Francis S. Mahony

The Death of Socrates

By the Rev, Robt. Burrowes, Dean of St. Finbar’s Cathedral, Cork

The night before Larry was stretched,

            The boys, they all paid him a visit;

A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched—

            They sweated their duds till they riz it;

For Larry was always the lad,

            When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,

But he’d pawn all the togs that he had,

            Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,

                        And moisten his gob ‘fore he died.

“‘Pon my conscience, dear Larry,” says I,

            “I’m sorry to see you in trouble,

And your life’s cheerful noggin run dry,

            And yourself going off like its bubble!”

“Hould your tongue in that matter,” says he;

            “For the neckcloth I don’t care a button,

And by this time to-morrow you’ll see

            Your Larry will be dead as mutton;

                        All for what? ‘kase his courage was good!”

The boys they came crowding in fast;

            They drew their stools close round about him,

Six glims round his coffin they placed—

            He couldn’t be well waked without ‘em.

I axed if he was fit to die,

            Without having duly repented?

Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,

            And all by the clergy invented,

                        To make a fat bit for themselves.”

Then the cards being called for, they played,

            Till Larry found one of them cheated;

Quick he made a hard rap at his head—

            The lad being easily heated.

“So ye chates me bekase I’m in grief!

            O! is that, by the Holy, the rason?

Soon I’ll give you to know, you d______d thief!

            That you’re cracking your jokes out of sason,

                        And scuttle your nob with my fist.”

Then in came the priest with his book,

            He spoke to him so smooth and so civil;

Larry tipped him a Kilmainham look,

            And pitched his big wig to the divil.

Then raising a little his head,

            To get a sweet drop of the bottle,

And pitiful sighing he said,

            “O! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,

                        And choke my poor windpipe to death!”

So mournful the last words he spoke,

            We all vented our tears in a shower;

For my part, I thought my heart broke

            To see him cut down like a flower!

On his travels we watched him next day,

            O, the hangman I thought I could kill him!

Not one word did our poor Larry say,

            Nor changed till he came to “King William:”

                        Och, my dear! Then his colour turned white!

When he came to the nubbling chit,

            He was tucked up so neat and so pretty;

The rumbler jugged off from his feet,

            And he died with his face to the city.

He kicked too, but that was all pride,

            For soon you might see ‘twas all over;

And as soon as the noose was untied,

            Then at darkey we waked him in clover,

                        And sent him to take a ground-sweat.

La Mort de Socrate

Par L’Abbé de Prout, Curé de Mont-Aux-Cressons, Pres de Cork.

A la veille d’être pendu,

            Notr’ Laurent reçut dans son gite,

Honneur qui lui était bien dû,

            De nombreux amis la visite;

Car chacun scavait que Laurent

            A son tour rendrait la pareille,

Chapeau montre, et veste engageant,

            Pour que l’ami put boire bouteille,

                        Ni faire, à gosier sec, le saut.

“Hélas, notre garçon!” luis dis-je,

            “Combien je regrette ton sort!

Te voilà fleur, que sur sa tige

            Moisonne la cruelle mort!”—

“Au diable,” dit-il, “le roi George!

            Ça me fait la valeur d’un bouton;

Devant le boucher qui m’egorge,

            Je serai comme un doux mouton,

                        Et saurai montrer du courage!”

Des amis, dejà la cohorte

            Remplissait son étroit réduit;

Six chandelles, ho! Qu’on apporte,

            Donnons du lustre à cette nuit!

Alors je cherchai àconnaître

            S’il s’était dûment repenti?

“Bah! C’est les fourberies de prêtres;

            Les gredins, ils en ont menti,

                        Et leurs contes d’enfer sont faux!”

L’on demande les cartres. Au jeu

            Laurant voit un larron qui triche;

D’honneur tout rempli, il prend feu,

            Et d’un bon coup de poign l’affiche.

“Ha! coquin! de mon dernier jour

            Tu croyais profiter, peut-être;

Tu oses me jouer ce tour!

            Prends ça pour ta peine, vil traitre!

                        Et apprends à te bien conduire.”

Quand nous eûmes cessé nos ébats,

            Laurent, en ce triste repaire

Pour disposer au trépas,

            Voit entrer Monsieur le Vicaire.

Après un sinistre regard,

            Le front de sa main il se frotte,

Disant tout haut, “Venez plus tard!”

            Et tout bas, “Vilain’ colotte!”

                        Puis son verre il vida deux fois.

Lors il parla de l’échafaud,

            Et de sa dernière cravate;

Grands dieux! que ça paraissait beau

            De la voir mourir en Socrate!

Le trajet en chantant il fit—

            La chanson point ne fut un pseaume;

Mais palit un peu quand il vit

            La statue du Roy Guillaume—

                        Les pendards n’aiment pas ce roi!

Quand fut au bout de son voyage,

            Le gibet fut prêt en un clin;

Mourant il tourna le visage

            Vers la bonne ville de Dublin.

Il dansa la carmagnole,

            Et mourut comme fit Malbrouck;

Puis nous enterrâmes le drôle

            Au cimetière de Donnybrook,

                        Que son ame y soit en repos!