Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

256

SHAMUS O'BRIEN.

An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young b'y,
For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye,
So droll an' so wicked, so dark an' so bright,

Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night!
An' he was the best mower that ever has been,
An' the illegantest hurler that ever was seen,

An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare,
An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare ;
An' by gorra, the whole world gev in to him there.
An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught,
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought,
An' it's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he done; an' it's often I heerd tell
How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin four,
An' stretched the two strongest on ould Galtimore.

But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;
Afther many a brave act of power and pride,
An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon,
An' take your last look at her dim, lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley this night:
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood;
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,

An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still;
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin', an' wake,
And farewell to the girl who would die for your sake.
An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail;

The fleet limbs wor chained, and the strong arms bound,
An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison-ground;
An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there

As gentle an' soft as the sweet Summer air;

An' happy remembrances crowding on ever,

As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river,

SHAMUS O'BRIEN.

Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by,
Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye,
But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart
Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start;
An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave,
An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave,
By the hopes of the good, and the cause of the brave,
That when he was mouldering in the cold grave
His enemies never should have it to boast

His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost;
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dry,
For, undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
The terrible day of the trial kem on:

There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
An' sodgers on guard, an' dragoons sword in hand:
An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered,
An' attorneys an' criers on the point of bein' smothered;
An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,

An' the jury sitting up in their box overhead;

An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big,
With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig;

An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said

The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock,
An' Shamus O'Brien stepped into the dock.

For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,

An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,

A chance to escape, nor a word to defend ;
An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
An' they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Jim didn't understand it, nor mind it a taste,
An' the Judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O Brien, av you plase?"

An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,
An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:

257

258

SHAMUS O'BRIEN.

"My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime
I thought any treason, or did any crime.
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow,
Before God and the world I would answer you, no!
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,

If in the rebellion I carried a pike,

An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,

I answer you, yes; and I tell you again,

Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
In her cause I was willing my veins should run dry,
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
And the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:

"Oh, judge! darlin', don't, oh, don't say the word!
The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord;

He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';

You don't know him, my lord-oh, don't give him to ruin! He's the kindliest crathur, the tenderest-hearted;

Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted.

Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you-oh, don't say the word!"
That was the first minute that O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,
But the strong, manly voice 'twould falter and break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and mastered his grief's swelling tide,
"An'," says he, " mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;

SHAMUS O'BRIEN.

And God knows it's better than wandering in fear

On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,
From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' under the raven,
No true man can say that I died like a craven!"
Then toward the judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?
Oh, Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast;

May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
Pray fast, an' pray strong, for the moment is nigh,
When, strong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.
An' faster an' faster the crowd gathered there--
Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair;
An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark

There wasn't sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark;
An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him, for divil sich a scruge,
Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge,
For thousands were gathered there, if there was one,
Waitin' till such time as the hangin 'd come on.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state,
An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it,
Not paler, but prouder than ever that minute.
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',
A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees,

Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,

An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;

259

260

A LEGEND OF THE ORIENT.

An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,
A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,

An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,
An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around.

Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare ;
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.
But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound,
And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;
Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres;
He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbors!
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd-
By the heavens he's free!-than thunder more loud,
By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken-
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang.
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.
The sojers ran this way, the peelers ran that,

An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat.

An' the sheriffs were both of them punished severely,
An' fined like the divil, because Jim done them fairly.

TH

A LEGEND OF THE ORIENT.

HE Master came one evening to the gate
Of a fair city;-it was growing late,
And, sending his disciples to buy food,
He wandered forth, intent on doing good,
As was his wont. And in the market-place
He saw a crowd close gathered in one space,
Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground.
Jesus grew nearer, and thereon he found

« ПредишнаНапред »