the purcell papers-2-第24部分

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　And　breathed　enchantment　o'er　thy　tide；

　That　makes　thee　still　my　friend　and　guide

　　　　　And　she　is　dead。'





These　lines　I　have　transcribed　in　order

to　prove　a　point　which　I　have　heard

denied；　namely；　that　an　Irish　peasant

for　their　author　was　no　moremay　write

at　least　correctly　in　the　matter　of　measure；

language；　and　rhyme；　and　I　shall　add

several　extracts　in　further　illustration　of

the　same　fact；　a　fact　whose　assertion；　it

must　be　allowed；　may　appear　somewhat

paradoxical　even　to　those　who　are

acquainted；　though　superficially；　with

Hibernian　composition。　The　rhymes　are；

it　must　be　granted；　in　the　generality　of

such　productions；　very　latitudinarian

indeed；　and　as　a　veteran　votary　of　the

muse　once　assured　me；　depend　wholly

upon　the　wowls　（vowels）；　as　may　be　seen

in　the　following　stanza　of　the　famous

'Shanavan　Voicth。'



　'　〃What'll　we　have　for　supper？〃

　　　　　Says　my　Shanavan　Voicth；

　〃We'll　have　turkeys　and　roast　BEEF；

　And　we'll　eat　it　very　SWEET；

　And　then　we'll　take　a　SLEEP；〃

　　　　　Says　my　Shanavan　Voicth。'





But　I　am　desirous　of　showing　you　that；

although　barbarisms　may　and　do　exist　in

our　native　ballads；　there　are　still　to　be

found　exceptions　which　furnish　examples

of　strict　correctness　in　rhyme　and　metre。

Whether　they　be　one　whit　the　better　for

this　I　have　my　doubts。　In　order　to

establish　my　position；　I　subjoin　a　portion

of　a　ballad　by　one　Michael　Finley；　of

whom　more　anon。　The　GENTLEMAN　spoken

of　in　the　song　is　Lord　Edward　Fitzgerald。



　'The　day　that　traitors　sould　him　and　inimies　bought　him；

　　　　　The　day　that　the　red　gold　and　red　blood　was　paid

　Then　the　green　turned　pale　and　thrembled　like　the　dead　leaves　in

Autumn；

　　　　　And　the　heart　an'　hope　iv　Ireland　in　the　could　grave　was

laid。



　'The　day　I　saw　you　first；　with　the　sunshine　fallin'　round　ye；

　　　　　My　heart　fairly　opened　with　the　grandeur　of　the　view：

　For　ten　thousand　Irish　boys　that　day　did　surround　ye；

　　　　　An'　I　swore　to　stand　by　them　till　death；　an'　fight　for　you。



　'Ye　wor　the　bravest　gentleman；　an'　the　best　that　ever　stood；

　　　　　And　your　eyelid　never　thrembled　for　danger　nor　for　dread；

　An'　nobleness　was　flowin'　in　each　stream　of　your　blood

　　　　　My　bleasing　on　you　night　au'　day；　an'　Glory　be　your　bed。



　'My　black　an'　bitter　curse　on　the　head；　an'　heart；　an'　hand；

　　　　　That　plotted；　wished；　an'　worked　the　fall　of　this　Irish　hero

bold；

　　　　　God's　curse　upon　the　Irishman　that　sould　his　native　land；

　An'　hell　consume　to　dust　the　hand　that　held　the　thraitor's

gold。'





