Judge — September 15, 1883 — page 4: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE JUDGE. Discursive Irishism. Deak, PASHAYSHUS, AND SAPIENTI UDGE —Foremust and furst, 1 take the liberty of inthrodusing meeself as a native of the Im- erald Oile, or, us our nashunal pote, Tom Moore (Heaven bless his mem’ry) called her, “‘furst flour of the airth and’ furst gim of the And being, as I sed, an Oirish- man born and bred, from fighting ould Tip- perary, [am a nathural admoirer of wit and humor, as well as a grate lover of wisdom and larning, from a Bc to fluxshuns and comic sexshu And being sich, shure it is no wondher at all at all, that I cannot for me loife help admoiring yeerself, who shines so broight among the other luminaryes of this grate and cosmeepoliton methropolis> and for the sume rayson I was thinking that I wud give you the benefit of my expayrience and acute observashun of sum min and things purtaining to the anshunt nashonal- ality I Bare tha honor tozbesloig to. And to inake a long story short, and commince at the beginning: I wish you to undherstand now that I am asthrict teetotelar for sum time past, hav- | that iver y | word, ing sworn before Father Murphy, against all | kinds of plane and mixed dhrinks, barring plane whiskey, the craythur, an’ shure no thrue Oirishman or Christhian could be ex pected or axed to sware agin that. I tuck the pledge immaydiately after my lasht Pat- rick’s Day spree; and be th’ same token, that same spree vast off an’ on almost all the time since, for I have the nashonal disire to dhrown the blessid shamrogue in a beecuming fashun. And this reminds me of poor Tim Flaherty, God rest his sowl, for he has been dead and gone these tin years past. Shure Tim an’ meeself often drowned the “ dear little plant” ether in the good ould times, in the ould dart, and in good ould In- nishown, that niver saw the face of a guager, the spalpeen. Tim was one of the jollyist companyons for a reg’lar tare-an-ages spree An Every-Day Boy. , M AN everyday, onlinary little lad, Neither very good hor extremely bad; It is not my absolute, rigid rule To spend all my Sabbaths at Sunday-school, Nor, on t’other hand, am I a moral wreck, ¢ the typical Bad Boy of Brother Peck; m just an average (so folks say)— y' meet a thousand like me a day Of course I enjoy a practical joke, And take, when occasion offers, # smoke: The iter, of cours nust be on the sl) And if dad smells the ‘baccy I sometimes It doesn't pay always to stick to fact In spite of the hatchet-and-cherry-tree act— And if that occurred as I've heard it at school, Either George orhisdad must have beenafool, lie; I consider green apples and such immense, And I've had the colic in consequence; It burt like sin, but I dido’t much mind, For it made dear mamma so awful kind, And dad was scared, and the doctor came— I'd three days’ holiday, just the same But if them fruit hadn't made me feel bad, What a jolly good spanking I should have had! I'm sorry to say ro a jolly sight Jos I don't know much But Pk I know t T know the angle to bend a pin; L know enough to keep out of re When pa’s favorite deacon starts in to preach; And I don’t pretend to be good or be bad, Just an every-day, ordinary little lad. ©. seasor. J met, Jupor, and that’s a big And faith I know full well that if ‘Tim couldn’t get_a dhrop of the mountain dew in Heaven on the Saynt’s Day— other day or night he tuk a noshun t devil a long they had the plessure of his pany there, for whin he tuk it into his h to git out to luk for a gorlogue elsewher Saynts Pether and Paul and all the apos- tles and marthurs, and blissed saynts and angels in the calendar, not forgetting the holy Saynt Pathrick himself—God be with him—couldn’t keep him in; for, as was well known thruout the parish Tim came from at home in the ould country, he was as fiery and headsthrong when he got raal vexed the ould boy himself, Lord bethune us and all harm, this blissed night; and they say the ould chap has a timper of his own whin he goes on the rampayge, like a roaring. line, seeking who he can find to swally up—as ‘ather MacGeoghegan used to say, from the alther of the ould. mud chapel at home. Many and many a time when ‘fim and mee- self wor fast frinds and constant compan- yons ut fair, and market, and hurling, wake and funeral, and other places of divarshun, whin