Daniel O’Rourke, An Epic Poem, in Six Cantos. Canto II

POEM DETAILS

Daniel O’Rouke,

An Epic Poem, in Six Cantos.

By Fogarty O’Fogarty, Esq. of Blarney.

Canto II.

The Mountain Daisy.

Isaiah, xxviii. 7.

“ They also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.”

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“ Now my own delights I make,
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly brandy can partake,
At thee, sweet Daisy !

—Wordsworth.

1.As the sun moves to rest below the wave, 
With streams of dazzling lustre at his feet ; 
As sinks to death, the generous and the brave, 
Whose bright career, tho’ glorious, was but fleet ; 
As when the ship whose sides the billows lave, 
Parts sorrowing friends in hope again to meet, 
So Canto first will disappear from view, 
When merry folks have scanned it thro’ and thro’.

2.But this fair sun, to-morrow’s dawn, will rise, 
In splendour rivalling his setting ray, 
The warrior, tho’ beneath the turf he lies, 
Will thro’ his son, still bear the palm away : 
The ship that now with swelling canvas flies, 
Soon will return to greet its well-known bay, 
Thus Canto second on your view will burst, 
In type more perfect than did Canto first.

3.

We left, if I mistake not, Paddy Blake17

Waiting most anxiously for Mr Dan, 18

Whose jolly face, expected long, would make19

The milk-white froth again o’ertop the can.20

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To say the truth, our Paddy could not take21

His drop alone—but, as the story ran, 22

With jovial friends, he valued not a feather23

To have a pull, long, strong, and all together.24

4.The cuckoo-clock now pointed half-past ten, 
And sad forebodings darken’d Paddy’s brow, 
His very nose grew pale, and paler, when
                              
He pictured to himself some ruffian row, 
Or white boys close concealed in lonely glen, 
Fellers alike of Christian and of cow, 
If Dan, thought he, be met by such as these, 
No ale to-night he’ll taste, nor bread, nor cheese.

5.That times are honester must be confess’d, 
For these marauders prowl about no more, 
The carder, caravat, and shanavest,* 
Have lost the knack of bursting in your door. 
I never could behold (at least with zest) 
From wretches’ backs the bleeding fibres tore ; 
Yet such was long the practice of this school, 
To card up backs as combers card your wool.

6.A well-known knock dispell’d his rising fears, 
And oped the rustic portal—slowly in
Dan trots, well laden—as if press’d with years, 
His breast was in close contact with his chin ; 
His burden in a twinkling disappears, 
While his whole face is coil’d into a grin, 
For fear, combined with joy, some writers say, 
Will often make a face look quite outrée.†

7“ Why what the deuce !  how came you Dan by this ?
A good full anker”— “ Hush !— I’ll tell you all,
But sharks are out—It will not be amiss
To get a drink first,—we will haye a haul
From out this chap—’tis mild as milkmaid’s kiss
The sailors tell me—stop you there, I’ll call
For pipes and mugs, a little cheese to eat,
For we’ll be merry here at any rate.”

8Then Mistress Mulshinane, the Daisy
                              Queen,
Brought forth a stool to prop the anker on,
Placed pipes, tobacco box, and mugs between
Our worthy pair—the giant cheese upon
The polished table, frequently was seen
To bear the knife—while ever and anon,
The cups of brandy, unalloyed and pure,
Followed each other swift, though very sure.

* Carder, shanavest, caravat, as well as white-boys, in the last verse, are all names of
parties in Ireland. I have not time to write notes to describe what were their principles,
Vide Musgrave or Plowden, or any other of the heavy historians of Ireland. I can only
say, that they had, in general, a tendency to Whiggism.

† See Darwin’s Zoonomia, Layater’s Physiognomy, and Bell’s Anatomy of Painting—
mighty pretty books, by the bye.

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9“I just had passed by Darby Murphy’s farm, 
On my way here, (quoth Dan) had cross’d the green, 
Whistling right merrily to keep me warm, 
And scarce had got half way down Con’s boreen,* 
When some one from behind me, quite unseen, 
Tapp’d on my shoulder ;— Turning in alarm; 
I Sdind: his business ;— ” do not be faint-hearted, 
If brave, I’ll make your fortune e’er we’ve parted.’

10“ I now had time to look; ’twas an old dog, 
A sailor-chap, who told me, if I’d go
And help his comrades, I should have more grog
Than I could drink, or bear away in tow ; 
To make my story short, beneath the Hog, † 
The smuggler’s liquor I worked hard to stow, 
And when we settled every thing quite handy, 
He gave me this—a guinea—this, the brandy.

11“ Then now let’s send this trash of ale away,
And take to what is purer and much stronger,
And while that creature there, the moon, will stay, 
We’ll stick together aye, or even longer.‡ 
For by my faith, my friend, ’tis many a day, 
Since such we’ve tasted,—Give us how a song, or
A proper toast,”— Here goes—I’ll give your daughter—
A flowing cup—Pshaw, never mind the water.”

12Ah! Mr Dan, I’m sure you little know, 
What mischief now you’re doing to your stomach, 
How many plagues, how many torments flow, 
From drams—that seem as mild to you as some hock ; 
Believe me, for this joke your blood will flow, 
And you’ll toss, turn, and tumble on your hammock, 
Oh !  think in time !  from this temptation flee ! 
And shun pill, bolus, draughht, and doctor’s fee.

