A Legend of Wexford.
by Charles Hervey.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.2 #3 (1843).
"Very like a whale."
The summer sun shone brightly,
And freshly blew the gale,
The sparkling waves were dotted o'er
With many a fisher's sail;
On Wexford bridge, on Wexford quay,
A motley throng came forth to see
A sight gourmands delight in;
Boats steering in, all laden well
With salmon, plaice, and mackerel,
Red mullet, sole, and whiting.
And as in quick succession
Each boat drew nigh the shore,
Gay laughter echoed far above
The plashing of the oar;
In port at last, each jovial crew,
With home and all its joys in view,
Their past fatigues to vary,
Ogled the girls with sly intent,
Toss'd off a glass for "divilment,"
Or whistled "Paddy Carey."
Far in the rear and slowly
A single boat came on,
The last of all the little fleet
That on the trip had gone.
What keeps her back? why lags she so?
Thus flew the queries to and fro,
From mother, wife, and maiden,
For they shew'd all the sympathy;
The men thought merely she must be
"Uncommon heavy laden."
Ere long, the strand approaching,
The lazy bark drew near,
And question follow'd question fast,
Before the crew could hear.
"Pether, your sowl, spake out, asthore!
Och! thin, and wont I see ye more?
What will I do without ye?"
"Larry, and is it dhrowned ye are?"
"No, Norah dear, I'm safe, agra!"
"And dhrunk too, divil doybt ye!"
Well might the fishwives marvel
The plenteous spoil to see,
Rarely one boat so laden came
In sight of Wexford quay.
Such soles, such lobsters, and such crabs,
Not mentioning the smelts and dabs,
All hungry palates tickling;
Such turbots, fit for civic fête;
Such herrings, flounders, bream, and skate;
Such salmon prime for pickling!
But why was Peter silent
When all around were gay?
Why did he, when appeal'd to, shake
His head and turn away?
E'en Larry's brow had learnt to frown;
Both stood apart and looking down,
A pair of dismal dummies;
So grave, so glum, one might have thought
That by mistake the boat had brought
Automatons or mummies.
In vain did charming woman
Her utmost witchery try,
They saw unmoved each tempting smile,
Each tender sparkling eye.
They cared not for the magic light,
That twinkled in the orbs as bright
As those of famed Kate Kearney;
Each fond caress they did but spurn,
Spoke only three words in return,
And those were "Hould yer blarney!"
Alas! that dark-eyed Norah,
With all her wiles, should fail
To learn what made her Larry's cheek
So very, very pale!
How diff'rent once he used to be,
So happy to come back from sea,
So gallant, gay, and frisky.
What changed him now? Well might she pout,
She couldn't make the man speak out,
And nothing could, but whisky!
'Twas not till he had swallow'd
A glass she fill'd for him,—
No heeltap, no short measure there,
A bumper to the brim,—
That he at length his tale began,
How, as from port they gaily ran,
Careless what might betide them,
They saw a fish, but what its name
They knew not, nor from whence it came,
Swimming along beside them.
And such a fish! a monster
Dashing the spray like hail,
He nearly swamp'd their little boat
Whene'er he shook his tail.
They toil'd and panted at the oar,
Until the fast receding shore
(As the poetic phrase is)
Faded from view, but still they spied
The fearful creature at their side,
Swimming away like blazes.
And now they saw around them
Nought save the open sea,—
The sun was shining on the waves,
The gale was blowing free;
When suddenly the monster fish
Gave with his tail a mighty swish
Above the surface darting,
As if to throw a summerset,
Then splash'd them both with "heavy wet"—
A last salute at parting.
When next they look'd, the monster
Far towards the land had gone—
Some spell had made him "turn again,"
As once did Whittington:
And though their eyes with spray were dim,
To a dark rock he seem'd to swim,
Near Wexford harbour lying;
No further trace they e'er could find,
Nor, to say truth, were they inclined
To waste much time in trying.
They gazed, still half expecting
That fearful form to see,
Moving along amid the waves
So swift and silently;
Then with faint hearts their nets they threw,
And such a wond'rous booty drew,
As quite perplex'd their reason;
Fish, if they dared believe their eyes,
Of every shape, and kind, and size,
Both in and out of season.
Their toil was done, and slowly
Homewards they bent their way,
Oft looking back to where they deem‘d
The dreaded monster lay;
For both agreed, that fish must be
Condemn'd to wander in the sea.
For some most grave demerit—
"Twas not a common fish, oh no!
Old Parl had died two days ago,
And this must be his "sperrit."
From lip to lip the story
With strange additions flew,
Till each fresh list'ner in his turn
More than the others knew.
To Killinick and Ross it spread,
How a rich farmer, lately dead
And buried (more surprising!)
Was doom'd to swim in fishy form
Throughout all weathers, calm or storm,
Whate'er he met, capsizing.
How he at times delighted
The empty nets to cram,
And how he frisk'd and leapt about,
And gamboll'd as he swam;
How he escorted boats to sea,
Frighten'd their crews most awfully,
By capering before 'em,
And how he then turn'd back to shore—
All this was told, and plenty more,
Cum notis variorum.
At length, a passing stranger,
Who chanced to hear the tale,
Affirm''d the so-call'd spectre fish
Was nothing but a whale.
Nay more: one bright and sunny noon,
Arm'd with a long and sharp harpoon,
A sailing boat he hired,
And started off to seek his prey,
Though some were bold enough to say
He'd very soon be tired.
And so he was; returning
Ere many hours had flown,
He told how first he spied the fish
Beside the rock alone;
And, cautiously approaching near,
How with sure aim he plunged the spear,
And how, the surface whit'ning
With frothy foam, the angry whale,
Whisking its huge, unwieldy tail,
Made off like "butter'd lightning."
And how he follow'd swiftly,
And strove, but all in vain,
To come up with the flying foe,
And try his luck again;
In vain he sail'd now fast, now slow,
Backwards and forwards, to and fro,
Thinking, no doubt, to be a
Match for the fish; but strange to say
The fish had vanish'd, and which way
He hadn't an idea.
Years are gone by, but never
Could Wexford seaman say
That he had seen the monster whale
Since that eventful day;
Yet some there are who live in hope,
Trusting by aid of telescope—
That mystery-detector—
When summer winds are blowing free,
Near the dark rock once more to see,
The Farmer's fishy spectre!