THE BATTLE OF THE CHAUNTERS.
BY DR. DOMINICK O'KELLY OF BALLYGLASS,
A CELEBRATED PHYSICIAN.
(Fought near Castle Blakeney, in the county of Galway, 27th July, 1767.)
Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet closed,
To armour armour, lance to lance opposed;
To Greece and Troy the field of war divide,
And falling ranks are strewed on either side.
None stoops a thought to base inglorious flight,
But horse to horse and man to man they fight.
Not rabid wolves more fierce contest their prey.
Each wounds, each bleeds, but none resign the day.
THE sun was set, the busy fair was o'er,
And hawkers strained their weary lungs no more,
With tents well stor❜d each neighb'ring road was lin’d,
And ev'ry ale-wife was exceeding kind.
Of these, Black Moll the purest liquor sold;
Rich, ripe, and clear, although not five days old.
Her spacious tent had seats for soft repose,
And from her pots a grateful steam arose.
Before her door she sate, with gracious air,
To greet her friends returning from the fair.
Hard task her tongue was not a moment mute,
For who could pass without a kind salute?
Scarce could the tent her crowding guests contain,
Scarce could her hands supply the chearful train :
From friend to friend, while foaming cups went round,
In songs the music of the drones was drown'd.
Ah, how Tom Tip taught ev'ry note to thrill,
While Munster Jack exerted all his skill!
Both pipers, both well known o'er all the land,
For cards and dice, low wit, and slight of hand.
Both drunkards, am'rous, vers'd in ev'ry art,
To drain a cask, or wound a female heart.
Tom's softer strains young simple maids allure,
And Munster Jack no rival can endure:
Hence discord and disdain. The greatest wits
Are oft tormented with these jealous fits.
What wonder, then, if Jack should swell with pride?
Hear how he spoke; and how Tom Tip replied.
On thee, Clonmell! sure ev'ry blessing falls,
And joy for ever dwells within thy walls;
Nor less delightful are thy neighb'ring bow'rs,
Where merry sportsmen pass their careless hours,
Where sprightly notes set youthful hearts on fire,
And ev'ry shepherd dances like a squire.
There, bred with gentle folks, I learn'd my trade;
Nor were my fingers harden'd by the spade.
Yield now, ye bagpipes! to the noisy drum,
And let spring water be prefer'd to rum;
Let th' ace of hearts, the clubs' black knave defy,
Since poor Tom Tip with Munster Jack can vie.
Thy praise, Loughrea ! let ev'ry stranger tell,
Whose maids in beauty as in wealth excel;
Whose air no clouds, nor morning fogs obscure,
Whose bread is wholesome, and whose drink is pure.
Within thy walls, to priest-catchers unknown,
All things are safe but M-d-n h―ds alone.
'Tis there my pipe for ranting bucks I sound;
How shillings jingle when the plate goes round.
Sure low mushrooms like mountain oaks may rise,
And Eyre from Daly snatch the Galway prize;
Yon moon so pale, may teach the sun to see,
Since Munster Jack pretends to cope with me.
An iv'ry flute, with silver tip'd I boast,
A fairy brought it from Arabian coast:
How straight and smooth! this, while my breath inspires,
Old wives grown youthful, feel their former fires.
My drone, 'tis true, no silver rings embrace,
Nor is my chaunter of the fairy race;
Yet honest maids, whose hearts to truth incline,
Will swear no music is more sweet than mine. (Bravissimo)
To me young Ross a dainty nag bestow'd,
Fit for the plough, but fitter for the road.
French gives me wine, nor is the wine misplac'd,
The good old colonel is a man of taste.
While men like these my lofty notes admire,
Poor Tom sits tip'ling at an ale-house fire.
On Lombart's ground three pye-bald cows I feed,
And three young heifers of Nic Lynch's breed.
Nor think my bags are dry for want of wine,
For know Tom Garret and young Persse are mine.
If with Black Moll 1 pass an idle day,
For Moll what piper could refuse to play?
Gods! how Pegg Walker fills my heart with glee,
So kind, so fond, and of her punch so free!
Yet more than Pegg her servant maid I prizę,
For smooth as doe skin are her legs and thighs:
And sure no doe with greater speed can run,
A smock she ran for, and the smock she won.
A butcher's niece was once my soul's delight,
But out of mind, soon follows out of sight.
To good Kate Kearney my respects I paid,
And now I love the miller's blooming maid,
Whose limbs in beauty with her face agree;
No Munster lass hath lighter heels than she.
I grant her heels were lighter than her head,
When Lambart found her with his groom in bed,
And when the cook- -Alas! no more he sung!
Against the floor his guiltless pipes were flung:
The chaunter perished with a mournful sound,
And half the reed was buried in the ground.
Ah whence this civil rage? Ah Tom forbear!
And let a knave, a brother knave revere.
Up rose Black Moll, the rising fray to quell,
And as she rose, her pipe in splinters fell;
Tom's arm she seized, and while she held it fast,
An earthen jug the Munster piper cast,
But missed his aim; for rolling as it went,
On a poor cobler's cheek its force was spent:
Two pond'rous grinders from their seats it tore,
Ah! doomed to stretch a bullock's hide no more!
The crowd stood up, men, women, took th' alarm
All wedged together like a clust'ring swarm;
The graver sort restrain, reproach, advise,
And trembling maidens join their feeble cries.
When lo! the Cobler from his seat arose,
The blood yet gushing from his mouth and nose,
All pale with rage, he rushed upon the crew,
With head, hands, feet, and friends and foes o'er
Then all alike with thirst of vengeance burn'd,
The seats were shatter'd, and the pots o'erturned;
With one loud crash, the bulging tent was broke,
Tho' formed of canvas, and strong ribs of oak.
Reeling and tumbling o'er each other's heads,
Wide o'er the green the mad battalion spreads:
So waters gather'd on a rising ground,
Rush through their dams, and float the vales around.
And now the Cobler lifts a pond'rous stone,
Which with full force at Munster Jack was thrown;
But while to earth the cautious piper bends,
The rough, round bullet on a cask descends;
The vessel bursted with a dreadful sound,
Like yawning ice when heedless boys are drown'd,
The beer, that pleasing cordial of the poor,
In frothy torrents pour'd along the floor.
|