THE BANSHEE OF McBRIDE

IN the Island of Unreason, where the bog is green and wet,
Where no sequences of reason prove a consequence, or debt;
Where deductions from equations are derided or denied,
And the table of the multiples is laughed at and decried,
Stands a mud and granite edifice, the Castle of McBride.

And of all the brave old families that date from King O’Toole,
The ancient lines of Donohue, O’Grady or McDhoul,
O’Neil, O’Brien, or Callahan, or Murphy or Burnside,
No one could show a pedigree or date like The McBride.

No ancient Irish famity from Kerry to Tyrone
Would be complete unless it had a Banshee of its own;
And of all the howling Banshees that wailed o’er storm and tide,
The loudest and the shrillest was the Banshee of McBride.

’Tis midnight, and the festive board is loud with drink and song;
Lord Hugh is at his bravest, and the sitting will be long.
The punch is strong, the wit is keen—the storm may beat the pane—
When did the Lord O’ the Castle heed wind, or tide, or rain?

But o’er the scene there comes a voice that bates the revelers’ breath,
A wailing, long-drawn, moaning cry, that speaks of doom and death.
And as all eyes are looking to the master of the feast,
Lord Hugh arises slowly, turning sadly to the east

Like an ancient necromancer. And he spoke in solemn words
Of the old Milesian legends, and the voice of prophet birds,
And how the grand ould families, the proudest of the land,
Had been forewarned by mystic signs that none might understand.

And then his lordship mixed the punch, and as he passed the bowl,
Says he “whoever this may call, may heaven absolve his soul.”

Old Katy Nolan, broiling bones to keep the drinkers dry,
She crossed herself in deadly fear to hear the Banshee’s cry.
She raised the keenah and bewailed, “Och, wirra, wirrasthrue,
Who can the Banshee want this night—can it be Masther Hugh?

“Or is it Shamus, or mad Tom—who can it mane at all?
(Sure, ’twouldn’t be Miss Ellen, the life an’ light o’ the hall.)

“Av it wor Masther Shamus, the blagyard who has spint
A foine estate, an’ ruined all the income and the rint—
Och hone, he is the bravest lad, an’ spirited an’ kind—
He rides the horses all to death, an’ niver rides behind;
He sits the longest at the dhrink, he’s first in dance or—
But Och, a bigger blagyard doesn’t walk the earth this night.

“Or av ’twor Masther Thomas, the nuisance of the Hall,
Who’s always ready at the dhrink, an’ always first to fall—
He spends his money like a prince—whene’er he has to spind—
(Bad luck to thim ould misers, that is so afeard to lind.)

“Mayhap ’twould be Ould Teddy—the ouldest of the stock,
An’ him bed-rid sence Candlemas, by rayson of the shock.
Av it is him—O howly saints, dale lightly for his sake—
There’s not an Irish gintleman could have a grander wake.”

Old Terence lay upon his cot, a withered, wasted form.
He heard the Banshee’s wailing cry above the crashing storm,
And calling, in a feeble voice, O’Brien to his side,
He said, “My lad, ye soon will see the last of The McBride.
Go down an’ spake to James an’ Hugh, an’ say the ould man thinks
This night will be his last on earth—an’ don’t forget the dhrinks.”

And soon the ancient family came thronging to his door,
Except young Tom—the blackguard—who lay drunk upon the floor.
They propped him up with pillows, with the punch in easy reach,
And listened while with trembling lips he made his dying speech.

“Jist touch the whiskey to me lips—arrah, I shan’t be long.
Shamus, my boy, what ails the punch? You’ve wathered it too strong.
’Tis wather spoils the best of dhrink—or have I lost me taste?
(O’Brien, take the cart, an’ bring his riverence, the praste.)

Och hone! ’tis eighty years an’ more I lived on this estate,
An’ never once oppressed the poor, or bowed before the great.
An’ tho’ the property was spint long years before it came
To me, I held it like a prince, an’ you may do the same.

Remember honor is yer life, an’ never take the lie
From any man, an’ never be afraid to fight, or die.
And kape the brave ould customs good, an’ let the whiskey flow
At Christmas, christenings, an’ wakes; an’ as for friend an’ foe,
Turn a bould face to both o’ thim.—An’ never pay a debt—
Onless ye pay a laborer, or praste, or honest bet.
(The moneylendhers all are thaives.) An’ kape yer shootin’ fine
By practice, and the steady hand that comes of punch an’ wine.

Presarve the game; an’ whin the leaves are rustlin’ on the ground,
Remember there is other game, that lasts the sayson round,
The partridge is in feather whin the lanes are brown an’ sere—
But the bailiff and the gauger are in sayson all the year.

I lave this fine ould mansion as I found it. There is much
That English laws would rendher to the moneylendhers’ touch.
I held the place for sixty years. I kep’ it as I could—
’Twill hould another sixty years—for thim as makes it good.

I’ve said my say—Sanctisstma. My spache is gettin’ thick—
An’ here comes Father Shaughnessy—pass round the punch, avic.”

So passed away this brave old man, a real Irish Prince,
Whom logic could not turn aside, nor argument convince.
And he was right. He held his lands long after they were spent;
He gathered all his friends around, he gathered all the rent.
He walked according to his light, and in his narrow way
Absorbed much antique salary and antedated pay
Let us be mindful of his deeds, and thankful for his sake,
That no old Irish gentleman e’er had a grander wake.