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Show IRJSH CHARACTER SKETCHES. ! (Continued.) - It was a lovely evening in August, ' , and I, with some more of my youthful companions, were engaged in playing a game of cricket. A tin can served as i . our wicket, a piece of wood fashioned I into the shape of a bat by Matt Roo- ney, the village carpenter, served as a j . . weapon of defense against the incur sions of a gutta percha ball thrown by ! Neddie Manning, our surest and fast est village bowler. Neddie was just in ; 'he act of delivering one of his fast . throws at the tin can. and I had the home-made bat raised to defend the rights of the said tin can, when these words, soaring over all the keys of loudness and incorrectness smote upon our ears: " 'Twae beyond at Macreddin. at Owen Doyle's weddin' j The boys got the pair of us out for a reel: Says I: 'Roys, excuse us. Says they: Dont refuse us, "I'll play nice and alsv,' says Larry O'Neill. Po off we went trippin' it, up and down Kteppin' it Herself and myself on the back of the doore. Till Molly, God bless her: fell into the dresser. An' I tumbled over a child on the ! . floore. "Says herself to myself. "We're as good bs the best of them; Says myself to herself, 'Sure, we're betther than gold; Says herself to myself. 'We're as young a the rest o' them; Says myeelf to herself, "Troth, we'll never grow old.' " "'Tis Terry Regan, the ballad sing er',' and Neddie Manning lets the ball fall from his hands and makes off In the direction of the singer's voice. " 'Tis Terry Regan, the ballad singer," sing-er," shout all our voices Jn chorus, and, r fast as our youthful limbs could carry us we followed on Neddie Ma ring's heels. In our mad rush to hear p " Regan at closer quarters, I struck my j toe against a stone and fell. (Most ol tis then did not "know what boots were ! until we were Vbout twelve years of age.) I scrambled to my feet and razed at my bleednig toe. I remember ' on each occasion when such a thing happened to me. I used to sit down and hug my foot and bawl for all I was worth. What was I todo now? ! Fit down and hug and bawl, or Spar tan-like endure my pain and hurry to i the ballad singer. The ballad singer's if voice echoing out again with : j "Come all yeh gifted songsters, atten-j atten-j tion pay to me" 's decided me. I was a gifted songster, : at least so I thought them; I think differently now; and despite my pain, t attention must be paid to Terry Tte- ! tan. I caught up on my companions, a? we rounded the corner at the chapel . i gate, and there, right before us, out- ? fide Joe Cassidy's public house, stood the ballad singer. When I first caught t a glimpse of him. he was in the act ". 1 of selling "Herself and Myself to Jim I Pcully, and I well remember the lat- - f ter's words as ho gazed, pipe in mouth. I at the ballad: i "Begob. it's a grate song. Terry, an" 1 like the ring ov it. Hersalf fallin' into the dresser an' himself tumblin , over a ch'ld puts me in mind ov what ' j often happened to meself. I'll get , j Phemus (Sow, the blacksmith, to larn ; I me the words, an' I'll sing them for j Hi boys the next bonfire night." 1 f "For meyelf. an" I always spake for ' meself. I must say I don't like the s pong." put in Phi! Mag-dire, the tailor. i W joininer the group. "There's no fire I : ; in it. as William O'Brien says. I like tbe field ov battle an' the bloody . harge wud the Sassenach fly in' afore ' i nie: yis, that's what I like. Sing me wan wud these things in it. an' I'll ' buy three from yeh to show me patriot- ! ism." f ' "I have just what will suit yeh. Mis- f ter Maguire," and Terry draws a bal lad from the bundle, and with his hands extended and his eyes fixed on t ; Oauth Mulready's chimney, he almost i startles us off our feet with the crv: S . i ' ' "Wildly o'er Desmond the war wolf is I . howlin'. I Fearless the algle sweeps over the i plain; The fox in the streets ov the city is I , prowlin', I All, all who would scare them are ban- v ished or slain. Orasp everj' stalwart hand. Hackbut an battle brand, i Pay thim all back the debt so I long due, Norris an Clifford well Can ov Tir Connell tell. i Onward to glory. "O'Donnell, A boo. ''Sacred the cause of Clan Connaill's defendin'. The altars we kneel at, the homes ov I our sires; I Ruthless the ruin the foe is extendin". I Midnight is red wud the plunderer's f fires. On with O'Donnell. thin. i Fight the old fight again. i Sons av Tir Connell, all valiant f an' true. 1 Make the false Saxin feel 1 Rrin's avengln' steel. Y Strike for yer countrv, O'Donnell Aboo." "Maguire Aboo.' " 1 1 And with these words on his lips. Phil Haguire flings his hat up in