The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-12-25 00:00:00

THE HUMOURS OF CORK.

A writer in the Spectator gins some illustrations of
Ccrk humour, frets' which we extract the following :
I was once attending a country gentleman who was
believed to be Os extrunis. The doctor, by way of
consoling the family, said, "Well, it's a fine thing for
a man to be allowed to die in his bed these times!"
A labourer having asked his employer for a glass of
whiskey, it was given to him; but the master said,
"Remember, every glass ycu take is a nail in your
coffin, Corney." "Well, your honour," said Corney,
" maybe as ye have the hammer in Ter hand, you
would drive another." This, however, is not a piece
of Cork wit. Curious uses of English words are made
by the Cork peasantry—e.g., one told me that am-Aber
was the most " insipid " drunkard in the parish, pro-
bably meaning incessant. An old woman, who lately
joined the League of the Cross, told me that "since she
tuck the crass she never touched a tint av tassicated
lick er." Whersa corpse is being conveyed to the church-
yard forburial, it is every common expression,"Well that
his journey may thrive with him." If you give a small
coin in charity to a pair of old crones who hunt in
couples, and tell them to divide it, the senior will say,
"I will, me darlint. - May God divide the Heavens
wid ye." I once met a man greatly agitated coining
away from a farmhouse, and asked him what was the
matter. He emptied his colloquial pack at great
length, detailing various wrongs be had received from
the owner of the house; but, lie said, concluding with
great emphasis, "God is good; and the devil isn't bad,
either." Mere wcrds quite fail to convey the full
effect of this story; for the speaker looked unutter-
able things. An old woman who quite lately called
at our house, said "she wanted something from the
misthress to put to her skin." Translated into every-
day English, this was a request for some undercloth-
ing. A certain man in the district is known by the
name of " Mickey, the melted rogue." This implies
that he is the essence of roguery; but how thoroughly
original the expression is !
Borrowing money is a very favourite practice with
the Irish farmer; and until a reeent period the
banks made the gratification of this taste extremely
easy. A Cork car-driver lately said to his fare—
" Why, sir, a while ago a farmer need only put on a
elane ' shirt and go to the bank, and he'd get what
he wanted." The expectations, however, of some of
the borrowers were too great, as the following inci-
dent, which really occurred, very amusingly shows.
A certain small farmer, whom we shall "Tim," for
convenience, some years ago called upon the manager of
the National Bank, in a town in the north-east of the
county Cork. The following dialogue ensued : "Good
morning, yer honour; I called about a little business;
and though there are other banks in the town, I
thought I'd give yer honour the compliment." "Well,
Tim, and what is the business ?" " Well, yer
honour, the interest in Kitty Keeffe's farm is selling,
off, and I want to 'rise' £BOO to buy it." "Non-
sense, Tim! the interest in her farm isn't worth any-
thing like that; but suppose I was fool enough to
lend you this money, how would you ever pay it
back "Is it pay it agin, yer honour? nothin'
aider in life. Sure, the young fellow would get it
in a fortune when he marries." "And may I ask,
Tim, what age is the young fellow?" "He's three
year ould, yer honour." It need hardly be said that
the manager did not see it; and that Tim, in spite
of his wish to "give him tho compliment," was re-
fused the loan of the £BOO.

Irish beggars are still eminently eloquent and com-
plimentary; the gift of the gab is Lbwir princip.l
stock-in-trade. Probably it is their natural idlensss
which makes them pray that your charity may be re-
warded by a bed in heaven. There is no wish so
frequently expressed by the Irish mendicant as this;
that it may be " a candle to light yer sowl to glory"
is much more rarely heard. But the vocabulary of
compliment seems at the command of these gentry.
They address you as "a walking saint," remind you
that your niothet "reared an angel" in your case,
that your face is enough to take you into
heaven—" wan little sixpence" is all their desire.
A professional of this class, being asked if he con-
tinued to visit the rectory in a certain parish, of which
during one occupancy it might have been said:
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain—
replied briefly with a disgusted look and a shake of
his head, referring to a new incumbent, "He's no
value." Some of these professionals make long cir-
cuits, traversing their own province once or twice in
the course of the year. A most assuming vagrant of
this type is Michael L—, whose witty sayings, which
rise incessantly and spontaneously to his lips, would
fill a volume. He greatly affects. the Protestant
clergy, though a devout Roman Catholic himself.
When asked if he had called at the peat:tory, the resi-
dence of the Roman Catholic dignitary, his reply was
generally after this fashion: "Is it the Dane yer
talking about? Oh! the divvle a Dane I'll go near;
sure I niver saw a threepenny-bit betune meself and
daylisdat from him yet. The Dane, indeed !" The
following is Michael's latest. When asked if he would
join the Lcague of the Cross (a well-known temperance
society), he replied, "The Lord knows, yer reverence,
I have cruses ' enough already without that."