Bits of Blarney

  'Three poets for three sister kingdoms born,

  "That's England, Ireland, and Scotland:--

  'One for the rose, another for the thorn,

  "You know that the rose and thistle are the national emblems of Englandand Scotland:

  'One for the shamrock,

  "That's poor old Ireland,--

  'which shall ne'er decay, While rose and thorn must yearly die away.'

  "His Majesty was quite electrified at the ready wit displayed in this beautiful impromptu, and took leave of the Bard in the most affectionate and gracious manner. It is whispered among the fashionable circles, that O'Kelly has declined the offer of a Baronetcy, made to him by command of the Sovereign."

  "Indeed," said the Bard, in conclusion, "the King and me were mutuallypleased with each other. I'd have had myself made a Baronet, like Scott,but I have not the dirty acres to keep up the dignity. 'Tis my privatenotion, if the King had seen me first, I'd have had ten times the moneyhe sent me. Well, he's every inch a King, and here's his health."

  * * * * *

  You may judge, from what he printed and what he spoke, whether themodesty of the Bard was not equal to his genius. It is a fact, Iunderstand, that he actually made his way to an audience with Georgethe Fourth; he must have rather astonished his Majesty. In his lateryears the Bard fluctuated between Cork and Limerick (in the last-namedcity of "beautiful lasses," he had a daughter very well married),[10]and, wherever he might be, was open to algebraic donations of strongdrink--that is, "any _given_ quantity."

  [10] The saying in Ireland, when the locality of good-looking people is to be indicated, is--"Cork lads and Limerick lasses." In Lancashire, there is something like this in the familiar manner in which the natives speak of "Wigan _chaps_, Bolton _fellows_, Manchester _men_, and Liverpool _gentlemen_."

  Such a fungus as the Bard O'Kelly could only have been produced in andtolerated by a very peculiar state of society. Out of Ireland he wouldhave starved--unless he followed a different vocation. He was partlylaughed at, partly feared. Satire was his weapon. His manners, attire,and conversation, would scarcely be endured now in the servants' hall;yet, even as lately as twenty years ago, he forced his way into thecompany of respectable people--aye, and got not only hospitality fromthem, but _douceurs_ of wearing apparel and money. One comfort is, sucha person would have little chance in Ireland now.

  The Bard O'Kelly died about fifteen years ago, having lived in cloverfor more than forty years, by the fears of those whom he made histributaries. Until he published, in 1831, the world took it for granted,that even as _he_ said, he had some poetic talent. The list ofsubscribers to his volume had between seven and eight hundred names,including ladies, peers of the realm, and members of Parliament. The"Bard's" want of ability was companioned by want of principle--for two,at least, of the poems which he published as his own, were written byothers. One, commencing, "My life is like the summer rose," is thecomposition of R. H. Wilde, a distinguished American man of letters; andanother, beginning "On beds of snow the moonbeams slept," has been_conveyed_ from the early poems of a writer named--Thomas Moore. Thereis cool intrepidity in pilfering from a poet so universally known asMoore. When Scott visited Ireland, he was waited on by O'Kelly with thesame "extempore impromptu" he had inflicted on George IV., years before,and (Lockhart relates) compelled the Ariosto of the North to pay theusual tribute--by subscribing to his poems.

  There are scores of Irishmen now in New York, who were personallyacquainted with O'Kelly, and can testify to the accuracy--I might evensay the moderation, of my description of him.