The Ned M'Keown Stories Part 21

"It's all the nathur of the baste," says Alick.

"The next is marrying. A bouchal puts an ould dark coat on him, and if he can, borry a wig from any of the ould men in the wake-house, why, well and good, he's the liker his work--this is the priest; he takes, and drives all the young men out of the house, and shuts the door upon them, so, that they can't get in till he lets them. He then ranges the girls all beside one another, and, going to the first, makes her name him she wishes to be her husband; this she does, of coorse, and the priest lugs him in, shutting the door upon the rest. He then p.r.o.nounces this marriage sarvice, when the husband smacks her first, and then the priest:--'Amo amas, avourneen--in nomine gomine, betwuxt and between--for hoc erat in votis, squeeze 'em please 'em--omnia vincit amor, wid two horns to caput nap it--poluphlasboio, the la.s.ses--'Quid,'

says Cleopatra; 'Shid,' says Antony--ragibus et clatibus solemus stapere windous--nine months--big-bottle, and a honeymoon--Alneas poque Dido'

poque Roymachree--hum not fiem viat--lag rag, merry kerry, Parawig and breeches--hoc manifestibus omnium--Kiss your wife under the nose, then seek repose.' 'Tis' done,' says the priest. 'Vinculum trinculum; and now you're married. Amen!' Well, these two are married, and he places his wife upon his knee, for fraid of taking up too much room, _you persave_; there they coort away again, and why shouldn't they?

"The priest then goes to the next, and makes her name her husband; this is complied with, and he is brought in after the same manner, but no one else till they're called: he is then married, and kisses his wife, and the priest kisses her after him; and so they're all married.

"But if you'd see them that don't chance to be called at all, the figure they cut--slipping into some dark corner, to avoid the mobbing they get from the priest and the others. When they're all united, they must each sing a song--man and wife, according as they sit; or if they can't sing, or get some one to do it for them, they're divorced. But the priest, himself, usually lilts for any one that's not able to give a verse. You see, Mr. Morrow, there's always in the neighborhood some droll fellow that takes all these things upon him, and if he happened to be absent, the wake would be quite dull."

"Well," said Andy Morrow, "have you any more of their sports; Tom?"

"Ay, have I; one of the best and pleasantest you heard yet."

"I hope there's no more coorting in it," says Nancy; "G.o.d knows we're tired of their kissing and marrying."

"Were you always so?" says Ned, across the fire to her.

"Behave yourself, Ned," says she; "don't you make me spake; sure you were set down as the greatest Brine-oge that ever was known, in the parish, for such things."

"No, but don't you make _me_ spake," replies Ned.

"Here, Biddy," said Nancy, "bring that uncle of yours another pint; that's what he wants most at the present time, I'm thinking."

Biddy, accordingly, complied with this.

"Don't make _me_ spake," continued Ned.

"Come, Ned," she replied, "you've got a fresh pint now; so drink it, and give me no more _gosther_. (* Gossip--Idle talk.)

"_Shuid-urth!_"* says Ned, putting the pint to his head, and winking slyly at the rest.

* This to you, or upon you; a form of drinking healths.

"Ay, wink; in troth I'll be up to you for that, Ned," says Nancy; by no means satisfied that Ned should enter into particulars. "Well, Tom,"

says she, diverting the conversation, "go on, and give us the remainder of your Wake."

"Well," says Tom, "the next play is in the milintary line. You see, Mr.

Morrow, the man that leads the sports places them all on their sates, gets from some of the girls a white handkerchief, which he ties round his hat, as you would tie a piece of mourning; he then walks round them two or three times singing,

Will you list and come with me, fair maid?

Will'you list and come with me, fair maid?

Will you list and come with me, fair maid, And folly the lad with the white c.o.c.kade?

"When he sings this he takes off his hat, and puts it on the head of the girl he likes best, who rises up and puts her arm around him, and then they both go about in the same way, singing the same words. She then puts the hat on some young man, who gets up and goes round with them, singing as before. He next puts it on the girl he loves best, who, after singing and going round in the same manner, puts it on another, and he on his sweetheart, and so on. This is called the White c.o.c.kade. When it's all over, that is, when every young man has pitched upon the girl that he wishes to be his sweetheart, they sit down, and sing songs, and coort, as they did at the marrying.

