THE HUMOURS OF CORK.

IN a recent article in this journal, the "Humours of Kerry" were treated in a very amusing and interesting way; and it has occurred to the writer of this paper that the Humours of Cork are well worthy of similar record. A Cork brogue is not, perhaps, quite so rich and musical as a Kerry one. Still, it has its own very distinctive features and cadences ; and Cork wit has likewise its own individualities. The following specimens

are, with one exception, genuine growths of the soil, collectel either by the writer or his friends. are, with one exception, genuine growths of the soil, collectel either by the writer or his friends.

The expression "giving the grass," is used in Cork to denote the case of a person who is dead and buried,—e.g., I have heard an old woman say, "How could I stand still and hear my husband mellified ' [villified ?], and he giving the grass above in the churchyard !" Descriptive names are very frequently given in Cork County by the people to each other, such as" Jack the Ram," "Dan the Post," " Jim the Monkey." An old mower, who had contracted a stoop by his work, was called "Bill the Rainbow." Poor Bill's legs gradually failed him, and he often said to me pathetically before his death,—" I'm losing me walk, I'm losing me walk, your Reverence!" I was once attending a country gentleman, who was believed to be in e,xtremis. 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 !"

The following story was told to a clerical friend in the West of this county by a countryman named Dinny Cooley :—" Good morrow, Dinny ; where did you get the horse P" "Well, I'll tell your Reverence. Some time ago I went to the fair of Ross, not with this horse, but another horse. Well, sorra a wan said to me, ' Dinny, do you come from the Aist, or do you come from the Wesht ?' and when I left the fair there wasn't wan to say, Dimly, are you going to the Aist, or are you going to the Wesht ?' Well, your Reverence,' I rode home, and was near Kilnagross, when I met a man riding along the road forninst me. Good evening, friend,' said he. Good evening, friend,' said I. Were you at the fair of Ross I° says he. 'I was,' sez I. Did you sell ?' says he. No,' sez I. 'Would you sell?' sez he. Would you buy ?' says I. Would you make a clone swop P' sez he ; horse, bridle, and saddle, and all ?

sez he. 'Done ! ' says I. Well, your Reverence, I got down off av me horse, not this horse, but the other horse, and the man got down off av his horse, that's this horse, not the other horse, and we swopped and rode away. But when he had gone about twenty yards, he turned round and called after me. There niver was a man from Ross,' sez he, 'but could put his finger in the eye av a man from Kilnagross,' sez he ; and that horse,' sez he, that I swopped with you,' sez he, 'is blind av an eye,' sez he. Well then, your reverence, I turned upon him, and I called out to him: 'There Diver was a man from Kilnagross,' sez bat could put his two fingers in both the eyes av a man from Ross,' sez I; and that horse that I swopped with you,' sez is blind av both his eyes,' sez I."

A labourer having asked his employer for a glass of whisky, it was given to him ; but the master said,—" Remember, every glass you take is a nail in your coffin, Corney." "Well, your honour," said Corney, "maybe as ye have the hammer in yer 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 another was the most "insipid" drunkard in the parish, probably 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 taseicated licker." When a corpse is being conveyed to the churchyard for burial, it is a very 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 coming away from a farmhouse, and asked him what was the matter. He emptied his colloquial pack at great length, detailing various wrongs he had received from the owner of the house ; but, he said, concluding with great emphasis,—" God is good, and the devil isn't bad, either." Mere words quite fail to convey the full effect of this story ; for the speaker looked unutterable 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 underclothing. 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 ! Poor, dear, old Ireland, with all its wrongs and woes, it is a wonder- fully interesting and attractive country ; and we truly say of ourselves—" Though we are poor, we are pleasant."

Borrowing money is a very favourite practice with the Irish farmer ; and until a recent period, the banks made the gratifica- tion 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 elan& 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 incident, which really occurred, very amusingly shows. A certain small farmer, whom we shall call "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' £800 to buy it." "Nonsense, Tim ! the interest in her farm isn't worth anything 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 P nothin' aisier 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 the compli- ment," was refused the loan of the £800. Perhaps Tim's shirt was not " clane " enough on the occasion ! The author of this view of the readiest way to obtain a loan once described to the writer his sensations from what must have been an elongated uvula. "It was a something," he said, "which went ticking over and hither in his throat like the pindulum av a clock." Irish car-drivers, as a rule, are very amusing and talkative, and greatly enjoy a conversation with a " gintleman."

No subject comes amiss to them ; politics, agriculture, emigra- tion, temperance, are all alike,—

" Turn him to any cause of policy,

The Gordian knot of it he will unloose Familiar as his garter."

Of course, the listener cannot expect to have all this entertain- ment combined with too strict an adherence to truth. Pat's imagination must have some scope for its exercise. Car-drivers are, as a rule, greatly tempted to drink too much ; their hours are irregular, and they are often exposed to wet and cold. A driver who was conveying the writer some time ago, observed of another whip whom we passed on the road, evidently under the influence,—" That's Collins, an' he's half an it." The said Collins greatly bewailed the death of a local country gentleman, who, with some of his guests, held Collins's armr, until about half-a-dozen glasses of raw whisky were poured down his throat. "God be wid him, wherever he is," piously observed the subject of this drenching, as he dwelt upon that festive occasion. Another toper in the same neighbourhood declared that he shunned the practice of total abstinence, lest his carcass might grow a crop of rushes, after the fashion of marshy land suffering from excessive moisture.

Irish beggars are still eminently eloquent and complimentary ; the gift of the gab is their principal stock-in-trade. Probably it is their natural idleness which makes them pray that your

charity may be rewarded 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 Bowl 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 mother "reared an angel" in your case, that your face is enough to take you into Heaven,—" wan little sixpence" is all their desire. On market- days, blind beggars are regularly stationed at the different entrances to the market towns, each holding an old canbeen or a tin saucer for the reception of alms. They also frequent holy wells on the patron's day, and the missions of the Redemptorist

Fathers. And they speak of the results of such missions from their own experience of financial success or the contrary.

If the alms were abundant, it was "an illigant mission intirely ;" but if the contrary, they never knew a worse. These profes- sionals are called " Buccauchs ;" though this is only a phonetic spelling of the name. They have the same horror of cold water that is generally attributed to ascetics who do not bathe, and their odour of sanctity is overpowering.

A professional of this class, being asked if he continued 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 circuits, 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 Deanery, the residence of the Roman Catholic dignitary, his reply was generally after this fashion :—" Is it the Dane yer talking about P Oh! the divvle a Dane I'll go near ; sure I niver saw a threepenny-bit betnne meself and daylight from him yet. The Dane, indeed !" Michael once addressed himself to a young Scotch lady of great personal attractions, to whom he was being exhibited as a specimen, as follows, after she had spoken to him. "I see, yer honour, mam, that yer manners is aignal to yer appearance." Poor Michael ! it is to be feared that the attachment to the national beverage is proving too strong for him, and that, to quote one of his own favourite expressions, he's "booked for the down-train." He has a great admiration for the modern clerical hat (the petasus), and a second-hand one, when he clapped it on his head, made him "a gintleman intirely !" It was a brother-in-alms of his who used to say, when requesting a change of linen, "Me shirt is aiting me, yer Reverence." The following is Michael's latest. When asked if he would join the League of the Cross (a well-known Temperance Society), he replied, "The Lord knows, yer Reverence, I have crasses ' enough already without that !" "Did Mr. So-and-So give you anything, Michael ?" "Is it him, yer Reverence ? he xvould'nt give tuppence to God Almighty, if it was to put him into Para- dise, and that's the last parish coming out of hell."