malowney never wint back iv his word yet,’ says he.
‘Thundher-an-owns,’ says his raverance, says he–seein’ the Latin took no infect on him, at all at all an’ screechin’ that you’d think he’d rise the thatch up iv the house wid the fair fright–‘and thundher and
blazes, boys, will none iv yes come here wid a candle, but lave your clargy to be choked by a spirit in the dark?’ says he.
Well, be this time the sarvint boys and the rest iv them wor up an’ half dressed, an’ in they all run, one on top iv another, wid pitchforks and spades, thinkin’ it was only what his raverence slep’ a dhrame iv the like, by means of the punch he was
afther takin’ just before he rowl’d himself into the bed. But, begorra, whin they seen it was raly Bill Malowney himself that was in it, it was only who’d be foremost out agin, tumblin’ backways, one over another, and his raverence roarin’ an’ cursin’ them like mad for not waitin’ for him.
Well, my dear, it was betther than half an hour before Billy Malowney could
explain to them all how it raly was himself, for begorra they were all iv them persuadin’ him that he was a spirit to that degree
it’s a wondher he did not give in to it, if it was only to put a stop to the argiment.
Well, his raverence tould the ould people then, there was no use in sthrivin’ agin the will iv Providence an’ the vagaries iv love united; an’ whin they kem to undherstand to a sartinty how Billy had a shillin’ a day for the rest iv his days, begorra they took rather a likin’ to him, and considhered at wanst how he must have riz out of all his nansinse entirely, or his gracious Majesty id never have condescinded to show him
his countenance that way every day of his life, on a silver shillin’.
An’ so, begorra, they never stopt till it was all settled–an’ there was not sich a weddin’ as that in the counthry sinst. It’s more than forty years ago, an’ though I
was no more nor a gossoon myself, I remimber it like yestherday. Molly never looked so purty before, an’ Billy Malowney was plisant beyont all hearin,’ to that degree that half the girls in it was fairly tarin’ mad–only they would not let on–they
had not him to themselves in place iv her. An’ begorra I’d be afeared to tell ye,
because you would not believe me, since that blessid man Father Mathew put an
end to all soorts of sociality, the Lord reward him, how many gallons iv pottieen whisky was dhrank upon that most solemn
and tindher occasion.
Pat Hanlon, the piper, had a faver out iv it; an’ Neddy Shawn Heigue, mountin’
his horse the wrong way, broke his collar- bone, by the manes iv fallin’ over his tail while he was feelin’ for his head; an’
Payther Brian, the horse-docther, I am tould, was never quite right in the head ever afther; an’ ould Tim Donovan was
singin’ the ‘Colleen Rue’ night and day for a full week; an’ begorra the weddin’ was only the foundation iv fun, and the
beginning iv divarsion, for there was not a year for ten years afther, an’ more, but brought round a christenin’ as regular as the sasins revarted.