THE DEVIL AND TOM CONNOLLY.

BEING NO. VII. OF THE KISHOGE PAPERS.

"WHAT a capital day for the scent to lie,
With a southerly wind and a cloudy sky,'
Says a huntsman old, with a very keen eye,
And a very red nose, to a little boy nigh,
As he sits on the back

Of a very spruce

hack,

And looks with delight on a beautiful pack

Of foxhounds as ever yet ran on a track.

There were Howler and Jowler, and Towser and Yelper, And Boxer and Pincher, and Snarler and Skelper,

And Tinker,

And Winker,

And Blinker,

And Clinker,

And Griper and Molly,

And Snuffler and Dolly:

But to set down the list of the whole would be folly;
For alas! and alack! that it rests to be said,
The last of that pack is some forty years dead.
And the huntsman that sat on the back

Of that hack,

Died very soon after the last of that pack

Having kept up the chase by good humour and mirth,
Till Death one fine afternoon ran him to earth.

gone for aye,
And the sod lies cold on his colder clay.
He lists no more to the deep-mouthed bay,
Nor wakes the hills with his "hark away!
But never did man a hunting-whip crack,
That I'd back at a fence against red-nosed Jack.

Rest to his bones! he has

!"

The cover is reached-and a better array Of sportsmen it never has seen than to-day. 'Tis as gallant a field

As all Ireland could yield:

The horsemen to all kinds of devilment steel'd-
The best of the senate, the bench, and the bar,
Whose mirth even Petty and Coke couldn't mar.
Lucky dogs! who were looked on with pride by a race,
Who loved learning unmasked by stupidity's face;
Nor fancied that Wisdom high places should quit,
If she flung round her shoulders the mantle of Wit.
The hunting-cap triumphs to-day o'er the wig-
The ermine is doffed for a sportsmanlike rig.
But enough of the horsemen: the nags that they ride
Are as noble as horseman might ever bestride-
Both "good uns to look at" and "good uns to go."
Few could match them indeed

Both in bottom and speed;

And if put to the pound wall of Ballinasloe,

There are plenty amongst them would never look-no!

But the best-mounted man at that gay cover side
Is honest Tom Connolly, Castletown's pride;
And mirth and good fellowship beam in his eye,
Such a goodly collection of guests to descry:
For guests shall be all

In Tom Connolly's hall,

Who keeps " open house" for the great and the small;
And none who takes share in the fox-hunt to-day,
Ere midnight from Castletown's mansion shall stray.
And warm are the greetings that welcome the squire
As he rides up--but all this preamble will tire;

Beside that the hounds through the brushwood are dodging,
And making inquiries where Reynard is lodging:
Some are snuffing the ground

With a caution profound;

Some running and poking their noses all round.
And now of the whole not a vestige is there,
But a great lot of tails all cocked up in the air:
And now there's a bark, and a yelp and a cry,
And the horsemen are still standing anxiously by;
And some of the pack

Are at length on his track;
And now there's a shout,

Sly old Reynard leaps out

Hold fast. Don't ride over the dogs. What a scramble! Away go the hounds over brushwood and bramble

Away go the horsemen-away goes the fox

Away go they all o'er brooks, fences, and rocks.
Afar in the plain

They are stretching amain:

Each sinew and nerve do the gallant steeds strain,
While the musical cry of the fleet-footed hound
Is ringing in chorus melodiously round,

And the horseman who rides at the tail of the pack
Is a very tall gentleman dressed all in black.

Away! away! On his restless bed

His wearied limbs let the sluggard spread,
His eyes on the glorious morning close,
And fancy ease in that dull repose.

Give me to taste of the freshening draught
Of the early breeze on the green hill quaffed:
Give me to fly with the lightning's speed
On the bounding back of the gallant steed:
Give me to bend o'er the floating mane,

While the blood leaps wild in each thrilling vein.
Oh! who that has felt the joy intense,
To tempt the torrent, to dare the fence,
But feels each pleasure beside give place

To the manly danger that waits the chase?

Thirteen out of fifty their mettle attest—

There's a very nice view from the road for the rest.
And now the boithrin,*
With that rascally screen

goes,

Of furze on each bank-by old Nim, that's a pozer :
There's the black fellow at it-'Gad, over he
Well done, Connolly; stick to the nigger, you dog,
Though he does seem old Beelzebub riding incog.
Ha! the third fellow's blown-

No go, Doctor, you're thrown,

And have fractured your dexter clavicular bone.
Gad, here's the solicitor-general down on him:

sir.

Who could think that he ever had got wig or gown on him— Cleared gallantly! but sure 'tis plain common sense,

Bar practice should fit a man well for a fence.

Five more show they're good ones in bottom and speed;

But that tall, strange, black gentleman still keeps the lead.

your

Ha! Reynard, you're done for, my boy-at
Old Jowler and Clinker come leading the pack ;
Ay, close at your brush
They are making a rush :

Come face 'em, old fellow, and die like a trush.
Well snapped, but won't do,
My poor madairin ruadh ;†

back

That squeeze in the gullet has finished your breath,
And that very black horseman is in at the death.

The very black horseman dismounts from his steed,
And takes off Reynard's brush with all sportsmanlike heed;
Then patting the nag

With the air of a wag,

Says, "this is cool work, my old fellow, to-day,"
At which the black steed gives a very loud neigh.
And it is odd indeed,

Neither rider nor steed

Seem one whit the worse of their very great speed;
Though the next four or five

Who this moment arrive,

Their horses all foaming, themselves all bemired,
Look beyond any doubt pretty heartily tired,

As they think, "who the deuce can be this chap in black,
Who has ridden all day at the tail of the pack?"

