University of Virginia Library

There'd been a long stretch of delightful spring weather,
But this was the day beat the rest altogether,
Over mountain and valley and river—Oyeh!
There was never for ever so darlin' a day—
Wid its purty pale primroses shrinkin so shy
From the bachelor butterfly's kiss-and-go-by,
And wid hawthorns like bridesmaids come out in the air,
Arrangin' white wreaths in their iligant hair.
And so thought a fiddler, fiddle on back,
Steppin' for town by the mountainy track.
“But,” says he, “what's the raison the people are dressed,
All wid shoes on their feet, in their holiday best?
'Tisn't Sunday, then—barrin' the priests were astray,
Ere yesterday mornin' off out at Rossbeigh;
And a Saint's Day it's not, for I know them by heart,
The whole box an' dice they observe in this part.
Must be then, begorra, I make no mistake,
In concludin' it's either a weddin' or wake;
Though I shouldn't have thought the worst omadhaun round
'D have chosen such weather for goin' underground.”

When who should come hurryin' down the boreen
But Honor O'Connor dressed out like a queen,
Wid her hair in one wonderful plait, and upon it—
Like a bird on its nest—a sweet bit of a bonnet—
And a green sash that showed her fine figure for'nint,
And flouncin' behind her, the beautif'llest print,
Folded into her hand, just enough for a hint
Of as tidy an ankle as ever set step—

So the girl she came on, wid the laugh on her lip,
Till she sighted the fiddler, and “Shiel, dear,” said she,
(For I should have remarked that the fiddler was me)—
“What a stranger you are—tho' returnin' aright,
For we've terrible want of your fiddle to-night;”—
“But what wonderful doin's are goin' on below,
Honor, acora?”

“Ah! nonsense! You know—
Why, Nora Maguire's to be married to-day.”
“Glory be to God!—Is it true what you say?
Well, Nora na Mo, but I'm wishin' you joy:
And who, in the name of good fortune's, the boy?”
“Arrah who should it be, then, but Mr. O`Neale?
But you're bothered, I see.” So she up wid the tale
Of the Colleen na Mo that I've told to yez all,
Explainin' how Nora wasn't kilt by the fall,
Though she took the brain fever immadiate on that,—
And how she wint ravin' for ever on Pat
And her love, and the pity the boy was so poor,—
And how hopeful from this of performin' her cure,
Good Doctor O'Kydd, ere the crisis came on,
Goes off to consider wid ould Father John—
And how the two wint wid one mind to the Squire
To tell him the danger of Nora Maguire—
And the Master, said he, “I've my eye on the lad,
And I want a sub-agent. He'll suit me bedad—
I'll send for him up to the Castle to-day.”
And he got no refusal from Pat, you may say.
And how the good Doctor told Nora, the night
When the crisis was on her—by accident quite—
About Patrick. Then how a great longin' for life,
And maybe the notion she'd yet be his wife,
Came over the girl—and the terrible flood
Of the fever subsided away from her blood;
And though yerrah so wasted—to see her you'd cry—
In a month she was up, and av coorse Patrick by;
And, concludin', how hardly the winter was out,
When through all of Dunkerron 'twas rumoured about,
Nora'd taken O'Neale, and there wasn't a doubt
When the good priest he published them three weeks ago,
And to-day they'll be married in the chapel below.

Then the marriage-bell started as Honor and I
Stepped into the town wid our hearts full of joy;
So off we two darted, and just at the porch
Met Nora, the darlin', drivin' up to the church,
And Pat, you may guess, wasn't long in the lurch.
And a power of company surely were there,
Of the highest and lowest all down from Kenmare,
For the Squire and the Quality seated around,
Side by side wid the lowliest pisant you found.
And the whole string of sweethearts who'd courted in vain—
(For not a man of them would give Nora pain
By seemin' heartbroken or wishful to slight
Her choice of O'Neale) had agreed to unite
To see the girl's weddin'—and surely for this, too,
Whin ould Father John had them married and blessed, too,
They each had her thanks—Yerra yes! and a kiss, too.
And somehow myself was mixed up wid that lot,
And stole the best kiss that I ever yet got.
“Arrah! Shiel, is it you? Why, none of us knew
Yourself was a sweetheart of Nora's here, too.”
“Was it Shiel, why, that kissed me?” “'Twas so; then, bedad:
Hould his hands for me, Murphy.” “Now would you, my lad?—”

“Mercy, Nora, and whisper! 'Twas just in advance
That I took it—for playin' to-night at your dance.”