we wor both yung and full of the de- vil—Tim would tarn to me of a suddint, and say, in earnest tones, ** Tom, I would at this prisent instant give the best cow in me father’s bawn for one good crack at the head of an O'Shaughnessy And many’s the time, in the middle of a bloody and thundhering skrimmage on the fair green of Emly, whin the shillelays were as thick as blackberries on an Irish hedge in autumn, and a head without a cut or a bruise of some kind or other was as hard to find as a white blackbird—it’s thin, whin Tim, in the hate of the battle would git seperated from his facshun, and by accident would fall into the hands of the peelers—the murthering vil- lans—and they'd think, dead sure, the spal- peens, that they had lodged him safe and sound in prison, the furst thing they’d see | gloomy fit on returning back to the scene of the schrim- mage, wouid be mee bowld Tim himself and his shillehah in the very middle of the fight, pounding away at the skulls of his inimies, the O'Shaughnessys, jist as inmcent-like as if he had niver been inside a jail in his life; and whin ’twas all over, Tim would walk home with the rest—I mane all that wor able to walk—jist as unco: ned as if he was only cumming from a wake or a christ- ‘ning. And sure and sartin, Jupge, thim wor the prosperous tintes in the ould land, and its anshint ould people, whin faxshun= fights, fairies and ghosts, christ’nings, wakes and funerals, and ull other kinds of diva shun and innocent amusement wor in ¥ and the people had some sperrit in ‘em—not like to-day, whin they're starving wid the hunger, God help em, and scarce able to Ift a blackthorn to difind thimselves agin frind or inimy. But to return to poor Tim— whin at last he had to cum to this counthry to escape the tyrants at home—his hart was all the time longing for the ould times, and afther all his fine.rollicking and schrimmag- ing, Fourth Ward whiskey at last got the best of him and laid him out, and more’s the pity. Whin he wud git into one of his of mind, he wud always make for the nixt corner licker store to dhrown his sorrow. And sure enough, whin the whis- key was in, the ould fighting spirrit would rise in Tim’s bussum, and many’s the time he paid dear for it at the Toombs; an’ the last time he got on pree—'twas on a Pat- rick’s Day, too, be the same token—Judge Dutfy—bad seran to him—sint him to the Oiland for tin days, and that’s the thing that broke poor Tim’s hart intirely, for whin he came down he was never the same man agin till he died, for he appeared to be broke down complete in health and spirrit, and at last was but the shadow of himself. And what do you think was his last wish before the breth left him—for I was there meeself nd heard it? He axed, in a whisper, that ome one wud bring him his ould black- thorn, which he called “ wallopper,” think- i oor sowl, that he was on the fair green of Emly, in ‘Tipp’rart, and thin he half rus up in the bed, with the blessid candle in his hand which Moll Flannagan put there, God bless her, and giving one hurrah as loud as he could, in a whisper, he fell back agin, and that was the last of Tim Flaherty on this sinful airth. We buried him as dacint as we could, in Calvary, for the boys all liked Tim, in spite of his quare ways, and wouldn't | think for a moment of letting his poor clay be carted off to P it was, that he ter’s idn’t hav Id. The best of a chick or achild, ora Widdy Flaherty afther him, for Tim was a bachelor all Ifis life, for, as he often sed himself, he didn’t wish to bring trubble on any misforthunate womankind. Whin, aftherwards, | was talking to Father Mc- Carthy, the soggarth who attended him in his last sickness, about the way ‘Tim died, the priest tome, says h Never mind ” says he, ‘it was only delirium tray- says he; “and I wish I was as sure of Heaven myself,” says he, poor Tim Flaherty, and 'tis I that ought to know w! I'm talking about,” says his riverince. Well, laving poor ‘Tim where he is, I was jist going to minshun Larry Hoolaghan, who 1s still alive here in Cherry street, and the broth of a boy. I know to my own sartin nollege that for the past tin years of his life Larry has niver got up in the morning widh- out taking an ‘ eye-opener,” as they call it, nor gone to bed at night widhout the reg’lar dhuc-an-dhurrish, and here’s where the joke comicbooks.com