 | CHAPTER V.
RETURN OF PRIVATE MILES O'REILLY.—HIS RECEPTION
IN NEW YORK. The life and adventures, songs, services, and
speeches of Private Miles O'Reilly [pseud.] (47th regiment, New York
volunteers.) |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
RETURN OF PRIVATE MILES O'REILLY.—HIS RECEPTION
IN NEW YORK.
PRIVATE Miles O'Reilly, Forty-seventh regiment
New York Volunteers, having been pardoned
by the President for his breach of decorum in publishing
songs relative to the joint naval and military
operations against Charleston, came to this city in
the Arago last week, having been given a thirty days'
time he will proceed to Washington, and report to
the President for special duty. Private O'Reilly
was received by a large party of distinguished friends
off Sandy Hook, on board the steam yacht of our
excellent Port Surveyor, Mr. Rufus F. Andrews,
who seems always ready to give both his vessel and
his time to such festivities. Excellent speeches were
made by General Daniel E. Sickles, Mr. James T.
Brady, John Van Buren, Wm. E. Robinson, Commodore
Joseph Hoxie, Judge Charles P. Daly,
Daniel Devlin, and others; while Dr. Carmichael, Mr.
John Savage, Mr. Stephen C. Massett, Mr. Barney
Williams, and several celebrated songsters, amateur
and professional, favored the company with patriotic
and expressive melodies as the good vessel steamed
up the Hudson on a brief pleasure trip.
Private O'Reilly is now staying at the residence
of his cousin, Mr. James O'Reilly, quite a prominent
democratic politician in the Sixteenth ward, who is
at present employed in the City Inspector's Department.
The military minstrel's health seems to have
suffered somewhat from the rigors of his late confinement
on Morris Island; but his spirits remain as
high as ever, and his letter of versified thanks to
things we have seen for many days. Of this production
we can only give two verses—the first and
second—O'Reilly saying that the balance (which
treats liberally of the Cabinet difficulties and the
“succession”), cannot appear until the President
gives his consent to its publication,—Private Miles
declaring that he has had his full share of punishment
for publishing rhymes without authority, and that he
is resolved never knowingly to be caught in the same
bad scrape again. His letter to the President begins:—
May you die both late an' aisy;
An' whin you lie wid the top of aich toe
Turned up to the roots of a daisy,
May this be your epitaph, nately writ—
“Though thraitors abused him vilely,
He was honest an' kindly, he loved a joke,
An' he pardoned Miles O'Reilly!”
And for this same act while I've breath in me lungs
Or a heart in me body beatin',
It's “long life to you, misther Lincoln!”
That meself will keep repeatin':—
If you ain't the handsomest man in the world
You've done handsome by me, an' highly;
And your name to poshterity will go down
Arm in arm wid Miles O'Reilly!
The balance of this ditty we shall hope to present
to our readers at an early day, it being extremely
improbable that Mr. Lincoln will make himself a
party to the desire of the Navy Department to have
O'Reilly's light hid under a bushel. In the meantime
the “bard of Morris Island,” having dabbled a
little in city politics before his enlistment, and having
corresponded constantly, all the time he was
away, with his cousin James, who is deep in all the
mysteries of the Tammany and Mozart “machines,”
has got off the following “inside and partic'lar”
view of the present condition of our local democratic
wranglings, which may be read with amusement,
and possibly with some instruction, by our fellow
citizens of every stripe and hue. The “talk” in
some of its paragraphs, like all other “oracular talk,”
may be dark to the outside heathen—the mere barbarians
who have no other connexion with politics
than to vote for the “machine candidates” and pay
their taxes. But to the initiated, we are assured,
every line and almost every syllable will convey a
world of hard-headed and hard-hitting meaning.
Private Miles says this last effusion of his genius is
the “War Song of the Honist Dimmycrats of New
York City Aginst the Chates;” and is anxious to
Barney Williams or Mr. and Mrs. Florence, at the
Academy of Music. He calls it—
THE BUST UP OF THE MACHINES.
AIR—The Groves of Blarney.
Och, the coalition,
For a fair divishin
Of the city spoils, that was lately made;
It now proves a shwindle,
Which but sarves to kindle
Into fiercer fury min of every shade.
All the lads delightin',
In “payce” are fightin'
Like the divil himself aginst their new allies;
While aich “city rail-roadher”
Has around him an odher
Which even min wid noses the laste sinsitive do in their very heart of hearts most etarnally dispise!
II.
Yes, I tell you fairly,
Things looks mighty quarely
In the dimmycratic party of this daycint town;
The machines is busted
And all them that thrusted
In the reg'lar nominhins—Och, their tails is down!
Just to see the ruction
That is made by Jim Brady an' McKeon too;
While there's Oliver Charlick,
Who is perfeck garlick
To Mister Pether B. Sweeny, Owny Brennan, Hughey Smith, Jake Sharp, James B. Taylor, and to all that crew!
