Volume I Part 14 (1/2)
”Very original!” said the doctor.
With willow wand Upon the strand.
She wrote, with trembling heart and hand, ”The brave should ne'er Desert the fair.”
But the wave the moral washed away, Ah, well-a-day! well-a-day!
A-day!--a-day!--a-day!
Reddy smiled and bowed, and thunders of applause followed; the doctor shouted ”Splendid!” several times, and continued to write and take snuff voraciously, by which those who knew him could comprehend he was bent on mischief.
”What a beautiful thing that is!” said one.
”Whose is it?” said another.
”A little thing of my own,” answered Reddy, with a smile.
”I thought so,” said Murphy. ”By Jove, James, you _are_ a genius!”
”Nonsense!” smiled the poet; ”just a little cla.s.sic trifle--I think _them_ little cla.s.sic allusions is pleasing in general--Tommy Moore is very happy in his cla.s.sic allusions, you may remark--not that I, of course, mean to inst.i.tute a comparison between so humble an individual as myself and Tommy Moore, who has so well been called 'the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own;' and if you will permit me, in a kindred spirit--I hope I _may_ say the kindred spirit of a song--in that kindred spirit I propose _his_ health--the health of Tommy Moore!”
”Don't say _Tommy_!” said the doctor, in an irascible tone; ”call the man Tom, sir;--with all my heart, Tom Moore!”
The table took the word from Jack Growling, and ”Tom Moore,” with all the honours of ”hip and hurra!” rang round the walls of the village inn--and where is the village in Ireland _that_ health has not been hailed with the fiery enthusiasm of the land whose lays he hath ”wedded to immortal verse,”--the land which is proud of his birth, and holds his name in honour?
There is a magic in a great name; and in this instance that of Tom Moore turned the current from where it was setting, and instead of quizzing the nonsense of the fool who had excited their mirth, every one launched forth in praise of their native bard, and couplets from his favourite songs rang from lip to lip.
”Come, Ned of the Hill,” said Murphy, ”sing us one of _his_ songs,--I know you have them all as pat as your prayers.”
”And says them oftener,” said the doctor, who still continued scribbling over the letter.
Edward, at the urgent request of many, sang that most exquisite of the melodies, ”And doth not a meeting like this make amends?” and long rang the plaudits, and rapidly circulated the bottle, at its conclusion.
”We'll be the 'Alps in the sunset,' my boys,” said Murphy; ”and here's the wine to enlighten us! But what are _you_ about there, doctor?--is it a prescription you are writing?”
”No. Prescriptions are written in Latin, and this is a bit of Greek I'm doing. Mr. Reddy has inspired me with a cla.s.sic spirit, and if you will permit me, I'll volunteer a song [_bravo! bravo!_], and give you another version of the subject he has so beautifully treated--only mine is not so heart-breaking.”
The doctor's proposition was received with cheers, and after he had gone through the mockery of clearing his throat, and pitching his voice after the usual manner of your would-be fine singers, he gave out, to the tune of a well-known rollicking Irish lilt, the following burlesque version of the subject of Reddy's song:--
LOVE AND LIQUOR
_A Greek Allegory_
I
Oh sure 't would amaze yiz How one Misther Theseus Desarted a lovely young lady of owld.
On a dissolute island, All lonely and silent, She sobbed herself sick as she sat in the cowld.
Oh, you'd think she was kilt, As she roar'd with the quilt Wrapp'd round her in haste as she jumped out of bed, And ran down to the coast, Where she looked like a ghost, Though 't was _he_ was departed--the vagabone fled And she cried, ”Well-a-day!
Sure my heart it is grey: They're deceivers, them sojers, that goes on half-pay.”
II