Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon Volume Ii Part 17

"'c.o.c.k-a-doo-do-doo,' was the reply. Some of the staff found it hard not to laugh; but the general went on,--

"'If, therefore, the practice does not cease, I'll draft the men into West India regiments.'

"'c.o.c.k-a-doo-do-doo.'

"'And if any articles pillaged from the inhabitants are detected in the quarters, or about the person of the troops--'

"'c.o.c.k-a-doo-do-_doo_,' screamed louder here than ever.

"'d.a.m.n that c.o.c.k! Where is it?'

"There was a general look around on all sides, which seemed in vain; when a tremendous repet.i.tion of the cry resounded from O'Shaughnessy's coat pocket,--thus detecting the valiant major himself in the very practice of his corps. There was no standing this: every one burst out into a peal of laughing; and Lord Wellington himself could not resist, but turned away, muttering to himself as he went, 'd.a.m.ned robbers--every man of them!' while a final war-note from the major's pocket closed the interview."

"Confound you, Maurice, you've always some villanous narrative or other.

You never crossed a street for shelter without making something out of it."

"True this time, as sure as my name's Maurice; but the bowl is empty."

"Never mind, here comes its successor. How long can you stay among us?"

"A few days at most. Just took a run off to see the sights. I was all over Lisbon this morning; saw the Inquisition and the cells and the place where they tried the fellows,--the kind of grand jury room with the great picture of Adam and Eve at the end of it. What a beautiful creature she is; hair down to her waist, and such eyes! 'Ah, ye darling!' said I to myself, 'small blame to him for what he did. Wouldn't I ate every crab in the garden, if ye asked me!'"

"I must certainly go to see her, Maurice. Is she very Portuguese in her style?"

"Devil a bit of it! She might be a Limerick-woman with elegant brown hair and blue eyes and a skin like snow."

"Come, come, they've pretty girls in Lisbon too, Doctor."

"Yes, faith," said Power, "that they have."

"Nothing like Ireland, boys; not a bit of it; they're the girls for my money; and where's the man can resist them? From Saint Patrick, that had to go and live in the Wicklow mountains--"

"Saint Kevin, you mean, Doctor."

"Sure it's all the same, they were twins. I made a little song about them one evening last week,--the women I mean."

"Let us have it, Maurice; let us have it, old fellow. What's the measure?"

"Short measure; four little verses, devil a more!"

"But the time, I mean?"

"Whenever you like to sing it; here it is,"--

THE GIRLS OF THE WEST.

Air,--"_Teddy, ye Gander_."

(_With feeling: but not too slow_.)

You may talk, if you please, Of the brown Portuguese, But wherever you roam, wherever you roam, You nothing will meet, Half so lovely or sweet, As the girls at home, the girls at home.

Their eyes are not sloes, Nor so long is their nose, But between me and you, between me and you, They are just as alarming, And ten times more charming, With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.

They don't ogle a man, O'er the top of their fan Till his heart's in a flame, till his heart's in a flame But though bashful and shy, They've a look in their eye That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.

No mantillas they sport, But a petticoat short Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best, And a leg--but, O murther!

I dare not go further; So here's to the west, so here's to the west.

"Now that really is a sweet little thing. Moore's isn't it?"

"Not a bit of it; my own muse, every word of it."

"And the music?" said I.

"My own, too. Too much spice in that bowl; that's an invariable error in your devisers of drink, to suppose that the tipple you start with can please your palate to the last; they forget that as we advance, either in years or lush, our tastes simplify."

"_Nous revenons a nos premieres amours_. Isn't that it?"

"No, not exactly, for we go even further; for if you mark the progression of a sensible man's fluids, you'll find what an emblem of life it presents to you. What is his initiatory gla.s.s of 'Chablis' that he throws down with his oysters but the budding expectancy of boyhood,--the appetizing sense of pleasure to come; then follows the sherry with his soup, that warming glow which strength and vigor in all their consciousness impart, as a glimpse of life is opening before him. Then youth succeeds--buoyant, wild, tempestuous youth--foaming and sparkling like the bright champagne whose stormy surface subsides into a myriad of bright stars."

"_Oeil de perdrix_."

"Not a bit of it; woman's own eye, brilliant, sparkling, life-giving--"

"Devil take the fellow, he's getting poetical!"

"Ah, Fred! if that could only last; but one must come to the burgundies with his maturer years. Your first gla.s.s of hermitage is the algebraic sign for five-and-thirty,--the glorious burst is over; the pace is still good, to be sure, but the great enthusiasm is past. You can afford to look forward, but confound it, you've along way to look back also."

"I say, Charley, our friend has contrived to finish the bishop during his disquisition; the bowl's quite empty."

"You don't say so, Fred. To be sure, how a man does forget himself in abstract speculations; but let us have a little more, I've not concluded my homily."

"Not a gla.s.s, Maurice; it's already past nine. We are all pledged to the masquerade, and before we've dressed and got there, 't will be late enough."

"But I'm not disguised yet, my boy, nor half."

"Well, they must take you _au naturel_, as our countrymen do their potatoes."

"Yes, Doctor, Fred's right; we had better start."

"Well, I can't help it; I've recorded my opposition to the motion, but I must submit; and now that I'm on my legs, explain to me what's that very dull-looking old lamp up there?"

"That's the moon, man; the full moon."

"Well, I've no objection; I'm full too: so come along, lads."