III.
There's the bould Fernandy,
Who was wanst our dandy—
He is now a mimber of the great “has beens”!
While fat Daycon Anson[1]
For revinge is prancin',
And is knockin' all the crockery into smithereens.
Here's the thrue John Kelly
Come to join the melee,
An' big Michael Connolly, stout as Brine O'Lynn;
Jump in and sthrip, boys!
To be whipped or whip, boys!
'Tis an ould-fashioned Donnybrook free fight, in which the best men win.
IV.
Here is War Horse Purdy,
Late so shpry an' sturdy,
Now so badly “Sweenied” that his teeth won't pass;
Take off his bridle,
Turn him out to idle,
You may cure his sthring halt wid a year of grass
A red-bearded throoper,
Wid his partner Hewitt—min of iron both,
An' here's Charles O'Conor,
That grim sowl of honor,
Who to thry his hand in a little free fight divarsion was niver in the laste bit lothe.
V.
Och, here's Watherberry,
Who's sore-headed—very,
Thryin' hard to bolsther up Governor Saymour's shpine;
An' there's Harry Hilton,
Who just now was kilt on
That political Jug-ornate—the Broadway line!
Here's the bould Smith Ely
For whose grieviance feel I—
Mat[2] thrated him badly, and there's no mistake;
An' here's Cornell (Charley),
Arm in arm wid Farley;
They are two party pilliars whom the little hayro of the Twintieth will find it hard to shake!
VI.
Here is Aldherman Froment,
Who a sturdy blow lent
To “min who take offices they don't dare to fill;”
An' the gay Dan Delavan,
Who don't fear to tell a man
What he thinks of the “grist” made in the Sixth Ward “mill;”
Won't be made a fool, too,
So he tells the managirs they may go to—Cork;
While the gay Bill Tweedie
Owns that things looks seedy,
An' not only seedy, but most particularly dusty for the reg'lar machine candydates in our gay New York!
VII.
Och, Jim Kerrigan's howling
For the scalp of Dowling,
An' I guess he'll get it wid Billy Walsh's aid;
While grim Fifth ward Savage
Shwears to slay and ravage
If his frind Bob McIntyre ain't a Police Justice made.
Here is Billy Miner—
There's no metal finer
Than there is in Billy for a stand up fight;
An' young Aldherman Hardy,
Who is never tardy
To uphold aginst all comers—no matther how fortyfied in “conthrol” they may think themselves—the people's right.
VII.
Och, here's John McCool, too,
Who sthrikes hands wid Boole, too,
Aginst dictation, come from whence it may;
While the staunch Gid. Tucker,
Yet may bring us succor
Whin he gets his sharp pen into its full play;
Needs a new consoler—
Johnny Anderson's “solace” cannot charm New York;
The machines is busted,
An' all them that thrusted
In the reg'lar nominashins (to quote the very powerful an' iligant words of my cousin Jim's boss, City Inspecther Boole), they may go to Cork!
This song, which Private O'Reilly gave with great
unction on board the steam pleasure yacht which
Uncle Sam is generous enough to keep for the benefit
of Mr. Surveyor Andrews, appeared to create so much
hilarity and was so well received, that, on its being
encored, he said, with the leave of the honorable
company, he'd much prefer, instead of repeating himself,
to give them a song about state politics, which
had been composed by his cousin, Mr. Patrick D.
O'Reilly, of the 19th Ward,—“a man that needn't
turn his back upon any politicianer that ever was
born for downright cuteness and knowledgability.”
He had heard said that this song was written by
Judge Waterbury, but there wasn't a word of truth
in the rumor. In the first place, it wasn't the judge's
sentiments. In the second, the judge had never
been partial to the “Little Giant” while he was alive;
Dix, though not so “coppery” by any means as some
people thought him. The last reason why the song
was not Judge Waterbury's was, that it happened to
be Patsy O'Reilly's; and if anybody thought it wasn't
Patsy's, and would only say it wasn't Patsy's to Patsy's
face any fine night, he (Private Miles) “would be
happy to see the argyment,” which he prophesied
would be a knock down one. Patsy, his cousin, they
must know had been bred for a priest, but didn't
take kindly, God pity him! to the notion of single
blessedness and fasting. He was too robustious a
man for the church; but he had made his mark in
city politics, and had to-day more contracts with the
Street Department than any other one man in the
city. Having got off these remarks, Private O'Reilly
than sang to the air of Bonnie Dundee, the following
verses:
SONG OF THE NATIONAL DEMOCRACY.
Ere you play the old game, there are slates to be broke;
Your words are all right, if they only were true,
But beneath the war flag you've a copperhead crew.
So fill up the cup, be it lager or bier,
Resurrect the war hatchet and sharpen the spear,
In November we'll have an almighty big row,
And to Copperhead doctrines be — well, if we bow!