13Brandy’s deceitful liquor, by mine honour, 
It mounts so quickly to the captious brain, 
And like a young mare, when you first get on her, 
It speeds like lightning till you reel again ; 
’Tis true perhaps that, on occasions, one or
Two jolly bumpers may be safely ta’en, 
Such as when damp or frost has made you shiver ; 
But even then ’tis hurtful to the liver.

14.

’Tis pity Daniel had not such advice ;— 105

(Hold—I must not anticipate my story), 106

But Cogniac, when smuggled, will entice107

Most sober livers ; from the man that’s hoary108

* A lane, Hibernice. A rustical sort of wynd.

† A rock so called from its shape, below it are caves, said to be the haunt of mermaids.
On this point I shall not dwell, but I am pretty positive they are the haunt of smugglers.

‡ Burn’s says something to the same effect :

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
She’s blinkin’ o’er the lift sae hie, 
She shines sae bright to wile us hame, 
But by my sooth she’ll wait a wee.

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To the young babe, such poisonous stuff is nice ;* 109

Your soldier sometimes will it help to glory, 110

But oftener to black eyes, and foolish quarrels, 111

And thus is foe to body and. to morals.112

15But there is liquor too, (sound sense must teach) 
Fit for all f I therefore would not lack
Such wine, if I had guests, as would suit each ; 
To lawyers I would give the sharp Bar-sac,— 
To attorneys rich canary,—and I’d reach
To doctors vin de Grave, (they like the smack,) 
To sailors Port,—and Parsons should grow misty
On good Lac Virginis, or Lachryma Christi.

16The kilted Highlander would seek for Mountain,— 
The soldier—Tent, and noisy Muscatel,— 
The fancy—Claret, streaming as from fountain,— 
And dandies—lots of Cape love mighty well ; 
No schoolmaster would find his fair account in
Declining Hoc—warriors in sack excel ; 
Excuse these puns—but if you’d know the truth, 
I learned them from Jack Curran in my youth.

17Thus Daniel and his friend sat face to face, 
And from the anker drew their mellow store ; 
The bumpers quickly one another chase, 
’Mid merry song, and laugh, and boisterous roar ; 
No wonder that their mirth should thus increase, 
For Dan ne’er felt such happy hours before ; 
He thought this night the proudest of his life, 
And dreamt not once of home, or child, or wife.

18.Our worthy Dan at last began to think
His head was not so steady as it ought ; 
And now and then his eye-lids gave a blink ; 
The furniture quite civil, too, he thought, 
For chair and picture bow’d to every wink ; 
And the low candle into two was wrought ; 
But my coy muse won’t tell—although I’d thank her, 
Whether they finished all was in the anker.

19 †

*****

20.All around Daniel was a boggy waste, 
No spot for human footstep, save one stone
On which our hero found he had been placed, 
But how he knew not—from his heart a groan, 
A piteous groan proceeds— “ I must have faced
The east instead of west”—another moan ! 
“ Ohone !  ohone !  I’ve surely lost my way, 
Oh !  what will Jude and all the young ones say.

* The female part of the lower orders of the population of Ireland, do actually hold
(like Count Fathom’s mother) that it is good to suckle babes with alcohol—vulgarly called
whisky.

†† In the lost verse, (we have not time at present to explain how it was lost) Daniel ap-
pears to have left the Mountain Daisy. Editor.

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21.Tho’ Daniel gaz’d ’till gazing was in vain, 
He still prolonged his lamentation sad, 
“ Oh !  a’nt I to be pitied ?— not a grain
Of land but this cold stone is to be had, 
O !  Daniel, Daniel, it is now quite plain
You drank too much, and stagger’d here, my lad ; 
That Mountain Daisy, and that Paddy Blake— 
Oh, Lord !  Oh, Lord !  my heart will surely break !”

22.He look’d again, around him and around, 
Nothing but bog, like sea of silvery light, 
Could meet his view. The moon full, bright, and round, 
Shone the pure mistress of the wild to-night, 
And all was calm as death ;— no living sound
Disturbed the deep repose. Poor luckless wight !
Save when at distance croaking in the bog
Dan heard (like Leslie) some old bluff bull-frog.

23.And now he thought upon the hours he’d spend
’Till death would end his sorrows ;  for no chance
Had he of ’scaping, and he could not send
For help or succour ;  there was no advance, 
Retreat, or hope, for him ;  no man could bend
Hither his way ;  when as a hasty glance
He threw above, he saw a body skim, 
Dimming the light, between the moon and him.

24.And wondrous was th’ eclipse, a murky cloud
Blotted the moon’s fair visage from the sky, 
And all in motion scem’d the awful shroud, 
Towards the sad spot where Dan was forced to lie ; 
And hark !  he hears thick pinions rustling loud, 
And while he gazed with terror-stricken eye,
Down swoop’d a bird.  “ I see, quoth Dan, my dear,
That you’re an eagle come to see me here.”

25.And now the thunder-clapping of his wings
Had ceased, the bird had perch’d close by a stream, 
The glorious bird of Jove !  the bog still rings
With the loud echo of his mountain scream ; 
His glossy feathers, midnight-dark, he flings
In majesty around him ;  a bright gleam
Of moonshine sparkled on his mighty head ; 
He spoke—next month I’ll tell you what he said.

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