The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago. Lever Charles James

The tone of the conversation seemed little to accord with Captain Jacques’ humour, whose convivial temperament found slight pleasure in protracted or argumentative discussions of any kind.

      “Que le diable l’importe,” cried he, at last. “This confounded talk has stopped the bottle this half-hour. Come, Talbot, let’s have a song, my lad; never shake your head, mon enfant,– Well, then, here goes.”

      Thus saying, Flahault pushed back his chair a little from the table, and in a rich deep bass voice, which rung through the high rafters of the cabin, chanted out the following rude verses, to a French vaudeville air – giving the final e of the French words, at the end of each line, that peculiar accentuation of a– which made the word sound contrabanda!

      Though this information as to Captain Jacques’ performance seems of little moment, yet such was the fact, that any spirit the doggerel possessed could only be attributed to the manner of the singer, and the effect produced by the intonation we have mentioned.

LA CONTRABANDE

      A bumper, “mes enfans,” to swallow your care,

      A full bumper, we pledge, “a L’Irlande;”

      The land of “belles femmes” – le pays de bonne chere,

      “Et toujours de la Contrabande.”

      Some like to make love, and some like to make war,

      Some of beauty obey “la commande;”

      But what is a glance from an eye, “bleu,” or “noir,”

      Except it be, “la Contrabande.”

      When a prince takes the cash that a peasant can’t spare,

      And lets him lie down “sur la lande;”

      Call it, as you like – but the truth is, I swear,

      “C’est bien pire que – la Contrabande.”

      Stolen kisses are ever the sweetest, we’re told,

      They sink like a “navire qui fende;”

      And what’s true of a kiss, is the same, too, of gold,

      They’re both, in their way, “Contrabande!”

      When kings take your money, they won’t even say,

      “Mon ami le Dieu vous le rende;”

      While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay,

      “C’est partout et toujours, Contrabande.”

      The good things of life are not equal, I’m sure,

      Then, how pleasant to make the “amende;”

      To take from the wealthy, and give to the poor,

      “Voila! que j’appelle, Contrabande.”

      Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange,

      That even “La France et L’Irlande,”

      If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange,

      There are folks who call that, “Contrabande.”

      “Vive la Contrabande, mes amis,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able.

      “‘Tis an elegant song, any way,” said Lanty, “if one only understood it all – and the tune’s mighty like the ‘Cruiskeen Lawn.’”

      “Well, Harry,” said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “will the song persuade you to turn smuggler? I fear not. You’d rather practise your own ‘Contrabande’ among the bright eyes and dark locks of the capital. Well, there are worse ‘metiers.’ I have had a turn at it these fifteen years, and whether on the waters of Ontario, or Champlain, or scudding along under the fog-banks of the Scheldt, I never grew weary of it. But, now for a little business talk – where is the Padre? where’s Father Luke? was he not to have been here to-night?”

      Mary whispered the answer in the captain’s ear.

      “Ah! parbleu,” exclaimed he aloud – “is it so? Practising a little ‘Contrebande’ of his own – trying to see a poor fellow safe over the frontier, into the next world.”

      “Fie for shame, Captain Jacques,” said Mary, with pious horror. “That’s not the way to talk of the holy offices.”

      “I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivières, he’s the boy could despatch them without trouble.”

      Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault’s new turn of the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he went on —

      “We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois Rivières, when a messenger came from Lachégon, for the Père to administer the last rites to a ‘mourant.’ Maurice promised to be there in half-an-hour, but never stirred – and though three other messengers came for him, the answer was all the same – until, at last came word, ‘Cest trop tard, il est mort.’

      “‘Trop tard!’ said Maurice, ‘not a bit of it; give me a pen and ink, and some paper.’ With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and wrote —

      “‘Mon cher Pierre – Fais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre diable, qui s’est glissé hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement il était bien pressé; mais tu l’arrangera pour le mieux.

      “‘Ton viel ami.’

      “‘Maurice Dulang. “‘St. Pierre, à la Conciergerie au Paradis.’

      “‘Put that in his mouth,’ said Maurice, ‘and there’s no fear of him.’”

      “‘Twas a blessed gospel he gave him,” said Mary, who did not comprehend the French portion of the story, “and sure it’s as good as any thing.”

      “We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine – but though the Commissaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a breviary in his portmanteau, and they couldn’t let him off. Pauvre bête! To travel about the world with the ‘pièce de conviction’ in his possession. What, Harry, no more wine?”

      “I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a temptation.”

      “A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master Lawler – does it suit your palate?”

      “I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,” said Lanty; “I’m not genteel enough for wine, God help me – but it’s time to turn in, any how – and there’s Mary asleep already.”

      “I don’t stir till I finish the flask,” said Jacques, firmly; “and if you won’t drink, you needn’t grudge me your company. It’s hard to say when we meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn’t that so?

      “Yes, and that’s the point I wish to come to – where and how shall I find a mount? – I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, but he has not made his appearance.”

      “You never fell upon your legs more fortunately – here’s your man for a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what’s to be had now?”

      “Devil a thing can be got for love or money,” said Lanty. “If the gentleman only told me yesterday – ”

      “Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the Western Ocean – but that’s gone by – let us talk of to-day.”

      “My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, I’ll sell him; but he’s a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price.”

      “Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his condition bear it?”

      “I’ll answer for it – you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you give him ten minutes’