Daniel O’Rourke, An Epic Poem, in Six Cantos

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Daniel O’Rourke,

An Epic Poem, in Six Cantos.

By Fagarty O’Fogarty, Esq. of Blarney.

Canto I.

Patrick Blake.

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I.I trust, O gentle reader, you’ll excuse
A rhyming novice, if he dare rehearse
The promptings of a sad, a sorry muse,
As sorrow is the subject of his verse ;
And that your readership will not abuse
A style allowed to be both sweet and terse,
Nor if in anger will resentment fire on
A metre now immortalized by Byron.

II.1Although some gentlemen decry Don Juan,*
And shun him as a most indecent fellow,
I still believe that of our poems, few, one
Will find in harmony so rich and mellow ;
Heavens !  how unlike the riff-raff cockney crew, one
Finds praised in Scotch review the blue and yellow,†
Give me the poet who can fire your soul,
To drain your eye-lid or to drain your bowl.

III.And such art thou, Don Juan, Corsair, Childe,
Whichever title please thy godlike soul,
Thou who can’st call up stormy passions, wild
As the bleak winds, which howl around the pole,
Or the warm tear upon the cheek, as mild
As when light zephyrs o’er sweet violets roll,
And can at times induce us to be friskey,
Like our kind sweethearts, or our native whiskey.

* Among the rest, Blackwood’s Magazine.—Yet I am confident it is not for its poetry,
its imagery, its fancy, or its feeling, but for principles which none can excuse, and which few
will be found to extenuate.

† The Edinburgh Review.

“ Yet mark one caution, e’er thy next review

Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue.”

—Byron.

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IV.Hold !  there’s another fav’rite of the nine,
For whose droll page I long have used to hanker,
Whose vein of poetry is quite a mine,
As witness his facetious, crazy Banker ;
Long may it live to build the lofty line,
To Constable’s poor rogues a thorn and canker,
I’m sure you know the gentleman I mean,
Wastle, himself a moving Magazine.

V.On these two poets then I lay the blame,
Lord Byron and Will Wastle, if that I,
Should in my story prove too dull or tame,
And from the field be forced to turn or fly ;
For they have earned so vast, so fair a fame,
That it would be a pity not to try
And lay up for myself some shreds of glory,
The preface thus despatch’d—now to my story.

VI.It happen’d once, some fifty years ago,
That in the town of Bantry lived a man
Named Patrick Blake, an oily, round-faced beau,
A steady worshipper of pipe and can ;
Upon his nose there shone that ready glow,
That seems as if ’twould always need a fan ;
In short he was a man, who, jest apart,
Would guzzle ale and smoke with all his heart.

VII.And better liquor was it than the slops,
(Receipts for which sage Accum’s* book contains)
Which fill our stomachs from the druggist’s shops,
With Gentian, Quassia, and outlandish grains ;
In Pat’s time beer was made of malt and hops,
And brewers were contented with fair gains ;
I wonder much the faculty don’t buy sense,
And furnish men who physic with a licence.

VIII.In times we speak of whiskey too was made,
They call’d Potheen, and sold so very cheap,
So sweet and wholesome, none were much afraid,
Of head or purse to drink themselves asleep,
Or raise it to the lips of modest maid,
’Twas mild as dew-drops that the roses weep,
But such stuff now will give a man the colic,
’Tis so bedamned with acid vitriolic.

IX.

The ale was like the Edinburgh ale65

At Johnnie Dowie’s† or the High-street Amos,66

* Mr Death-in-the-pot.

† An antique ale-house in Edinburgh, long known for the flavour of its ale, and for
the many celebrated characters who frequented it in former days. It was a favourite re-
treat of Burns, who is said to have composed some verses in its praise. I believe they
commence thus—they may be spurious.

“ Oh Dowie’s ale thou art the thing

Gars mak us crack, gars mak us sing,

And frae us a’ our cares to fling

Awa wi’ anger.”

Dowie is dead—and I am dowie.

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When not too fresh or altogether stale,67

But just a month in bottle, ’tis so famous,68

That we’d prefer it to the muscatel69

Of Gallic plains, no epicure would blame us,70

But straightway purchase dozens for his throttle,71

Could he but taste the drainings of a bottle.72

X.But to return—Poor Paddy had a wife,
The very plague and torment of his soul,
The harbinger of battle and of strife,
And, what was worse, the filcher of his bowl ;
In truth he led a very sorry life,
And often to the  “ mountain daisy”* stole
Where freed from Beck, the gayest of the gay,
He’d drain his mug, and puff the hours away.

XI.Delightful herb !  Tobacco, lord of plants,
How grateful is thy fragrance to the soul !
Who harbours care, or true enjoyment wants,
When round his head thy airy currents roll ;
When circling wreath the ascending wreath supplants,
Till every nook is filled and every hole ;
While through the dark the tiny spark will rise,
Like fairy meteor in its cloudy skies ?

XII.But darkness reigned here :  the brilliant moon
Threw lovely lustre o’er the scene to-night,
The climbing woodbine round the lattice strewn
Reflected back its silvery rays of light ;
Oh !  ’twas so clear, so chastened, not at noon
Could forms appear more purely or more bright :
And there was Paddy gazing from within
The cozy parlour of a country inn—

XIII.The  “ mountain daisy” —’twas a far-fam’d spot,
And nature’s worshippers regard it still ;
Though levell’d now the jasmine and the cot,
There still remain the clear and bubbling rill,
And high o’ertopping mountains—’twas a grot,
The best of grottos, where a man may fill
His scrip with cheese, his belly with good ale,
His soul with glee from joke, or song, or tale.

