Part 14 (1/2)

_Teag._ Yes, that's what I did, for I ran to the doctor whenever she died, and sought something for a dead or dying woman. The old foolish devil was at his dinner, and began to ask me some stupid questions, and then kicked me down stairs.

_Tom._ And in what good order did you bury your wife when she died?

_Teag._ O, my dear shoy, she was buried in all manner of pomp, pride, and splendour--a fine coffin, with cords in it; and within the coffin, along with herself, she got a pair of new brogues, a penny candle, a good, hard-headed old hammer, with an Irish sixpenny piece, to pay her pa.s.sage at the gate, and what more could she look for?

_Tom._ I really think you gave her enough along with her, but you ought to have cried for her, if it was no more but to be in the fas.h.i.+on.

_Teag._ And why should I cry without sorrow, when we hired two criers to cry all the way before her to keep her in the fas.h.i.+on?

_Tom._ And what do they cry before a dead woman?

_Teag._ Why, they cry the common cry, or funeral lament, that is used in our Irish country.

_Tom._ And what manner of cry is that, Paddy?

_Teag._ Dear Tom, if you don't know I'll tell you. When any person dies there is a number of criers goes before, saying, ”Luff, fuff, fou, allelieu, dear honey, what aileth thee to die! It was not for want of good b.u.t.ter milk and potatoes.”

PART III.

_Tom._ Well, Paddy, and what did you do when your wife died?

_Teag._ Dear honey, what would I do? Do you think I was such a big fool as to die too? I am sure if I had I would not have got fair play, when I am not so old yet as my father was when he died.

_Tom._ No, Paddy, it is not that I mean. Was you sorry, or did you weep for her?

_Teag._ Weep for her! By Shaint Patrick, I would not weep, nor yet be sorry, suppose my own mother and all the women in Ireland had died seven years before I was born.

_Tom._ What did you do with your children when she died?

_Teag._ Do you imagine I was such a big fool as bury my children alive along with a dead woman? Arra, dear honey, we always commonly give nothing along with a dead person but an old s.h.i.+rt, a winding sheet, a big hammer, with a long candle, and an Irish silver threepenny piece.

_Tom._ Dear Paddy, and what do they make of all these things?

_Teag._ Then, Tom, since you are so inquisitive, you must go ask the priest.

_Tom._ What did you make of your children, Paddy?

_Teag._ And what should I make of them? Do you imagine that I should give them into the hands of the butchers, as they had been a parcel of young hogs. By Shaint Patrick, I had more unnaturality in me than to put them in an hospital as others do.

_Tom._ No; I suppose you would leave them with your friends?

_Teag._ Ay, ay, a poor man's friends is sometimes worse than a professed enemy. The best friend I ever had in the world was my own pocket while my money lasted; but I left two babes between the priest's door and the parish church, because I thought it was a place of mercy, and then set out for England in quest of another fortune.

_Tom._ I fancy, Paddy, you came off with what they call a moons.h.i.+ne flitting.

_Teag._ You lie like a thief now, for I did not see sun, moon, nor stars, all the night then, for I set out for Cork at the dawn of night, and I had travelled twenty miles all but twelve before gloaming in the morning.

_Tom._ And where did you go to take s.h.i.+pping?

_Teag._ Arra, dear honey, I came to a country village called Dublin, as big a city as any market town in all England, where I got myself aboard of a little young boat with a parcel of fellows and a long leather bag.