The group has come up with the stranger the while,
Who takes off his hat to the squire with a smile,
And hands him the brush with an air most polite,
Expressing his joy at transferring the right,
Which only the speed of his hunter had won,
To him who had shown them so noble a run;
And whose name he would add,

He had heard from a lad,

As a toast through all Ireland for humour and fun.

"'Gad, sir," says the squire,
"Whether most to admire

Your politeness or daring I'm puzzled to say;
But though I've seen hunting enough in my day,

* Pron. boreen-a narrow by-road.

† Pron. mothereen rooh—a fox. Lit. a little red dog.

All I've met with must yield

To your feats in the field.

I trust I at least can induce you to dine,
And your horsemanship pledge in a bumper of wine;
And if longer you'll honour my house as a dweller,
All I promise you is, you'll find more in the cellar."

"Done, Tom!-I beg pardon I make so d―d free,
When a man of your thorough good nature I see.
But excuse it."-" Excuse it, my excellent friend!
"Tis the thing of all others I wish you'd not mend;
None but a good fellow had ever the trick.

But your name by the way?"-" Mine! oh, pray call me Nick." "Very good-there's a spice of the devil about it."

"A spice of the devil! ay, faith, who can doubt it?

I'm dressed by the way in his livery sainted,

But they say the old boy's not as black as he's painted.
And this clerical suit-

"You're no parson sure-come?" "Ah, no pumping on that, my friend Connolly-mum ! This clerical suit, faith, though sombre and sad, Is no bad thing at all with the women, my lad!" "Well done, Nick! On my life,

I'll look after my wife

If you come in her way."—" 'Gad," says Nick with a laugh, "To look after yourself would be better by half."

"Look after myself!" says the squire; "Lord, why so? You've no partnership sure with your namesake below?" "No," says Nick with a squint,

Thus with laughter and jest
Honest Tom and his guest

Ride along, while their humour is shared by the rest,
Who vow one and all

Master Nick to install,

As the prince of good fellows; and just at nightfall
They reach most good-humour'dly Castletown Hall.

'Tis a glorious thing when the wintry sun,
Ashamed of himself has cut and run;
When the drizzling rain falls thick and fast,
And the shivering poplars stand aghast ;
No sight abroad but the landscape bleak,
No sound save whistle, and howl, and creak ;—
'Tis a glorious thing in that dismal hour
To be snugly housed from the tempest's power,
With a blazing fire and a smoking board,

With all the best things of the season" stored;
Not costly, mind, but a good plain dinner
To suit the wants of an erring sinner :
Say oyster soup and mock-turtle too,
(The latter is bad when made with glue,)
Some savoury putés the palate to whet,
Which at dinner 'tis really vile to forget.
A turbot or salmon one calmly surveys,
And eels à la Tartare 'tis hard to dispraise;
Some people prefer them done en matelote,
And I'm not very certain which way I should vote.
Calf's head is acceptable after one's fish,
And a quarter of lamb is no very bad dish;

Fowl too-not those barbarous things that they cram-
Some people may like to partake of with ham;

Though, talking of ham, there's but one place they cure a
Ham properly in, namely Estremadura ;

Still if Estremadura ham cannot be had,

A slice of Westphalia is not very bad:

Some simple hors d'œuvre one would add to these-
Riz de veau say, with cotelettes à la Soubise;
Indeed for myself I confess I feel partial

At times to this snug little plât of the Marshal,

And can sympathize well in his luckless disaster,

When Seidlitz laid hold of the chops for his master ;*
A digression-but then 'tisn't often one pops

On a cavalry general charging for chops.

A few light things to follow, and then the dessert,
And one may make his dinner I dare to assert

Champagne, and thou draught, than Jove's nectar sublimer,
Johannisberg-but poor folk must drink Hocheimer.

To a dinner of this sort the hunting-folk sit,
With a silence displaying more wisdom than wit:
But with the dessert

Wit begins to assert

His claims to attention; and near to its close
Takes the field, while old Wisdom goes off in a doze;
But after a couple of bumpers of wine,

Ye gods, how the urchin commences to shine!
And as for the stranger, his feats in the field
To his feats at the table unspeakably yield—

In drinking, in laughing, in frolic, and jest,

He seems but the sun who gives light to the rest;

And after a while, when the squire begs a song of him,

t

He sings for them this, which some folk will think wrong of him :—

A fig for Philosophy's rules,

Our stay is too brief upon earth,

To spare any time in the schools,

Save those of Love, Music, and Mirth:

Yes! their's is the exquisite lore

We can learn in life's summer by heart,

While the winter of gloomy fourscore
Leaves us fools in Philosophy's art.
Oh surely if life's but a day,

'Tis vain o'er dull volumes to pine:
Let the sage choose what studies he may,
But Mirth, Love, and Music be mine.

What a fool was the Chaldean seer

Who studied the planets afar

While the bright eye of woman is near—
My book be that beautiful star!

The lore of the planets who seeks,

Is years in acquiring the art,

While the language dear woman's eye speaks
Is learned in a minute by heart.

Then surely if life's but a day,

'Tis vain o'er dull volumes to pine.

Let the stars be his book as they may,

But the bright eye of woman be mine!

General Seidlitz surprised Marshal Soubise, and actually had the dinner which was cooked for him, for his royal master, Frederick of Prussia, to partake of.—K.

VOL. XXII.-No. 132.

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