A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story

DEAR reader, the story I tell you is true—

You may say to yourself “it is all up my sleeve”—

In answer to this—well, I wish I were you,

Or had you beside me—you might then believe.

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A white Christmas both in country and town;

Mother earth all in white as if dressed for a ball,

Old Nephin that morning had put on his crown,

Yet the feathery flakes still continued to fall.

That night all was silent—the hour was late—

All the streets were deserted, no one was about,

Except the odd straggler, with unsteady gait,

Could be heard as he hic-ccoughed the latest thing out,

Sitting one on each side of me happy as kings,

The town clock struck twelve; I started and said:

“Tis a shame, I should strike for the head of the bed,

When to my great surprise came a knock on the door!

A stranger, thinks I, who is jolly well tight,

When he finds his mistake he will instantly leave;

So, pardon my rudeness, I’ll bid you good night,

You may stop when you are until next Christmas Eve,

I jumped to my feet as he door opened wide,

Begorra, said I, they are coming in pairs,

For there were two strangers in black, side by side,

Who took off their hats and then sat down on two chairs.

Good Lord, I would sooner face two half mad bulls,

I could hear my teeth rattle-do nothing but stare—

In stead of their heads they had two polished skulls,

No eyes or no teeth—not a spoonful of hair.

I fancy they thought the whole thing a great joke,

For they seemed to enjoy my great horror and dread;

I thanked the Almighty when one of them spoke

And said, I suppose, sir, you know we are dead;

I hope Mr. Doolan, we do not intrude,

But the weather outside you could hardly call hot,

And our unannounced entrance must seem rather rude—

But we had to be here, either like it or not.

We lived on the earth forty-five years ago,

And then died sudden deaths as bad men often do;

We were sentenced to wander in heat, frost and snow

Until this Christmas Eve—then to call upon you.

I won’t waste your time now by making a speech—

We are hunted and suffer far worse than the hares—

So hear our sad stories, we beg and beseech,

You’ll remember us both when you kneel and say prayers.

The bottle was near me, I grasped it, asthore;

Without saying good-health took a long, steady pull;

My courage revived, I was Larry once more,

And then, lighting my pipe, said, “proceed, Mr. Skull”.

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LARRY DOOLAN’S DECISION

I studied awhile, then addressed them both—

“As an agent you have been a scourge and a curse;

But, bad as you are, I would swear on my oath

That the grabber beside you was fifty times worse.

He had you all through in the palm of his hand,

And made you do everything that he desired,

For he moulded the balls, gave the word of command,

And you like an idiot obeyed him and fired.

You robbed the poor tenants and then pitched them out,

Though you knew you would suffer as long as you ran

The strange thing to me I cannot make out,

That God did not strike you down when you began.

If I had the power to bring you back here—

But, of course, I have not, as you will understand—

I would bet my last bob that before one short year

The lad I see there would be looking for land.

The clock has struck two, I will soon be upstairs,

No a drop in the bottle my whistle to wet,

You came to crave money and ask for my prayers,

But the mercy you gave is the mercy you’ll get.

Why were you not sent out to visit Jack Haire?

Though he may have the measles, then chin-cough and croup,

I would get Charles Slater to photo you there—

What a nice Christmas card you make in a group.

I feel awful thirsty, it is time I should stop,

My bottle is empty—I wish it were full—

And as sure as you’re there, though I’m fond of my drop,

I would smash it in bits upon that grabber’s skull.

I cannot say this Christmas Eve I’ve enjoyed

Go back to your sender, and be sure to him tell

I will feel disappointed and greatly annoyed

If he does not send both of you headlong to H--l.”

They sprang from their chairs, and then rattled their bones—

Faith it’s coming—I thought I had spoken too rash—

Then they danced round the house to the music of groans,

And out through the letter-box went like a flash.

                                                                                                                             Larry Doolan

                                                       Ballina, 21st November, 1907