Volume 2 Part 12 (1/2)

Finley has now been dead nearly eleven years, and his fame has not prospered by the tactics which he pursued, for his reputation, so far from being magnified, has been wholly obliterated by the mists of obscurity.

With no small difficulty, and no inconsiderable manoeuvring, I succeeded in procuring, at an expense of trouble and conscience which you will no doubt think but poorly rewarded, an accurate 'report' of one of his most popular recitations. It celebrates one of the many daring exploits of the once famous Phaudhrig Crohoore (in prosaic English, Patrick Connor).

I have witnessed powerful effects produced upon large a.s.semblies by Finley's recitation of this poem which he was wont, upon pressing invitation, to deliver at weddings, wakes, and the like; of course the power of the narrative was greatly enhanced by the fact that many of his auditors had seen and well knew the chief actors in the drama.

'PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE.

Oh, Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, And he stood six foot eight, And his arm was as round as another man's thigh, 'Tis Phaudhrig was great,-- And his hair was as black as the shadows of night, And hung over the scars left by many a fight; And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye like the lightnin' from under the cloud.

And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil, And sweet when he chose it, for he was the divil.

An' there wasn't a girl from thirty-five undher, Divil a matter how cra.s.s, but he could come round her.

But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, but one Was the girl of his heart, an' he loved her alone.

An' warm as the sun, as the rock firm an' sure, Was the love of the heart of Phaudhrig Crohoore; An' he'd die for one smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was sthrong as the lion.

'But Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore--an' that same was like h.e.l.l.

But O'Brien liked HIM, for they were the same parties, The O'Briens, O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, and Cartys-- An' they all went together an' hated Crohoore, For it's many the batin' he gave them before; An' O'Hanlon made up to O'Brien, an' says he: ”I'll marry your daughter, if you'll give her to me.”

And the match was made up, an' when Shrovetide came on, The company a.s.simbled three hundred if one: There was all the O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, an' Cartys, An' the young boys an' girls av all o' them parties; An' the O'Briens, av coorse, gathered strong on day, An' the pipers an' fiddlers were tearin' away; There was roarin', an' jumpin', an' jiggin', an' flingin', An' jokin', an' blessin', an' kissin', an' singin', An' they wor all laughin'--why not, to be sure?-- How O'Hanlon came inside of Phaudhrig Crohoore.

An' they all talked an' laughed the length of the table, Atin' an' dhrinkin' all while they wor able, And with pipin' an' fiddlin' an' roarin' like tundher, Your head you'd think fairly was splittin' asundher; And the priest called out, ”Silence, ye blackguards, agin!”

An' he took up his prayer-book, just goin' to begin, An' they all held their tongues from their funnin' and bawlin', So silent you'd notice the smallest pin fallin';

An' the priest was just beg'nin' to read, whin the door Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore-- Oh! Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, Ant he stood six foot eight, An' his arm was as round as another man's thigh, 'Tis Phaudhrig was great-- An' he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky, An' none sthrove to stop him, for Phaudhrig was great, Till he stood all alone, just apposit the sate Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, Were sitting so illigant out side by side; An' he gave her one look that her heart almost broke, An' he turned to O'Brien, her father, and spoke, An' his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong, and loud, An' his eye shone like lightnin' from under the cloud: ”I didn't come here like a tame, crawlin' mouse, But I stand like a man in my inimy's house; In the field, on the road, Phaudhrig never knew fear, Of his foemen, an' G.o.d knows he scorns it here;

So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four, To spake to the girl I'll never see more.”