Sharp County record., 1881-03-17
An Irish Wake.

ADublin correspondent of the Baltl.
more SIN writes: | had often heard OF
an Irish wake but never was present at
one until last night. Arranging my
garb so as not to be too conspicuous
went with an escort to the little farm
house "where the dead one lay and the
living lamented," as pretty French
poem tells regarding an almost similar
scene. The locality was CloudalKln'
The I" dead one'' was the only son OF a
widow. He had been village school,
master in the neighborhood and fingered
amidst the evils Of consumption Tor
twenty years, when that fatal disease
terminated in his early death. Inc
house was composed of two rooms on
the ground floor and two above. In the
lower ones all arrangements for the
wake" had been perfected. The body
was enshrouded and in a PLAIN pine
coffin. Around the head OF the CONN
were a crucifx, aprint of 1.-The Mother
of Sorrow and two somewhat long and
LIGHTED candles, and at the foot but one
candle. By the side of the coffin sat the
widowed mother, also mother OF sor-
row. On a low stool she sat, rocking
her bent body to and fro, and alternate
ly patting her hands on her knees as she
cave utterance to wall of woe. Occa'
sionally she would arise. look lovingly
on the sad, white face of her " darling
boy gone,n and in agony let loose the
food gates of a generously flowing heart.
The surrounding persons were entirely
women, both old and young. Sympa-
thetic sorrow was marked in every face,
vet not an atom of dismal black mourn
inc could | see. Prayer-book and ro-
sary beads were in the laps OF each:
After severely impressive silence had
prevailed for fully half hour a little
woman of middle age, with deep, dark
pair of eyes and thin, scrawny face
well marked with the furrOws of frown-
inc rather than of time, began in mo-
notonous, weird way, in semi-sotto
voce notes, a species Of grief and gut
tural sounds that were taken up in
somewhat higher key by her compan-
ions, and formed witch-like chorus OF
"Ullah, ullah; gobla, gobla; ullah,
ehonar' This was the prelude to a rude
Sort of poetry or "k9ning"-a dirge-
like, heroic impromptu poem in the
modern Celtic language. L sought an
obscure, yet convenient corner, and to
the best of my ability in phonetic power
of pencil, took down these sounds.
Later in the evening, as l remained
purposely, l conversed with the little,
old kener, and found her extremely
shocked at my gross ignorance of her
poetry as noted in my book. BY her
aid, / made crude correction of the
so-called Celtic, as we'll as translation
which, in part, is as follows:
And he is gone, sweet son and man,
He Is gone!
'Tis now when he to heaven goes
That angels rejoice and lovely appear.
He is gone!
We are lonely, cheated deceived below;
He is proud above, above above!
He is gone!
OF coarse coffin that cOOps the body
O! fine heaven that comforts the soul.
He is gOne
We do not entirely die below;
We do live beyond, above!
He is gone.
o. thou in manliness all others excelling,
Now an angel within sweet gardens dWetllng'
The white-robed ones are listening to thy voice,
0 let my mother hear it that she may rejoice.
He is gone!
Come, south wind, laden sweet
From the howery fond land
Come, that we may eat
Thy pleasant-navOred gifts within our cold
retreat.
He is gone
may do, as feel have done, some
injustice to this wild, unprecedented
cutburst of the kGning crone. Yet
there is good sentiment evident in it,
and l am desrous of portraying an
Irish wake as truly as possible, minus
the ribaldry of a ruflianly distortion the
modern press and the modern dramat-
list usually and too often conveys.