SHEMUS O'BRIEN.
BY J. S. LE Fanu.
[This ballad, written many years ago, was the first ever composed in the dialect of the south of Ireland, and possibly suggested the kindred experiment of verse composition in the provincial dialects of England. The grammatical licences in which it abounds are current among the peasantry of Munster.]
JIST afther the war, in the year '98,
As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got,
To hang them by thrial-barrin' sich as was shot,
There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight,
And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night.
It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon;
If he missed iv the judges-he'd meet a dragoon;
An' whether the judges or sodgers gev sintence,
The divil a much time they allowed for repintance.
An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin'
Wid small share iv restin', or atin, or sleepin',
An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet-
Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,
With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay;
An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all
Was Shemus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.
His limbs were well set, an' his body was light,.
An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so
white;
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
An' his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red
An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye,
For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye,
So droll an' so wicked, so dark and 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 illigantest 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 it into 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 leathered 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' threachery preys on the blood iv the best;
Afther many a brave action 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 your prison must close on you soon,
An' take your last look at her dim lonely 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
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin', an' wake,
And farewell to the girl that 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, an' the sthrong hands
wor bound,
An' he laid down his length on the cowld prisonground,
An' the dhrames 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,
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
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 dhry,
For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,
There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to
An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword in hand; An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered,
An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered;
An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,
An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;
An' the judge settled out so detarmined and big,
With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig;
An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, ~
An' Shemus O'Brien kem into the dock.
For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so shtrong,
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' Shemus O'Brien made answer and said:
"My lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time
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 dhry, An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' 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 Shemus's mother in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry :
"O, judge darlin', don't, O, 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-O, don't give him to ruin !
He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;
Don't part us for ever, we that's so long parted.
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you-O, 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 words of his mother,
The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake,
But the sthrong, manly voice used to falther and
break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide, "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
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