Tales and Novels Volume VIII Part 49

[_CHRISTY puts his finger on his lips, and bows to Sir WILLIAM and to CLARA._

_Sir W._ Now, Mr. Hope.

_Mr. HOPE sings, and the Band join in chorus,_

Though Bannow's heiress, fair and young, Hears polish'd praise from ev'ry tongue; Yet good and kind, she'll not disdain The tribute of the lowly swain.

The heart's warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee.

That open brow, that courteous grace, Bespeaks thee of thy generous race; Thy father's soul is in thy smile-- Thrice blest his name in Erin's isle.

The heart's warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee.

The bright star s.h.i.+ning on the night, Betokening good, spreads quick delight; But quicker far, more glad surprise, Wakes the kind radiance of her eyes.

The heart's warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee[1].

[Footnote 1: Set to music by Mr. Webbe.]

_Christy._ Then I'm not ashamed, any way, of that song of mine.

_Sir W._ Of yours?--Is it possible that it is yours?

_Clara._ It is indeed. These are the very lines he gave me this morning.

_Christy._ And I humbly thank you, madam or miss, for having got them set to the musics.

_Clara._ I had nothing to do with that. We must thank Mr. Hope for this agreeable surprise.

_Christy._ Why, then, I thank you, Mr. Drum.

_Mr. H._ You owe me no thanks, sir. I will take none from you.

_Christy._ No--for I didn't remember giving you the copy. I suppose Florry did.

_Miss G._ Not I, sir.

_Christy._ Or the schoolmaster's foul copy may be, for it was he was putting the song down for me on paper. My own hand-writing shaking so bad, I could not make a fair copy fit for the lady.

_Mr. H._ Mr. Gallagher, don't plunge farther in falsehood--you know the truth is, that song's not yours.

_Christy._ Why, then, by all--

_Mr. H._ Stop, stop, Mr. Gallagher--stop, I advise you.

_Christy._ Why, then, I won't stop at any thing--for the song's my own.

_Mr. H._ In one sense of the word, may be, it may be called your own, sir; for you bought it, I know.

_Christy._ I bought it? Oh, who put that in your Scotch brains? Whoever it was, was a big liar.

_Biddy._ No liar at all, sir--I ax your pardon--'twas I.

_Christy._ And you overheard my thoughts, then, talking to myself--ye traitor!

_Biddy._ No, sir--again I ax your pardon; no listener Biddy Doyle. But I was at the schoolmaster's, to get him pen a letter for me to my poor father, and there with him, I heard how Christy bought the song, and seen the first copy--and the child of the house told me all about it, and how it was lift there by Mr. Owen Larken.

_Sir W._ and _Clara_ (_joyfully_). Owen Larken!--you?

_Christy._ All lies! Asy talk!--asy talk--asy to belie a poor man.

_Mr. H._ If you tell the truth, you can tell us the next verse, for there's another which we did not yet sing.

_Christy._ Not in my copy, which is the original.

_Sir W._ If you have another verse, let us hear it--and that will decide the business.

_Christy._ Oh, the devil another line, but what's lame, I'll engage, and forged, as you'll see.

_Mr. HOPE sings,_

Quick spring the feelings of the heart, When touch'd by Clara's gen'rous art; Quick as the grateful shamrock springs, In the good fairies' favour'd rings.

_Clara._ What does Christy say now?

_Christy._ Why, miss, I say that's well said for the shamrock any way.

And all that's in it for me is this--the schoolmaster was a rogue that did not give me that verse in for my money.

_Sir W._ Then you acknowledge you bought it?

_Christy._ What harm, plase your honour? And would not I have a right to buy what pleases me--and when bought and ped for isn't it mine in law and right? But I am mighty unlucky this night. So, come along, Florry--we are worsted see! No use to be standing here longer, the laughing-stock of all that's in it--Ferrinafad.

_Miss G._ Murder! Father, then here's all you done for me, by your lies and your whiskey! I'll go straight from ye, and lodge with Mrs.

Mulrooney. Biddy, what's that you're grinning at? Plase to walk home out of that.

_Biddy._ Miss Florinda, I am partly engaged to dance; but I won't be laving you in your downfall: so here's your cloak--and lane on me.

_Widow._ Why, then, Biddy, we'll never forget you in our prosperity.

_Mabel_ and _Owen._ Never, never. You're a good girl, Biddy.

[_Exeunt Miss GALLAGHER, BIDDY, and CHRISTY._

_Clara._ I am glad they are gone.

_Sir W._ I congratulate you, my dear niece, upon having got rid of tenants who would have disgraced your choice.

_Clara._ These (_turning to OWEN, MABEL, and her mother,_) these will do honour to it. My written promise was to _grant the poet's pet.i.tion_.

Owen, you are _the poet_--what is your pet.i.tion?

_Owen._ May I speak?--May I say all I wish?