A TALE OF 'NINETY-EIGHT, AS RELATED BY AN IRISH PEASANT
JIST after the war, in the year 'Ninety-Eight,
As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got,
To hang him by trial-barrin' such as was shot.
There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight,
And the martial law hangin' the lavings by night :
It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon ;
If he missed in the judges, he'd meet a Dragoon!
An' whether the sojers or judges gave sentence,
The devil a much time they allowed for repentance;
An' the many a fine Boy was then on his keepin',
With small share of restin', or sittin', or sleepin'!
An' because they loved Erinn, and scorned to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet—
Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,
With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay.
An' the bravest an' honestest Boy of thim all
Was Shemus O'Brien, from the town of Glingall;
His limbs wor well set, an' his body was light,
An' the keen-fangéd hound had not teeth half as white.
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
An' his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red;
An', for all that, he wasn't an ugly young Boy-
For the devil himself couldn't blaze with his eye-
So droll an' so wicked, so dark an' so bright,
Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night.
An' he was the best mower that ever has been,
An' the elegantest hurler that ever was seen :
In fencin' he gave Patrick Mooney a cut,
An' in jumpin' he bate Tom Molony a foot;
For lightness of foot there was not his peer,
For, by Heavens! he'd almost outrun the red deer;
An' his dancin' was such that the men used to stare,
And the women turn crazy, he did it so quare ;
An' sure the whole world' gave in to him there!
An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught ;
An' it's often he ran, an' it's often he fought;
An' it's many the one can remember quite well
The quare things he did; and it's oft I heerd tell
How he frightened the magistrates in Cahirbally,
An' escaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley,
An' leathered the yeomen, himself agen four,
An' stretched the four strongest on ould Galteemore.
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
And treachery prey on the blood of the best;
An' many an action of power an' of pride,
An' many a night on the mountain's bleak side,
And a thousand great dangers an' toils overpast,
In darkness of night he was taken at last.
Now, Shemus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon ;
An' take your last look at her dim misty light,
That falls on the mountain an' valley to-night.
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
An' one at the sheltering far-distant wood;
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still.
Farewell to the patthern, the hurlin' an' wake,
An' farewell to the girl that would die for your sake!
An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' with irons secured him, refusin' all bail.
The fleet limbs wor chained, and the sthrong hands wor bound,
An' he lay down his length on the cold prison ground;
In Gaelic the consonant is given its full value before another consonant, producing the effect of a dissyllable, e.g. tarbh pronounced 'thorruv' (a bull). This practice, like many other Gaelic locutions, has been carried into Englis hence 'worruld' for 'world'; 'firrum' for 'firm,' &c.
And the dhrames of his childhood kem over him there,
As gentle and soft as the sweet summer air ;
An' happy remimbrances crowdin' in ever,
As fast the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river,
Bringin' fresh to his heart merry days long gone by,
Till the tears gathered heavy an' thick in his eye.
But the tears didn't fall; for the pride iv his heart
Wouldn't suffer one dhrop down his pale cheek to start;
An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave,
An' he swore with a fierceness that misery gave,
By the hopes iv the good an' the cause iv the brave,
That, when he was mouldering in the cowld grave,
His inimies never should have it to boast
His scorn iv their vengeance one moment was lost :
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry ;
For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks were over an' gone,
The terrible day of the trial came on;
There was such a crowd, there was scarce room to stand,
An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword in hand;
An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered,
An' attornies and criers on the point o' bein' smothered;
An' counsellors almost gev' over for dead,
An' the jury sittin' up in the box overhead ;
An' the judge settled out so determined an' big,
An' the gown on his back, an' an elegant wig ;
An' silence was call'd, an' the minute 'twas said,
The court was as still as the heart of the dead.
An' they heard but the opening of one prison-lock,
An' Shemus O'Brien kem into the dock;
For one minute he turned his eyes round on the throng,
An' then looked on the bars, so firm and so strong.
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
A chance to escape, nor a word to defend ;
An' he folded his arms, as he stood there alone,
As calm an' as cold as a statue of stone.
An' they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Shemus didn't see it, nor mind it a taste;
An' the judge took a big pinch of snuff, an' he says:
'Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, if you plaise?'
An' all held their breath in silence of dread,
An' Shemus O'Brien made answer an' said :
'My lord, if you ask me if in my lifetime
I thought any treason, or did any crime,
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death blow,
Before God an' the world I would answer you No!
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the Rebellion I carried a pike,
An' fought for Ould Ireland, from the first to the close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes-
I answer you YES; an' I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dry,
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die.'
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright ;
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my soul, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!
In a twinkling he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shemus's mother, in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:
'Oh! judge, darlin', don't-oh! don't say the word!
The crathur is young-have mercy, my lord!
You don't know him, my lord; oh! don't give him to ruin !
He was foolish-he didn't know what he was doin';
He's the kindliest crathur, the tinderest-hearted--
Don't part us for ever, we that's so long parted!
Judge mavourneen, forgive him-forgive him, my lord!
An' God will forgive you-oh! don't say the word !'
That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken!
An' down his pale cheek, at the word of his mother,
The big tears were running, one after the other;
An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake,
But the strong manly voice used to falter and break.
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquer'd an' master'd his grief's swelling tide ;
An' says he, Mother, don't-don't break your poor heart! Sure, sooner or later, the dearest must part.
An' God knows it's better than wand'ring in fear
On the bleak trackless mountain among the wild deer,
To be in the grave, where the heart, head, an' breast,
From labour and sorrow for ever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more—
Don't make me seem broken in this my last hour;
For I wish, when my heart's lyin' under the raven,
No true man can say that I died like a craven.'
Then towards the judge Shemus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.
The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;
But why are the men standing idle so late?
An' why do the crowd gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? What come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?
Oh! Shemus O'Brien, pray fervent an' fast-
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last.
Pray fast, an' pray strong, for the moment is nigh,
When, strong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die !
At last they drew open the big prison gate,
An' out came the Sheriffs an' sojers in state.
An' a cart in the middle, and Shemus was in it-
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minit ;
An' as soon as the people saw Shemus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' and blessin', an all the girls cryin',
A wild wailin' sound kem on all by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
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