"After this comes the _Weds or Forfeits_, or what they call putting round the b.u.t.ton. Every one gives in a forfeit--the boys a neck-handkerchief or a pen-knife, and the girls a pocket-handkerchief or something that way. The forfeit is held over them, and each of them stoops in tarn. They are, then, compelled to command the person that owns that forfeit to sing a song--to kiss such and such a girl--or to carry some ould man, with his legs about their neck, three times round the house, and this last is always great fun. Or, maybe, a young, upsetting fellow, will be sent to kiss some toothless, slavering, ould woman, just to punish him; or if a young woman is any way saucy, she'll have to kiss some ould, withered fellow, his tongue hanging with age half way down his chin, and the tobacco water trickling from each comer of his mouth.

"By jingo, many a time, when the friends of the corpse would be breaking their very hearts with grief and affliction, I have seen them obligated to laugh out, in spite of themselves, at the drollery of the priest, with, his ould black coat and wig upon him; and when the laughing fit would be over, to see them rocking themselves again with the sorrow--so sad. The best man for managing such sports in this neighborhood, for many a year, was Roger M'Cann, that lives up as you go to the mountains.

You wouldn't begrudge to go ten miles the cowldest winter night that ever blew, to see and hear Roger.

"There's another play that they call the _Priest of the Parish_, which, is remarkably pleasant. One of the boys gets a wig upon himself as before--goes out on the flure, places the boys in a row, calls one _his man Jack_ and says to each 'What will you be?' One answers 'I'll be black cap;' another--red cap;' and so on. He then says, 'The priest of the parish has lost his considhering cap some says this, and some says that, but I say my man Jack!' Man Jack, then, to put it off himself, says, Is it me, sir?' 'Yes, sir!' 'You lie, sir!' 'Who then, sir?'

'Black cap!' If Black cap, then, doesn't say 'Is it me, sir?' before the priest has time to call him, he must put his hand on his ham, and get a pelt of the brogue. A body must be supple with the tongue in it.

"After this comes one they call _Horns, or the Painter_. A droll fellow gets a lump of soot or lamp black, and after fixing a ring of the boys and girls about him, he lays his two fore-fingers on his knees, and says. 'Horns, horns, cow horns!' and then raises his finders by a jerk up above his head; the boys and girls in the ring then do the same thing, for the meaning of the play is this:--the man with the black'ning always raises his fingers every time he names an animal; but if he names any that has no horns, and that the others jerk up their fingers, then they must get a stroke over the face with the soot. 'Horns, horns, goat horns!'--then he ups with his fingers like lightning; they must all do the same, bekase a goat has horns. Horns, horns, horse horns!'--he ups with them again, but the boys and girls ought not, bekase a horse has not horns; however any one that raises them then, gets a slake. So that it all comes to this:--Any one, you see that lifts his fingers when an animal is named that has no horns--or any one that does not raise them when a baste is mintioned that has horns, will get a mark. It's a purty game, and requires a keen eye and a quick hand; and, maybe, there's not fun in straiking the soot over the purty, warm, rosy cheeks of the colleens, while their eyes are dancing with delight in their heads, and their sweet breath comes over so pleasant about one's face, the darlings!--Och! och!

"There's another game they call the _Silly ould Man_, that's played this way:--A ring of the boys and girls is made on the flure--boy and girl about--holding one another by the hands; well and good--a young fellow gets into the middle of the ring, as 'the silly ould Man.' There he stands looking at all the girls to choose a wife, and, in the mane time, the youngsters of the ring sing out--

Here's a silly ould Man that lies all alone, That lies all alone, That lies all alone; Here's a silly ould man that lies all alone, He wants a wife and he can get none.

"When the' boys and girls sing this, the silly ould man must choose a wife from some of the colleens belonging to the ring. Having made choice of her, she goes into the ring along with him, and they all sing out--

Now, young couple, you're married together, You're married together, You're married together, You must obey your father and mother, And love one another like sister and brother-- I pray, young couple, you'll kiss together!

"And you may be sure this part of the marriage is not missed, any way."

"I doubt," said Andy Morrow, "that good can't come of so much kissing, marrying, and coorting."

The narrator twisted his mouth knowingly, and gave a significant groan.