Such　were　the　politics　and　poetry　of

Michael　Finley；　in　his　day；　perhaps；　the

most　noted　song…maker　of　his　country；　but　

as　genius　is　never　without　its　eccentricities；

Finley　had　his　peculiarities；　and　among

these；　perhaps　the　most　amusing　was　his

rooted　aversion　to　pen；　ink；　and　paper；　in

perfect　independence　of　which；　all　his

compositions　were　completed。　It　is

impossible　to　describe　the　jealousy　with

which　he　regarded　the　presence　of　writing

materials　of　any　kind；　and　his　ever　wakeful

fears　lest　some　literary　pirate　should

transfer　his　oral　poetry　to　paperfears

which　were　not　altogether　without　warrant；

inasmuch　as　the　recitation　and　singing　of

these　original　pieces　were　to　him　a　source

of　wealth　and　importance。　I　recollect

upon　one　occasion　his　detecting　me　in　the

very　act　of　following　his　recitation　with

my　pencil　and　I　shall　not　soon　forget　his

indignant　scowl；　as　stopping　abruptly　in

the　midst　of　a　line；　he　sharply　exclaimed：



'Is　my　pome　a　pigsty；　or　what；　that　you

want　a　surveyor's　ground…plan　of　it？'



Owing　to　this　absurd　scruple；　I　have　been

obliged；　with　one　exception；　that　of　the　ballad　

of　'Phaudhrig　Crohoore；'　to　rest　satisfied

with　such　snatches　and　fragments　of　his

poetry　as　my　memory　could　bear　awaya

fact　which　must　account　for　the　mutilated

state　in　which　I　have　been　obliged　to

present　the　foregoing　specimen　of　his

composition。



It　was　in　vain　for　me　to　reason　with

this　man　of　metres　upon　the　unreasonableness

of　this　despotic　and　exclusive　assertion

of　copyright。　I　well　remember　his

answer　to　me　when；　among　other　arguments；

I　urged　the　advisability　of　some

care　for　the　permanence　of　his　reputation；

as　a　motive　to　induce　him　to　consent　to

have　his　poems　written　down；　and　thus

reduced　to　a　palpable　and　enduring

form。



'I　often　noticed；'　said　he；　'when　a　mist

id　be　spreadin'；　a　little　brier　to　look　as　big；

you'd　think；　as　an　oak　tree；　an'

same　way；　in　the　dimmness　iv　the　nightfall；

I　often　seen　a　man　tremblin'　and　crassin'

himself　as　if　a　sperit　was　before　him；　at

the　sight　iv　a　small　thorn　bush；　that　he'd

leap　over　with　ase　if　the　daylight　and

sunshine　was　in　it。　An'　that's　the　rason　why

I　think　it　id　be　better　for　the　likes　iv　me

to　be　remimbered　in　tradition　than　to　be

written　in　history。'



