THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN.

A very queer story I heard Long ago, In Kerry. ’Tis gruesome and weird: Stage went slow As we passed a ruined shebeen On our way to Cahirciveen. “They drank and they feasted galore, With each breath Loud calling for one bottle more! Father Death Came in in the midst of the cheer, With ‘Long life to all of yez here!’ “By Crom’ell! his eyes they were bright; Loud he laughed, Saying, ‘Boys, we will make it a night.’ Then he quaffed A dandy of punch in a trice, Remarking, ‘Da di! it is nice!’ “’Tis whisky that loosens the tongue! Beard o’ Crom’! And that same has been often sung; Not a gom[38] Was filea[39] that clairsech’d[40] the line: O whisky’s a nectar divine! “One welcomed the pale king with cheers; All his life Was channelled with woe’s soulful tears; He had wife That came, a black fate, in his way, When his years were just clasping the May. “Another—he gave furtive glance, And grew pale— ‘This coming,’ mused he, ‘won’t entrance, I’ll go bail, This meeting of ours!’—week ere this, God Hymen had made for him bliss. “And another?—Rises the din Loud and strong; The whisky a-firing, Neill Finn Said, ‘A song We’ll have from our guest ere we’ll go!’ The guest said, ‘Well, Neill, be it so!’ “He sang them a spirited stave, Written where The poet for bread is no slave To black care— ‘Long life to yez!’ shouted Neill Finn; Death smiled, and said, ‘Neill, boy, amin!’ “They called for the cards and they played, Sure the same ‘Forty-fives’ it was named—Mike Quade In the game So cheated that Death said: ‘’Tis like The wind from your sails I’ll take, Mike.’ “What time with a blow from his stick, To the earth He struck Mick. Then kippeens[41] took quick Striking birth; The Quade boys were there to the fore, All longing, my dear, for red gore! “They went for the old man, but he Used to fight, His glass drained, and quick as a bee Left and right Blows laid—when they woke from their fix, They waited for Charon by Styx. “The old one he stuck to the drink, (So they tell), Till being o’ercome (as they think), That he fell Down under the table—nor woke Till day o’er the Atlantic broke. “Forgetful of all that had passed, He looked round, And seeing his subjects all massed On the ground, He said, ‘Oh, get up from the floor, And help me with one bottle more!’ “Since that time, the peasantry say, Every night Sure there is the devil to pay! And the sight They see—‘Sirs, no lie! ’pon my soul!’ Death drunk, singing Beimedh a gole!”[42] Charles P. O’Conor (1837?).