the I fir and, excitedly waving his hands at ij us. he cries out: "Shout, me gossoons, shout "Maguire Aboo. and let the vary angils in heaven know that ye' re followers ov i I me Faynin priiic'p'e-" I j Some of my companions comply with I Phil's request, but I oh, well: I was I searching my waistcoat pocket for a I ' penny that was not there. Ah. why did I 3 swell Johnnie Dowd's profits by buy- 1 ing sweets yesterday, and I wanting I now to buy O'Donnell Aboo so badly. Sick at heart and wholly unmindful of I my bleeding toe, my eyes sought Scul- I ly. He. too, has caught the fervor of I Terry the balland singer's song. The I beauty of " Herself and Myself" Is seem- I Jngly forgotten, for see it lies in the I lust and Scully has seized a pick and I is brandishing it dangerously near Joe I Oassidy's window. The latter, fright- f encd lest his window should be broken, rushes to the door only to hear these words from Scully: I "Mister Cassidy. keep inside, for the j love ov marcy, keep inside. The war I fit has seized me an' the longin' to kill J somebody an' die a martyr is on me. I Oh. why can't there be a risin', wan I grand charge an' thin a sojer's grave. I Shout, yeh young divils. shout, 'Scully I Aboo.' an' I'll buy a ballad for every- wan ov yez, yis, pon me veracity, I" I "I'd like to know what the whole I clutch ov yez are 'Aboolng about, " and I a voice resounds twenty yards up the I street, we look and there is Peg the I Barge. "Iv it's insultin' me yez are, ! I'll" We did not wait to hear the S last of the sentence, for we followed to , the very letter the words of Scully: . "Retrate, retrate, ehe's coming:" ffip,. omiiiin ifr -it r iMii)ij.mmwi i i 11 iiwiiwiwmi ipji The ballad singer, however, stood his ground, and endeavored to sooth-the anger of Pep; with: "O, Peggy tirady, you are me darlin', You are me lookin' glass from night to mornin". I'd rather have j'ou without a farthin', Than Susy Gallagher wid her house an' gardin'." But no. Peg heeds not Terry's love song, but charges on and poor Terry has to retreat, too, down Father Tom's gravel walk to the hall door of his reverence's rev-erence's house. He feels safe when he reaches that far if we may judge from the following strain: "Old Father John he was ninety-one . it was he who could tell you the story. An' every name ov his kith an' kin may their scowls now rest in glory. His father was shot in '9S as he stood in the chapel door. His grandfather was the strongest man in the parish ov Cahermore, An" thin there was Donough, Donal Moore an' Turlough on the roll. An' Kian, boy, that lost the lands because be-cause he'd save his soul." Poor Terry Regan, with the small frame, worn, pinched face, strong voice and large pathetic eyes, was one of the most genial souls I ever met. His was a wandering life, for there was not a race, market or fair for miles and miles around but he visited, singing and selling sell-ing his ballads. He was well versed in politics, and his knowledge of horses was wonderful. Every race horse running run-ning in Ireland, England and Scotland he knew the name of, and his pedigree, and it was the same with regard to his knowledge of the jockeys. It was his boast that he sung his ballads on every race course in Ireland, which I believe was a fact. Anyway, he was as familiar a figure at BaIdoyle, Fairyhouse, Pun-chestown Pun-chestown arid the Curragh as Davy Williams is at Kingstown Pier. In winter win-ter and summer, storm or sunshine, he was always in the same humor, and the phrase, "Such a one is as good humored hu-mored at Terry Regan," was a common saying to denote or describe the disposition disposi-tion of a certain person. Many a penny of mine found its way into Terry's pocket, for if I could resist his singing, I could not resist his ballads. The last time I heard Terry sing was at the village vil-lage fair a golden twenty years ago, and the lines he sang then I have never forgotten : "Johnny Connell's tall and straight, An" in his limbs he is complate. He'd pitch a bar ov any weight From fiarrvnwnn in ThmnnnH Instead ov Spa we'll drink brown ale, An' pay the reckoning on the nail. No man for debt shall go to jail, From Garryowen in glory." And poor Terry we shall never see him more, for many years he sleeps his last long sleep beneath the sod in the little churchyard on the hill. We miss that familiar little figure and the pathetic pa-thetic look of those large kind eyes, and, above all, we miss those ballads recounting dear Erin's smiles and tears, her joys and sorrows. His weary wan- aerings are now over, and our heartfelt prayer today is, "May he rest in peace." By Cabin. Next week: "The Railway Porter." |