VI.
But hark! The Castle's parlour-door
(Whose hinge no vassal smeared of yore
With smooth, subservient, supple oil,
Its rusty lordliness to spoil)
Now creaks, the entrance to proclaim
Of the last night's new-wedded dame.
How looked the bride? They best can tell
Who nature mark, and mark her well.
Movements there are which most reveal
What most they labour to conceal,
And in rebellion to the will,
Make bashfulness more bashful still.
The undetermined, shifting eye
(That sure betrayer of the shy)
Which when another glance it meets,
In sidelong sheepishness retreats,
Striving to note what scarce it sees,
With much uneasiness of ease,
Chairs, tables, pictures, clouds, or trees;
The tongue that plunges into chat,
Floundering in haste from this to that,
On service forced by nervous Fear,
Till Nonsense comes a volunteer,
And proves the seat of the campaign
Far distant from the heart or brain;
And when the tongue from fight withdraws,
The silly, the distressing pause!
Such symptoms showed, yea, showed them all,
Late Miss Fitz Gallyhogmagawl;
Till while on fancies fancies rushed,
She met her husband's leer — and blushed.
VII.
Hail, Blush of the new-risen Bride!
Promoter of the husband's pride,
The old maid's envy, young maid's fear,
The wag's stale wit, the widow's sneer.
Ye blushing brides new-risen, hail!
So in wild Flannagarty's vale
Blush the red blossoms in the morn
When newly opened by a thorn.
VIII.
If strange sensations of the breast
Rush into woman's face confessed,
And there a transient hectic spread,
Vermilioning health's softer red,
How quickly then her heart repays
Man's kind forbearance of his gaze!
His mercifully heedless air,
His careless conversation's care,
On topics turned to hush alarms,
In pity to her ruffled charms.
How oft her thoughts, that own the cheat,
Dwell on the delicate deceit
Which marked her soft suffusions float,
And, noting, never seemed to note.
Ideas that evince a mind
To character the man refined
Did not on the sensorium light
Of Blarneygig's puissant knight.
Staring on his embarrassed bride,
" Lady O'Shaughnashane, " he cried,
" Arrah, what makes you blush? Come here,
And sit upon my knee, my dear. "
IX.
Obeyed she? Yes; for then a spouse
(Times alter!) seldom broke her vows,
Nor thought all other vows effaced
While marriage beds were not disgraced;
As if love, honour, and obey
(Oaths now of form on life's highway)
Like paltry passengers were lost
In Virtue's terrible hard frost.
Much did Sir Tooleywhagg rejoice
To see the lady of his choice
Sitting, while he sat in his cap,
Obediently upon his lap.
His satisfaction grew so strong
It popped out rampant in a song;
And many a harsh, discordant note
Came bellowing through his rusty throat.
Such through thy caves, Loch Derg, were sent.
When wild winds struggled for a vent,
Which, as their boisterous road they took,
Saint Patrick's Purgatory shook.
SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM
.
X.
Don't now be after being coy;
Sit still upon my lap, dear joy!
And let us at our breakfast toy,
For thou art wife to me, Judy!
And I am bound by wedlock's chain
Thy humble sarvant to remain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O'Shaughnashane,
The husband unto thee, Judy!
Each vassal at our wedding-feast,
Blind drunk last night as any beast,
Roared till the daylight streaked the East,
Which spoiled the sleep of thee, Judy!
Feasts in the honeymoon are right;
But that once o'er, my heart's delight!
Nought shall disturb thee all the night,
Or ever waken me, Judy!
The skins of wolves — by me they bled —
Are covers to our marriage-bed:
Should one, in hunting bite me dead,
A widow thou wilt be, Judy!
Howl at my wake, 'twill be but kind;
And if I leave, as I've designed,
Some little Tooleywhaggs behind,
They'll sarve to comfort thee, Judy!
But hark! The Castle's parlour-door
(Whose hinge no vassal smeared of yore
With smooth, subservient, supple oil,
Its rusty lordliness to spoil)
Now creaks, the entrance to proclaim
Of the last night's new-wedded dame.
How looked the bride? They best can tell
Who nature mark, and mark her well.
Movements there are which most reveal
What most they labour to conceal,
And in rebellion to the will,
Make bashfulness more bashful still.
The undetermined, shifting eye
(That sure betrayer of the shy)
Which when another glance it meets,
In sidelong sheepishness retreats,
Striving to note what scarce it sees,
With much uneasiness of ease,
Chairs, tables, pictures, clouds, or trees;
The tongue that plunges into chat,
Floundering in haste from this to that,
On service forced by nervous Fear,
Till Nonsense comes a volunteer,
And proves the seat of the campaign
Far distant from the heart or brain;
And when the tongue from fight withdraws,
The silly, the distressing pause!
Such symptoms showed, yea, showed them all,
Late Miss Fitz Gallyhogmagawl;
Till while on fancies fancies rushed,
She met her husband's leer — and blushed.
VII.
Hail, Blush of the new-risen Bride!
Promoter of the husband's pride,
The old maid's envy, young maid's fear,
The wag's stale wit, the widow's sneer.
Ye blushing brides new-risen, hail!
So in wild Flannagarty's vale
Blush the red blossoms in the morn
When newly opened by a thorn.
VIII.
If strange sensations of the breast
Rush into woman's face confessed,
And there a transient hectic spread,
Vermilioning health's softer red,
How quickly then her heart repays
Man's kind forbearance of his gaze!
His mercifully heedless air,
His careless conversation's care,
On topics turned to hush alarms,
In pity to her ruffled charms.
How oft her thoughts, that own the cheat,
Dwell on the delicate deceit
Which marked her soft suffusions float,
And, noting, never seemed to note.
Ideas that evince a mind
To character the man refined
Did not on the sensorium light
Of Blarneygig's puissant knight.
Staring on his embarrassed bride,
" Lady O'Shaughnashane, " he cried,
" Arrah, what makes you blush? Come here,
And sit upon my knee, my dear. "
IX.
Obeyed she? Yes; for then a spouse
(Times alter!) seldom broke her vows,
Nor thought all other vows effaced
While marriage beds were not disgraced;
As if love, honour, and obey
(Oaths now of form on life's highway)
Like paltry passengers were lost
In Virtue's terrible hard frost.
Much did Sir Tooleywhagg rejoice
To see the lady of his choice
Sitting, while he sat in his cap,
Obediently upon his lap.
His satisfaction grew so strong
It popped out rampant in a song;
And many a harsh, discordant note
Came bellowing through his rusty throat.
Such through thy caves, Loch Derg, were sent.
When wild winds struggled for a vent,
Which, as their boisterous road they took,
Saint Patrick's Purgatory shook.
SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM
.
X.
Don't now be after being coy;
Sit still upon my lap, dear joy!
And let us at our breakfast toy,
For thou art wife to me, Judy!
And I am bound by wedlock's chain
Thy humble sarvant to remain,
Sir Tooleywhagg O'Shaughnashane,
The husband unto thee, Judy!
Each vassal at our wedding-feast,
Blind drunk last night as any beast,
Roared till the daylight streaked the East,
Which spoiled the sleep of thee, Judy!
Feasts in the honeymoon are right;
But that once o'er, my heart's delight!
Nought shall disturb thee all the night,
Or ever waken me, Judy!
The skins of wolves — by me they bled —
Are covers to our marriage-bed:
Should one, in hunting bite me dead,
A widow thou wilt be, Judy!
Howl at my wake, 'twill be but kind;
And if I leave, as I've designed,
Some little Tooleywhaggs behind,
They'll sarve to comfort thee, Judy!