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Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II
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After a hurling-match by Darby won,
Although his nose bad suffered in the fun,
He, with his rivals, now no longer foes,
To the Three Blacks in peaceful triumph goes!
Two blacks already had he in the fray,
But whereabouts I won't presume to say:
'T would spoil the beauty of a hero's mien,
Though by the candles' glare they scarce were seen.
Many were met; of sisters, brothers, cousins,
Aunts, uncles, nieces, sweethearts, wives, some dozens.
First, Widow Higgins, with her daughters three,
Bedizen'd out as fine as fine could be,
Came on her low-back'd car, with feather-bed,
And ornamental quilt upon it spread.
She look'd a queen from the luxurious East
Reclining on an ottoman: – the beast
That drew her, chicks and all, drew seventy stone at least!
And he to horse was what to man is monkey,
In epics 't would be bathos, or I'd call him donkey.
But (who can read the secret book of Fate?)
Just as the party pass'd the inn-yard gate,
A startled pig – a young and timorous thing
That in a puddle had been weltering —
Woke from some rapturous dream, and in its fright
Rush'd 'tween the nag's forelegs, who, woful sight!
Employ'd his hinder ones so wondrous well,
That Widow Higgins, bed, and daughters, fell
(Alas, my muse!) into the porker's bath!
Oh, day turn'd night! oh, pleasure sour'd to wrath!
But soon they did recover mirth, and jok'd,
For 'twas the feather-bed alone that soak'd
The stagnant pool: – no stain's impurity
Defil'd their rainbow-riband'd dimity,
Save one; and that was on the widow's crupper,
Who said, "I wish they'd scald that pig for supper!"
Next came Miss Duff, in a light pea-green plush,
That beautifully show'd her blue-red blush.
Miss Reeves soon follow'd, spite of summer weather,
In pelerine of goose-down, and a feather.
The two Miss Gallaghers, the four Miss Bradys,
With I know not how many other ladies.
Amongst them Nelly Jones, with her first child,
That squeak'd and squall'd; then, cock-a-doodle, smiled.
Reader! I tell this for your private list'ning,
To have the clargy at his feast, a christ'ning
Our Darby thought would be a trick with art in
To nail the presence of big Father Martin,
Who was the bochel-bhui of jolly sinners,
At wakes or christ'nings, weddings, deaths, or dinners!
Suppose Jack Falstaff had ta'en holy orders,
And then I'll say your fancy somewhat borders
Upon the plumpy truth of this round priest,
Who ne'er refus'd his blessing to a feast.
One slender damsel, that seem'd not fifteen,
With younger brother, in the throng was seen;
Shy and confused, as when a violet,
Suddenly snatch'd from its dark-green retreat,
First meets the gaudy glaring of the day,
And seems to close its beauty from the ray
Of unaccustom'd light that rudely prys
Into its gentle, modest, azure eyes.
What led her thither I could never learn.
But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne,
All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast; —
And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least,
Contributes by her dress and portly mien
To swell the splendour of the joyous scene.
Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air!
A bright-blue band encircled her red hair,
Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle!
Her dress was gaudy, – though as coarse as huckle-[24 - The usual spelling of this word is "huckaback;" but I suppose Mr. Kelly's excuse would be "licet facere verba."]
Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey, – flowing
In graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showing
It had been out for a more sylphid shape,
As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape!
But now the christ'ning's o'er: of wine and cakes
First Father Martin, then each fair, partakes;
The youths incline to porter and potcheen.
Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen,
Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea,
Whose incense in one corner you might see
Rising in volumes from four sacred stills,
Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fills
With boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless,
That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless.
But now the pipes are smoking both and playing:
"Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying!
Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne,
And then we'll get a stave all round in turn."
Tommy, obedient, put his dudheen[25 - Dudheen, short pipe.] in
His waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin: —
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Классная книга. Очень многое объясняет, что скрытое реально происходит в человеке