Dean Richmond his stomach may pat and may pinch
His jolly red nose till it lengthens an inch;
But he can't make us think his professions are true
While he sails his war ship with a Copperhead crew.
So fill up the cup, whiskey, claret, or bier,
Resurrect the war hatchet and sharpen the spear,
There are braves on the war path prepared for a row,
And to Breckenridge doctrines be — well, if we bow!
The bold Pete de Cagger, with mystery big,
May adjust each stray hair in his amber-hued wig,
But his arts, though potential, are well understood,
If his platform be honest, why runs he with Wood?
So fill up the cup, things look certainly queer,
Resurrect the war hatchet and sharpen the spear,
With the lords of the “Central”[3] we're in for a row,
And to Richmond and Cagger be — well, if we bow!
Warm hearts to the cause of our country we bring,
To the flag we are pledged—all its foes we abhor;
And we ain't for the nigger, but are for the war!
So fill up the cup, pleasant tipple is bier,
Resurrect the war hatchet and sharpen the spear;
With the Albany chiefs we are in for a row,
And their sceptre we'll break or their heads they shall bow.
It may suit the subservient Old War Horse[4] to say,
He is “willing to follow where Pete leads the way;”
That, with gaiety, he as blank paper will yield
Himself to the power which the Regency wield;—
Oh, so great doth your gaiety, Purdy, appear,
That we drink your good health in a bumper of bier;
And after November's slate smashing grand row,
We'll, with gaiety, make you our very best bow.
Such things do for some folks, but don't do for us,
Who for Pruyn, Cagger, Cassidy, don't care a cuss;
To the flag we are pledged, all its foes we abhor;
And first, last, all the time, we are in for the war!
So fill up the cup—healthy drinking is bier,
Resurrect the great war-axe and sharpen the spear;
In the Wigwam, next April, all factions we'll hush,
And for new men to lead, we'll go in with a rush!
The platform of Logan, Grant, Gillmore, and Dix,
Is better than any that managers fix:
—“Our flag in its glory! our Union restored,
And till treason cries Quarter, no sheath to the sword!”
The Big Spring is bubbling, its waters are clear,
Democracy's fountain, and thus at its brink
“To the memory of Douglas” with bowed heads we drink!
We learn that Private O Reilly has been waited
upon by numerous delegations from the various Irish
benevolent and patriotic societies, anxious to know
upon what day it will be convenient to him to receive
a public demonstration of their kindliness and sympathy.
To this he has very modestly replied, placing
the whole matter in the hands of a committee,
consisting of Judge Michael Connoly, Thomas Whelan,
Esq., Mr. Andrew Carrigan, of the Emigrants'
Industrial Savings Bank, Captain Patrick M. Haverty,
late Quartermaster of the Irish Brigade, Mr.
R. J. Lalor, and Patrick Meehan, Esq., of the Irish
American newspaper. We learn also that arrangements
are now being made for an immense and magnificent
complimentary dinner to be given to Private
Miles at an early day—Messrs. Charles O'Conor,
James T. Brady, Richard O'Gorman, John KcKeon,
Hon. Gideon Welles, Generals Sickles and Meagher,
Admiral Du Pont, Peter Cooper, A. T. Stewart, Capt.
C. R. P. Rodgers, A. V. Stout, Daniel Devlin, J. J.
Bradley, Wm. C. Barrett, Governor Seymour, Hon.
Daniel E. Delavan, Phineas T. Barnum, Hon. Edwin
M. Stanton, Captain Fox, Captain Ericsson, Oliver
Charlick, John Y. Savage, Hon. Thomas A. Ledwith,
Alderman Billy Walsh, Mr. Thurlow Weed,
and others too numerous to mention, being among
the invited guests. We have given public dinners
to all sorts of military heroes, except those of the
humbler order. It now only remains for us to show,
as can be done in O'Reilly's case, that even the humblest
bearer of the musket is not allowed to “bloom
unseen,” by the keen eyes of a generous and enlightened
public. Tickets for the entertainment can be had
of Mr. Nathaniel Jarvis, Jr., City Hall, Judge Bartholomew
O'Connor, Ann street, and Mr. A. V. Stout,
at the “Shoe and Leather Bank.” Dodworth's band
will be in attendance, and the dinner is to be the
ne plus ultra of Delmonico's very highest style of
art. It takes place next Thursday evening; and, as
there will be seats for but three hundred guests, and
as the English, Russian and French Admirals, with
their chiefs of staff, have been invited, all who desire
to be present at this “feast of reason and flow of
soul” should not lose a moment in making application
for their tickets.
| CHAPTER V.
RETURN OF PRIVATE MILES O'REILLY.—HIS RECEPTION
IN NEW YORK. The life and adventures, songs, services, and
speeches of Private Miles O'Reilly [pseud.] (47th regiment, New York
volunteers.) | |