I.
The egg is daintiest when 'tis swallowed new,
And love is sweetest in the honeymoon,
The egg grows musty kept a whole month through,
And marriage bliss will turn to strife as soon.
Oh! buttered egg! best eaten with a spoon,
I bid your yolk glide down my throat's red lane;
Emblem of love and strife in wedlock's boon! "
Thus spake at breakfast the O'Shaughnashane,
What time his bride in bed napping full late was lain.
II.
Conceits more fond than this he poured,
Conceits with which false taste is stored;
Such as of late, alas! are broached
By those who have the spot approached
Where poesy once cradled lay,
And stolen her baby-clothes away;
Conceits, in song's primeval dress,
Of, oh! such pretty prettiness!
That the inveigling beldame muse
Seems a sham virgin from the stews;
Or in her second childhood wild,
The doting nurse that apes the child.
With such conceits, such feathery lead,
Which either may be sung orsaid,
Mock fancy filled the bridegroom's head;
While the first egg-shell he scooped clean,
Since he a married man had been.
'Twas only on the night before
That Father Murtoch, of Kilmore,
Had joined him to his all in all,
Judy Fitz Gallyhogmagawl.
III.
Revered by all was Murtoch's worth,
Though mystery involved his birth;
For when his mother, on a mat,
Watching a corpse at midnight sat,
The body rose, and strained her charms,
Almost two minutes, in its arms.
From which embrace too soon she found
Her face grow long, her waist grow round,
Till prudes, first tattling o'er her fate,
Bid scorn proclaim her in a state
Which women wish to be, 'tis said,
Who love their lords before they're dead.
Exact at midnight, nine months o'er,
A little skeleton she bore.
Soon as produced, amid the gloom
Two glowworms crept into her room,
Up to its skull began to rise,
The sockets filled and gave it eyes.
O'er every joint did spiders rove,
Where busily their webs they wove;
The cabin smoke their texture thin
Soon thickened till it formed a skin,
" Now it may pass, " the mother cried,
" May pass for human! " and she died.
IV.
This tale was told by age and youth:
But who can vouch for rumour's truth?
And yet though falsehood quick is hatched,
'Tis certain when the corpse she watched,
She watched alone, or watched at least
With no one save a reverend priest;
Whose duty 'twas to see the clay
Mingled with kindred earth next day.
True, he was ruddy, tall, and stout,
And young, but then he was devout;
A rigid, staunch, and upright soul,
And excellent upon the whole.
Much could he have divulged, but fled
From questioning and shook his head.
Yet once it happed when closely tasked,
With much solemnity he asked,
" If unbegotten 'tis by me,
Whose but the corpse's can it be? "
This speech, that spread from roof to roof,
To Irishmen was certain proof:
Proof that, when mooted whether shade
Or substance can have forced a maid,
Not he who still life's course must run,
But that a dead man gets a son.
V.
The little Murtoch's early joy
Was frolic of a corpse's boy.
Ne'er by a stick his hoop was whirled,
But with a human thighbone twirled;
His leaden lips a laugh expressed
Whene'er he robbed a screech-owl's nest;
He scratched for worms when showers came,
And made a boding raven tame.
Oft with a yew-bough in his hand,
He loved upon a grave to stand,
(His father's grave!) and there by night
Arrest the bat's low-wheeling flight.
Such in his youth was Murtoch known;
But when to skinny manhood grown,
Church zeal could scarcely fail to fire
The offspring of a churchyard sire.
His smooth skull whitened by the air,
Unconscious of disdainful hair,
In meek and ready baldness stood
To court the cover of a hood.
Soon in the cloister's gloom he sunk,
Amid the plump, a juiceless monk;
Renouncing errors, stale or fresh,
Of (what he never had) the flesh;
For ever as to prayer he stalked,
His dry joints rattled as he walked.
As years revolved, sage Murtoch's name
Stood foremost in monastic fame.
'Twas thought whene'er he plodded o'er
A volume fraught with pious lore,
His glowworm eyeballs in the dark
Gave ample light the text to mark.
A relic 'twas his pride to own,
A precious wonder seldom shown;
A sleeve of great Saint Patrick's clothes,
Whereon was traced Saint Patrick's nose,
His noble nose, of gristly strength,
And measuring twelve inches length,
Marked when the saint, to keep it warm,
Carried his head beneath his arm.
