in the autumn of 1832, and the sun had not yet
robbed the grass of its dew, as a stout-built peasant was moving
briskly along a small by-road in the county of Tipperary. The
elasticity of his step bespoke the lightness of his heart, and the
rapidity of his walk did not seem sufficient, even, for the exuberance
of his glee, for every now and then the walk was exchanged for a sort
of dancing shuffle, which terminated with a short capering kick that
threw up the dust about him, and all the while he whistled one of those
whimsical jig tunes with which Ireland abounds, and twirled his stick
over his head in a triumphal flourish. Then off he started again in
his original pace, and hummed a rollicking song, and occasionally broke
out into soliloquy--"Why then, an' isn't it the grate day intirely for
Ireland, that is in it this blessed day. Whoo! your sowl to glory but
well do the job complate"--and here he cut a caper.--"Divil a more
they'll ever get, and it's only a pity they ever got any--but there's
an ind o' them now--they're cut down from this out," and here he made
an appropriate down stroke of his shillelah through a bunch of thistles
that skirted the road. "Where will be their grand doin's
now?--eh?--I'd like to know that. Where'll be their lazy livery
sarvants?--ow! ow!!"--and he sprang lightly over a stile. "And what
will they do for their coaches and four?" Here, a lark sprang up at
his feet and darted into the air with its thrilling rush of exquisite
melody.--"Faith, you've given me my answer sure enough, my purty
lark--that's as much as to say, they may go whistle for them--oh, my
poor fellows, how I pity yiz;"--and here he broke into a "too ra lal
loo" and danced along the path:--then suddenly dropping into silence he
resumed his walk, and applying his hand behind his head, cocked up his
caubeen[1] and began to rub behind his ear, according to the most
approved peasant practice of assisting the powers of reflection.--"Faix
an' it's mysef that's puzzled to know what'll the procthors, and the
process sarvers, and 'praisers[2] do at all. By gorra they must go rob
an the road, since they won't be let to rob any more in the fields;
robbin' is all that is left for them, for sure they couldn't turn to
any honest thrade afther the coorses they have been used to. Oh what a
power o' miscrayants will be out of bread for the want of their owld
thrade of false swearin'. Why the vagabones will be lost, barrin'
they'r