"_Be dhe husth_,* hould your tongue, Misther Morrow," said he; "Biddy avour-neen," he continued, addressing Biddy and Bessy, "and Bessy, alannah, just take a friend's advice, and never mind going to wakes; to be sure there's plenty of fun and divarsion at sich places, but--healths apiece!" putting the pint to his lips--"and that's all I say about it."

"Right enough, Tom," observed Shane Fadh--"sure most of the matches are planned at them, and, I may say, most of the runaways, too--poor, young, foolish crathurs, going off, and getting themselves married; then bringing small, helpless families upon their hands, without money or manes to begin the world with, and afterwards likely to eat one another out of the face for their folly; however, there's no putting ould heads upon young shoulders, and I doubt, except the wakes are stopped altogether, that it'll be the ould case still."

"I never remember being at a counthry wake," said Andy Morrow. "How is everything laid out in the house?"

"Sure it's to you I'm telling the whole story, Mr. Morrow: these thieves about me here know all about it as well as I do--the house, eh? Why, you see, the two corpses were stretched beside one another, washed and laid out. There were long deal boords with their ends upon two stools, laid over the bodies; the boords were covered with a white sheet got at the big house, so the corpses were'nt to be seen. On these, again, were placed large mould candles, plates of cut tobacco, pipes, and snuff, and so on. Sometimes corpses are waked in a bed, with their faces visible; when that is the case, white sheets, crosses, and sometimes flowers, are pinned up about the bed, except in the front; but when they're undher boord, a set of ould women sit smoking, and rocking themselves from side to side, quite sorrowful--these are keeners--friends or relations; and when every one connected with the dead comes in, they raise the keene, like a song of sorrow, wailing and clapping their hands.

"The furniture is mostly removed, and sates made round the walls, where the neighbors sit smoking, chatting, and gosthering. The best of aiting and dhrinking that they can afford is provided; and, indeed, there is generally open house, for it's unknown how people injure themselves by their kindness and waste at christenings, weddings, and wakes.

"In regard to poor Larry's wake--we had all this, and more at it; for, as I obsarved a while agone, the man had made himself no friends when he was living, and the neighbors gave a loose to all kinds of divilment when he was dead. Although there's no man would be guilty of any disrespect where the dead are, yet, when a person has led a good life, and conducted themselves dacently and honestly, the young people of the neighborhood show their respect by going through their little plays and divarsions quieter and with less noise, lest they may give any offence; but, as I said, whenever the person didn't live as they ought to do, there's no stop to their noise and rollikin.

"When it drew near morning, every one of us took his sweetheart, and, after convoying her home, we went to our own houses to get a little sleep--so that was the end of poor Larry, M'Farland, and his wife, Sally Lowry.

"Success, Tom!" said Bill M'Kinnly "take a pull of the malt now, afther the story, your soul!--But what was the funeral like?"

"Why, then, a poor berrin it was," said Tom; "a miserable sight, G.o.d knows--just a few of the neighbors; for those that used to take his thrate, and while he had a shilling in his pocket blarney him up, not one of the skulking thieves showed their faces at it--a good warning to foolish men that throw their money down throats that haven't hearts anundher them.--But boys, desarve another thrate, I think, afther my story!" This, we need scarcely add, he was supplied with, and after some further desultory chat, they again separated, with the intention of rea.s.sembling at Ned's on the following night.

THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS.

Accordingly, the next evening found them all present, when it was determined unanimously that Pat Frayne, the hedge schoolmaster, should furnish them with the intellectual portion of the entertainment for that night, their object being each to tell a story in his turn.

"Very well," said Pat, "I am quite simultaneous to the wishes of the company; but you will plaise to observe, that there is clay which is moist, and clay which is not moist. Now, under certain circ.u.mstances, the clay which is not moist, ought to be made moist, and one of those circ.u.mstances that in which any larned person becomes loquacious, and indulges in narrative. The philosophical raison, is decided on by Socrates, and the great Phelim M'Poteen, two of the most celebrated liquorary characters that ever graced the sunny side of a plantation, is, that when a man commences a narration with his clay not moist, the said narration is found, by all lamed experience, to be a very dry one--ehem!"

"Very right, Mr. Frayne," replied Andy Morrow; "so in ordher to avoid a dhry narrative, Nancy, give the masther a jug of your stoutest to wet his whistle, and keep him in wind as he goes along."