Finley　has　now　been　dead　nearly　eleven

years；　and　his　fame　has　not　prospered　by

the　tactics　which　he　pursued；　for　his

reputation；　so　far　from　being　magnified；　has

been　wholly　obliterated　by　the　mists　of

obscurity。



With　no　small　difficulty；　and　no　inconsiderable

manoeuvring；　I　succeeded　in　procuring；

at　an　expense　of　trouble　and

conscience　which　you　will　no　doubt

think　but　poorly　rewarded；　an　accurate

'report'　of　one　of　his　most　popular

recitations。　It　celebrates　one　of　the　many

daring　exploits　of　the　once　famous

Phaudhrig　Crohoore　（in　prosaic　English；

Patrick　Connor）。　I　have　witnessed

powerful　effects　produced　upon　large

assemblies　by　Finley's　recitation　of　this

poem　which　he　was　wont；　upon　pressing

invitation；　to　deliver　at　weddings；　wakes；

and　the　like；　of　course　the　power　of

the　narrative　was　greatly　enhanced　by

the　fact　that　many　of　his　auditors

had　seen　and　well　knew　the　chief　actors　in

the　drama。





'PHAUDHRIG　CROHOORE。



　Oh；　Phaudhrig　Crohoore　was　the　broth　of　a　boy；

　　　　　And　he　stood　six　foot　eight；

　And　his　arm　was　as　round　as　another　man's　thigh；

　　　　　'Tis　Phaudhrig　was　great；

　And　his　hair　was　as　black　as　the　shadows　of　night；

　And　hung　over　the　scars　left　by　many　a　fight；

　And　his　voice；　like　the　thunder；　was　deep；　strong；　and　loud；

　And　his　eye　like　the　lightnin'　from　under　the　cloud。

　And　all　the　girls　liked　him；　for　he　could　spake　civil；

　And　sweet　when　he　chose　it；　for　he　was　the　divil。

　An'　there　wasn't　a　girl　from　thirty…five　undher；

　Divil　a　matter　how　crass；　but　he　could　come　round　her。

　But　of　all　the　sweet　girls　that　smiled　on　him；　but　one

　Was　the　girl　of　his　heart；　an'　he　loved　her　alone。

　An'　warm　as　the　sun；　as　the　rock　firm　an'　sure；

　Was　the　love　of　the　heart　of　Phaudhrig　Crohoore；

　An'　he'd　die　for　one　smile　from　his　Kathleen　O'Brien；

　For　his　love；　like　his　hatred；　was　sthrong　as　the　lion。



　'But　Michael　O'Hanlon　loved　Kathleen　as　well

　As　he　hated　Crohoorean'　that　same　was　like　hell。

　But　O'Brien　liked　HIM；　for　they　were　the　same　parties；

　The　O'Briens；　O'Hanlons；　an'　Murphys；　and　Cartys

　An'　they　all　went　together　an'　hated　Crohoore；

　For　it's　many　the　batin'　he　gave　them　before；

　An'　O'Hanlon　made　up　to　O'Brien；　an'　says　he：

　〃I'll　marry　your　daughter；　if　you'll　give　her　to　me。〃

　And　the　match　was　made　up；　an'　when　Shrovetide　came　on；

　The　company　assimbled　three　hundred　if　one：

　There　was　all　the　O'Hanlons；　an'　Murphys；　an'　Cartys；

　An'　the　young　boys　an'　girls　av　all　o'　them　parties；

　An'　the　O'Briens；　av　coorse；　gathered　strong　on　day；

　An'　the　pipers　an'　fiddlers　were　tearin'　away；

　There　was　roarin'；　an'　jumpin'；　an'　jiggin'；　an'　flingin'；

　An'　jokin'；　an'　blessin'；　an'　kissin'；　an'　singin'；

　An'　they　wor　all　laughin'why　not；　to　be　sure？

　How　O'Hanlon　came　inside　of　Phaudhrig　Crohoore。

　An'　they　all　talked　an'　laughed　the　length　of　the　table；

　Atin'　an'　dhrinkin'　all　while　they　wor　able；

　And　with　pipin'　an'　fiddlin'　an'　roarin'　like　tundher；

　Your　head　you'd　think　fairly　was　splittin'　asundher；

　And　the　priest　called　out；　〃Silence；　ye　blackguards；　agin！〃

　An'　he　took　up　his　prayer…book；　just　goin'　to　begin；

　An'　they　all　held　their　tongues　from　their　funnin'　and　bawlin'；

　So　silent　you'd　notice　the　smallest　pin　fallin'；



　An'　the　priest　was　just　beg'nin'　to　read；　whin　the　door

　Sprung　back　to　the　wall；　and　in　walked　Crohoore

　Oh！　Phaudhrig　Crohoore　was　the　broth　of　a　boy；

　Ant　he　stood　six　foot　eight；

　An'　his　arm　was　as　round　as　another　man's　thigh；

　'Tis　Phaudhrig　was　great

　An'　he　walked　slowly　up；　watched　by　many　a　bright　eye；

　As　a　black　cloud　moves　on　through　the　stars　of　the　sky；

　An'　none　sthrove　to　stop　him；　for　Phaudhrig　was　great；

　Till　he　stood　all　alone；　just　apposit　the　sate

　Where　O'Hanlon　and　Kathleen；　his　beautiful　bride；

　Were　sitting　so　illigant　out　side　by　side；

　An'　he　gave　her　one　look　that　her　heart　almost　broke；

　An'　he　turned　to　O'Brien；　her　father；　and　spoke；

　An'　his　voice；　like　the　thunder；