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This was a gran’ plan entirely; so the very nixt night they had a great spree, an’ the naybours was axed in, an’ “Donal,” sez the masther, sez he, “we’ll be makin’ nowise odd o’ you; ye have shown yerself a good, industhrous, obligatin’ boy, that only for ye I don’t know what we’d have done at all, at all,” sez he, “so ye’ll just dhrop in an’ enjoy the night,” sez he, “like any other; for we’d like to show ye whatever wee kindness we could—meself an’ me poor ould mother,” sez he.
Donal thanked himself an’ his ould mother, an’ sayed he’d surely take advantage of their very nice, kindly invitation. So Donal was at the spree, an’ they put no stint of good sthrong whiskey in his way till they made him purty hearty; an’ then, the masther, to show his pride in Donal—if it was thrue to him—sez:
“Donal,” sez he, “could ye obligate the company by givin’ us a good ould Irish song—one of the rale ould sort?” sez he.
“Lora hainey, I can that,” sez Donal, “give them one of the rale ould style,” sez he, an’ he stharted up “Túirne Mhairé,” or “Mary’s Wheel,” with a roll that fairly put the company on their heads with delight, they niver havin’ heard an Irish song afore. When he was finished, an’ his masther had talked all sorts of applause to him, he commenced workin’ round to prepare him for the cuckoo, the ould mother havin’ gone out in the manetime to get up the bush—an’ faix, a purty ji
“Donal,” sez he, “it’s wearin’ round torst the time of year we’d be partin’ now, an’ I’m very sorry for it; for, throgs, though I didn’t make no great bones about it, I had an oncommon great regard for ye, an’ it’s I’ll be the sorry man when ye go.”
“Faix then, masther,” sez Donal, sez he, “I’ll have the same story to tell meself. But I don’t care if I engage with ye another tarm, at the same bargain,” sez he.
“Oh, no, no, Donal,” sez he, “that would niver do at all, at all; me mother an’ me isn’t just as well off in the world as we used to be, an’ I think we’ll have to give up keepin’ a boy.”
“Oh, anyhows, cheer up,” sez Donal, sez he, “it’s a far cry yet till the cuckoo calls. It’s but young in the year ye know.”
“Oh, ay, but Donal, ye know, this is an airly saison, entirely, an’ I wouldn’t be at all mismoved if I’d hear the cuckoo, now, any minute. An’, more by the same token,” sez he, “if I wasn’t very much deludhered, it was about the shape an’ size of a cuckoo I obsarved back an’ forrid in the bushes aback o’ the house this very evenin’,” sez he.
“Well, by the patch on my breeches,” sez Donal, sez he, “an’ that’s a fairly sizeable oath, if it was a cuckoo ye saw, an’ if she thries to give us any o’ her lingo in this naybourbood for a good seven weeks to come yet, she’ll be afther wishin’ her mother was dead-born, when I have finished with her,” sez he.
But, patience saize me, if the words was well out of his mouth, when “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” was called three siviral times from the bush at the end o’ the house, an’ the masther looked at Donal, an’ Donal raiched for the loaded gun that was standin’ in a corner; an’ afore one o’ the company could say “Do, Donal,” or “Don’t, Donal,” he was out through the window, an’ up with the gun to his shouldher, an’ lets bang at the bush the cuckoo—if it was thrue for her—called from, an’ down tumbles his masther’s ould mother, head foremost, out of the tree, as dead as a salted herrin’.
An’, och, there was then the roolie-boolie.
“Och, ye tarnation black-hearted rascal ye,” sez the masther, sez he, “ye have done it at last, ye have done it at last! Me poor i
“Aisy, aisy, avic,” sez Donal, sez he, “surely ye’re not by any mains displaised with me, are ye?” sez he.
“Displaised with ye?” sez the masther, sez he, black in the face—“Is it displaised with ye? I’m not more displaised,” sez he, “with the Ould Fella below, himself,” sez he, “than I am with ye, ye villain ye!” sez he.
“Thank ye for that,” sez Donal, sez he, dancin’ with delight. “Down on yer knees,” sez he, “till I get them handsome pair o’ lugs off ye. You took off my poor brother Myles’s lugs, an’ I swore I’d be revenged on ye; so ye see I kept me oath,” sez he.
So, there the ould masther had nothin’ for it but go down on his two knees till Donal got the wool-shears an’ clipped the two lugs bare off o’ him; an’ then gettin’ his wages an’ his fifty poun’ over an’ above, he tied up his kit in his red handkerchief, slung his handkerchief on the point of his stick, put his stick over his shouldher, an’ whistlin’ “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” started to home an’ to Myles; an’ there he foun’ Myles an’ the farm just as he left them; an’ he then with his money bought a naybourin’ bit o’ lan’ that lay into his own, an’ himself an’ Myles lived the rest o’ their lives in full an’ plinty, as happy as the day was long. An’ that’s the end o’ Myles McGarry an’ Donal McGarry.
Na
ONCE on a time there was a woman and her man named Na