| |
| TO the Wake of O’Hara | |
| Came company; | |
| All St. Patrick’s Alley | |
| Was there to see, | |
| With the friends and kinsmen | 5 |
| Of the family. | |
| On the long deal table lay Tim in white, | |
| And at his pillow the burning light. | |
| Pale as himself, with the tears on her cheek, | |
| The mother receiv’d us, too full to speak; | 10 |
| But she heap’d the fire, and on the board | |
| Set the black bottle with never a word, | |
| While the company gather’d, one and all, | |
| Men and women, big and small: | |
| Not one in the Alley but felt a call | 15 |
| To the Wake of Tim O’Hara. | |
| |
| At the face of O’Hara, | |
| All white with sleep, | |
| Not one of the women | |
| But took a peep, | 20 |
| And the wives new-wedded | |
| Began to weep. | |
| The mothers gather’d round about, | |
| And prais’d the linen and laying out,— | |
| For white as snow was his winding-sheet, | 25 |
| And all was peaceful, and clean, and sweet; | |
| And the old wives, praising the blessed dead, | |
| Were thronging around the old press-bed, | |
| Where O’Hara’s widow, tatter’d and torn, | |
| Held to her bosom the babe newborn, | 30 |
| And star’d all around her, with eyes forlorn, | |
| At the Wake of Tim O’Hara. | |
| |
| For the heart of O’Hara | |
| Was good as gold, | |
| And the life of O’Hara | 35 |
| Was bright and bold, | |
| And his smile was precious | |
| To young and old! | |
| Gay as a guinea, wet or dry, | |
| With a smiling mouth, and a twinkling eye! | 40 |
| Had ever an answer for chaff and fun; | |
| Would fight like a lion, with any one! | |
| Not a neighbor of any trade | |
| But knew some joke that the boy had made; | |
| Not a neighbor, dull or bright, | 45 |
| But minded something—frolic or fight, | |
| And whisper’d it round the fire that night, | |
| At the Wake of Tim O’Hara. | |
| |
| “To God be glory | |
| In death and life, | 50 |
| He ’s taken O’Hara | |
| From trouble and strife!” | |
| Said one-eyed Biddy, | |
| The apple-wife. | |
| “God bless old Ireland!” said Mistress Hart, | 55 |
| Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart; | |
| “God bless old Ireland till all be done, | |
| She never made wake for a better son!” | |
| And all join’d chorus, and each one said | |
| Something kind of the boy that was dead; | 60 |
| And the bottle went round from lip to lip, | |
| And the weeping widow, for fellowship, | |
| Took the glass of old Biddy and had a sip, | |
| At the Wake of Tim O’Hara. | |
| |
| Then we drank to O’Hara | 65 |
| With drams to the brim, | |
| While the face of O’Hara | |
| Look’d on so grim, | |
| In the corpse-light shining | |
| Yellow and dim. | 70 |
| The cup of liquor went round again, | |
| And the talk grew louder at every drain; | |
| Louder the tongue of the women grew! | |
| The lips of the boys were loosening too! | |
| The widow her weary eyelids clos’d, | 75 |
| And, soothed by the drop o’ drink, she doz’d; | |
| The mother brighten’d and laugh’d to hear | |
| Of O’Hara’s fight with the grenadier, | |
| And the hearts of all took better cheer, | |
| At the Wake of Tim O’Hara. | 80 |
| |
| Tho’ the face of O’Hara | |
| Look’d on so wan, | |
| In the chimney-corner | |
| The row began— | |
| Lame Tony was in it, | 85 |
| The oyster-man; | |
| For a dirty low thief from the North came near, | |
| And whistled “Boyne Water” in his ear, | |
| And Tony, with never a word of grace, | |
| Flung out his fist in the blackguard’s face; | 90 |
| And the girls and women scream’d out for fright, | |
| And the men that were drunkest began to fight: | |
| Over the tables and chairs they threw,— | |
| The corpse-light tumbled,—the trouble grew,— | |
| The newborn join’d in the hullabaloo,— | 95 |
| At the Wake of Tim O’Hara. | |
| |
| “Be still! be silent! | |
| Ye do a sin! | |
| Shame be his portion | |
| Who dares begin!” | 100 |
| ’T was Father O’Connor | |
| Just enter’d in! | |
| All look’d down, and the row was done, | |
| And sham’d and sorry was every one; | |
| But the Priest just smil’d quite easy and free— | 105 |
| “Would ye wake the poor boy from his sleep?” said he: | |
| And he said a prayer, with a shining face, | |
| Till a kind of brightness fill’d the place; | |
| The women lit up the dim corpse-light, | |
| The men were quieter at the sight, | 110 |
| And the peace of the Lord fell on all that night | |
| At the Wake of Tim O’Hara. | |
| |
