The divil may take ye to cover one of
his imps;' an' wid that I sthirred up the fire, and sent it plump
into the middle of the blaze."
"And what will you do for a shirt?"
"Faith, do as many a betther man has done afore me, go widout."
I looked up two old shirts of my husband's, which John received with
an ecstacy of delight. He retired instantly to the stable, but soon
returned, with as much of the linen breast of the garment displayed
as his waistcoat would allow. No peacock was ever prouder of his
tail than the wild Irish lad was of the old shirt.
John had been treated very much like a spoiled child, and, like most
spoiled children, he was rather fond of having his own way. Moodie
had set him to do something which was rather contrary to his own
inclinations; he did not object to the task in words, for he was
rarely saucy to his employers, but he left the following stave upon
the table, written in pencil upon a scrap of paper torn from the
back of an old letter: -
"A man alive, an ox may drive
Unto a springing well;
To make him drink, as he may think,
No man can him compel.
"JOHN MONAGHAN."
THE EMIGRANT'S BRIDE
A Canadian ballad
The waves that girt my native isle,
The parting sunbeams tinged with red;
And far to seaward, many a mile,
A line of dazzling glory shed.
But, ah, upon that glowing track,
No glance my aching eyeballs threw;
As I my little bark steer'd back
To bid my love a last adieu.
Upon the shores of that lone bay,
With folded arms the maiden stood;
And watch'd the white sails wing their way
Across the gently heaving flood.
The summer breeze her raven hair
Swept lightly from her snowy brow;
And there she stood, as pale and fair
As the white foam that kiss'd my prow.
My throbbing heart with grief swell'd high,
A heavy tale was mine to tell;
For once I shunn'd the beauteous eye,
Whose glance on mine so fondly fell.
My hopeless message soon was sped,
My father's voice my suit denied;
And I had promised not to wed,
Against his wish, my island bride.
She did not weep, though her pale face
The trace of recent sorrow wore;
But, with a melancholy grace,
She waved my shallop from the shore.
She did not weep; but oh! that smile
Was sadder than the briny tear
That trembled on my cheek the while
I bade adieu to one so dear.
She did not speak - no accents fell
From lips that breathed the balm of May;
In broken words I strove to tell
All that my broken heart would say.
She did not speak - but to my eyes
She raised the deep light of her own.
As breaks the sun through cloudy skies,
My spirit caught a brighter tone.