The egg is daintiest when 'tis swallowed new,
And love is sweetest in the honeymoon,
The egg grows musty kept a whole month through,
And marriage bliss will turn to strife as soon.
Oh! buttered egg! best eaten with a spoon,
I bid your yolk glide down my throat's red lane;
Emblem of love and strife in wedlock's boon! "
Thus spake at breakfast the O'Shaughnashane,
What time his bride in bed napping full late was lain.
II.
Conceits more fond than this he poured,
Conceits with which false taste is stored;
Such as of late, alas! are broached
By those who have the spot approached
Where poesy once cradled lay,
And stolen her baby-clothes away;
Conceits, in song's primeval dress,
Of, oh! such pretty prettiness!
That the inveigling beldame muse
Seems a sham virgin from the stews;
Or in her second childhood wild,
The doting nurse that apes the child.
With such conceits, such feathery lead,
Which either may be sung orsaid,
Mock fancy filled the bridegroom's head;
While the first egg-shell he scooped clean,
Since he a married man had been.
'Twas only on the night before
That Father Murtoch, of Kilmore,
Had joined him to his all in all,
Judy Fitz Gallyhogmagawl.
III.
Revered by all was Murtoch's worth,
Though mystery involved his birth;
For when his mother, on a mat,
Watching a corpse at midnight sat,
The body rose, and strained her charms,
Almost two minutes, in its arms.
From which embrace too soon she found
Her face grow long, her waist grow round,
Till prudes, first tattling o'er her fate,
Bid scorn proclaim her in a state
Which women wish to be, 'tis said,
Who love their lords before they're dead.
Exact at midnight, nine months o'er,
A little skeleton she bore.
Soon as produced, amid the gloom
Two glowworms crept into her room,
Up to its skull began to rise,
The sockets filled and gave it eyes.
O'er every joint did spiders rove,
Where busily their webs they wove;
The cabin smoke their texture thin
Soon thickened till it formed a skin,
" Now it may pass, " the mother cried,
" May pass for human! " and she died.
IV.
This tale was told by age and youth:
But who can vouch for rumour's truth?
And yet though falsehood quick is hatched,
'Tis certain when the corpse she watched,
She watched alone, or watched at least
With no one save a reverend priest;
Whose duty 'twas to see the clay
Mingled with kindred earth next day.
True, he was ruddy, tall, and stout,
And young, but then he was devout;
A rigid, staunch, and upright soul,
And excellent upon the whole.
Much could he have divulged, but fled
From questioning and shook his head.
Yet once it happed when closely tasked,
With much solemnity he asked,
" If unbegotten 'tis by me,
Whose but the corpse's can it be? "
This speech, that spread from roof to roof,
To Irishmen was certain proof:
Proof that, when mooted whether shade
Or substance can have forced a maid,
Not he who still life's course must run,
But that a dead man gets a son.
V.
The little Murtoch's early joy
Was frolic of a corpse's boy.
Ne'er by a stick his hoop was whirled,
But with a human thighbone twirled;
His leaden lips a laugh expressed
Whene'er he robbed a screech-owl's nest;
He scratched for worms when showers came,
And made a boding raven tame.
Oft with a yew-bough in his hand,
He loved upon a grave to stand,
(His father's grave!) and there by night
Arrest the bat's low-wheeling flight.
Such in his youth was Murtoch known;
But when to skinny manhood grown,
Church zeal could scarcely fail to fire
The offspring of a churchyard sire.
His smooth skull whitened by the air,
Unconscious of disdainful hair,
In meek and ready baldness stood
To court the cover of a hood.
Soon in the cloister's gloom he sunk,
Amid the plump, a juiceless monk;
Renouncing errors, stale or fresh,
Of (what he never had) the flesh;
For ever as to prayer he stalked,
His dry joints rattled as he walked.
As years revolved, sage Murtoch's name
Stood foremost in monastic fame.
'Twas thought whene'er he plodded o'er
A volume fraught with pious lore,
His glowworm eyeballs in the dark
Gave ample light the text to mark.
A relic 'twas his pride to own,
A precious wonder seldom shown;
A sleeve of great Saint Patrick's clothes,
Whereon was traced Saint Patrick's nose,
His noble nose, of gristly strength,
And measuring twelve inches length,
Marked when the saint, to keep it warm,
Carried his head beneath his arm.