XIV.

There was a pretty lawn before the door,105

Where many a sport and active feat was tried,106

Where oft the pipe or fiddle brought a score107

Of tight-bound maidens, widow, wife, or bride,108

* About forty years ago, the traveller, on his journey from Bantry to Glangariffe, might
have perceived, not far from the town of Bantry, a fine large board, swinging freely in the
wind from the top of a long red pole, with “ Breakfasts, Porter, Wine, Brandy, &c.
sold here,” in goodly letters, on one side ; and on the other side, a large fungus-like flower,
somewhat resembling an overgrown mushroom or a late cauliflower—a little observation,
however, discovered to you that this was intended (as the letters underneath inform you)
a mountain daisy.

This inn was very romantically situated, and though now no more, its site is the attrac-
tion of every visitor to that quarter of Ireland. Never does a party visit Glangariffe with-
ing their respects to the glen of the “ Mountain Daisy,”—Vide Townsend’s Sur-
of the County of Cork.

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To seek the dance or gypsy’s mystic lore,109

Or willing kiss to true love ne’er denied ;110

And oft, in emulation on the green,111

Some youthful buffer’s sinewy arms was seen112

XV.To fling the thump—like him of mighty powers,
The late Sir Daniel—terror of the ring,
Still mourned by Erin, and embalmed with flowers
Of sweetest poesy, that fragrance fling
Around his honour’d tomb—while the swift hours,
With thrilling harmony on noiseless wing,
Still chant his deeds, set forth by him we’re proud in,
The soft, the sweet, the soul-subduing Dowden.*

XVI.On Sunday morning, ’twas the rendezvous
Of such as, loosed from city toil and dust,
Seek the green fields in preference to the pew,
To air their buttons after six days rust,
With baskets cramm’d, in some the savoury stew,
In others ham—in others—— ;  but I must
Not waste my paper on such flimsy rhyme, 
I’ll give enough of that some other time.

XVII.Here sometimes clubs of ancient maidens chose,
Sitting beneath some widely-spreading oak,
To sip the old maid’s beverage—God knows
Their real pleasure was the biting joke,
The daily scandal—no one can suppose
How maids of fifty love such filth to croak ;
But blame them not, they’re curious, and they trade in
Such ware as drove dame Eve from out of Eden.

XVIII.There was a club of gentlemen beside,
Who once a week upon a Monday met,
To read, mark, learn, and readily decide
On all the news contained in the Gazette,
The only paper which the town supplied ;
And pleasant ’twas to hear th’ important set,
Discuss in style grave, comic, or ironical,
The stale contents of that well handled chronicle.

XIX.But come, I’ve done this troublesome digression,
I promise to go on quite smack and smooth ;
But being now a rhymer by profession,
I think it would appear, at least, uncouth,
To put at once my readers in possession
Of this my tale—I cannot say, in sooth,
How much I reverence this sort of rambling,
’Tis just as sweet as comfits got by scambling.

* It requires explanation, why Mr Dowden should be mentioned here in preference to
my Lord Byron, Mr Wordsworth, and the other celebrated poets who have so nobly im-
mortalized the name of Donelly. The reason is two-fold :— In the first instance, Mr D.
contributed more than any individual to the celebration of that hero’s memory, having
supplied not a lamentation, and a beautiful one too—but a splendid prose eulogium
on his life and character : In the second instance, the world will be glad to hear, that he
has the life of Sir Daniel, in three vols. quarto, with portraits engraved by Corbould, from
original paintings by J. W. Topp, in the press. I have seen the work, and it will do
credit to both author and hero.F. O‘F.

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XX.But where is Paddy all this tedious while
We’re handling folly with a ready pen?
Just where we left him, trying to beguile
The minutes till the cuckoo-clock strike ten ;
That was the wished-for happy moment, when
His old companion Daniel, with a smile
Of broad-faced humour, when his toil was done,
Came to partake of pipe, of ale, and fun.

XXI.I’ve brought my readers just thro’ verses twenty,
Which number makes a very good beginning,
And if with patience bless’d, they shall have plenty
Of good advice against that kind of sinning
By some call’d tippling—let it content ye,
Good readers, if I here decline the spinning
Out of a sermon—but it is intended
To speak upon the matter e’er I’ve ended.

XXII.But I can vouch, that Daniel and his friend
Were much addicted to that style of going,
And many a wintry evening did they spend,
While round the house the roaring wind was blowing,
Not minding whether the next blast would send
The roof upon their heads—no !  they were growing
More happy as the tempest grew more strong,
Roaring the thunder down with boisterous song.

XXIII.In summer ’twas the same—the sultry eve
Still saw them at the  “ daisy”—with this change,
That in hot weather they took care to leave
The parlour for the meadows cooler range.
O !  Many a goodly epicure would grieve
To think of dogs so happy—I’ll arrange
Something like this—I wish that friends who read,
May taste their pleasures and adopt their creed.

XXIV.Well !  who is Daniel ?  will be asked by such
As must feel anxious in our hero’s fate,
I’ll introduce him soon—but I fear much
My pen has waddled sadly in its gait,
And jostled subjects that it need not touch ;
While for the story folks impatient wait ;
I’m sorry for it—but it is my plan to
Give honest Dan the whole of Second Canto.

F. O’F.

End of First Canto.

Editorial notes

Words crew, / Jeff in lines 5-6 of this stanza changed due to a printing error. Letter explaining the discrepancy published: Letter from Mr. Fogarty. Blackwoods, vol. 8, no. 43, Oct. 1820, pp. 40-41.

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