Larry Doolan’s Christmas Eve

Larry Doolan’s Christmas Eve

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A LOVELY night, and Christmas Eve—of all nights of the year,

All Ballina now inside doors preparing Christmas cheer;

A nice fresh breeze was blowing straight direct from the North Pole,

As I filled and lit my G.B.D.* and started for a stroll.

Not caring then which way I took when leaving my abode,

So took the turning on my left and down Killala road.

Leisurely I strolled along, when, at St. Patrick’s Well,

I heard the Ballina town clock the midnight hour tell.

Yet on I went quite carelessly, although the hour was late,

Then turned in to light my pipe at Kilmore graveyard gate.

While here I thought of old friends I loved who now were laid to rest,

And must be spending Christmas Eve among the good and blest.

Then all at once, while thinking thus, the lighted match in hand,

I felt a queer sensation, and my hair began to stand.

A kind of all-overness—I felt as cold as death—

And something creeping  up my spine that took away my breath.

I felt so cold, so awful cold, as if my blood would freeze—

And trembled like an aspen leaf, especially the knees;

“Lord, save my soul—was that a moan?” – I turned round my head

And there I saw before my eyes a man who had been dead

And buried twenty years ago, for well I knew the year,

As I was as his funeral, and no one dropped a tear.

Yet there he was as large as life, in shadow almost hid;

He smoked a Derry pipe and sat upon his coffin lid.

Dear reader, you may laugh, but I declare it was no joke,

So I made up my mind to run—when all at once he spoke:

“Is that you, Larry Doolan? Faith you’re looking up to date,

But what can have you prowling here; what keeps you out so late?

No matter, boy, take that big stone; sit down and rest your shoes,

And tell me all about the town, you must have piles of news”.

My courage was now coming back and not at all in dread,

I looked him straight between the eyes, and this is what I said:

“Don’t think that I’m inquisitive; no, no, Tom, God forbid—

But why must you be here to-night perched on that coffin lid?

How is it you are down here, Tom, and who could give you leave?

I thought that you were sleeping snug and warm in your grave,

Away from this wide world-its troubles and complaints,

And strolling round through Paradise with all the dacent saints;

Not here as an obstruction in defiance of the law,

And moaning like a “collough” with a tooth-ache in her jaw.

Faith if the Royal Irish heard of how you’re getting on

You’ll get your fourteen days, my boy, or may be twenty-one,

For having all the dacent folk disturbed, in fact, annoyed,

If I were you I’d go and get a ticket from John Boyd.

Then Billy Rape will let you in without a single word,

And don’t you fret they’ll never bring you up before the board.”

“No, Larry, boy, I cannot leave, I’m here as if in gaol,

So if you pay attention I will tell you all my tale—

While living on the earth I led a mean and selfish life;

I quarelled with my neighbours and delighted in the strife,

Hating almost everyone, especially the poor;

I never gave them charity, but ran them from my door.

Not one “May God be merciful” for me was ever said;

One prayer while living, Larry O, is worth twelve gross when dead.

I had town tenants, some have died, but brought with them their proofs,

And told St. Peter they could count the planets through their roofs.

They proved I had evicted them for less than half-a-crown,

And some had died from fever and rheumatics from rain down;

And now I’m feeling every pang I made those creatures feel,

I’m famished, starved, and racked with pain, my bones as cold as steel,

For sickness, cold, or poverty I never did relieve,

So here I sit in punishment on every Christmas Eve,

And here I must remain, asthore—how long, O Lord, alas!

And suffer for my punishment till those things come to pass:--

Until the licensed publican sells nothing else but hops,

And tenant farmers tell you straight they all have splendid crops;

When the bogus agitator shakes his neighbour by the hand,

And will not split him with a spade for half a perch of land.

When maidens of a doubtful age admit they’re on the shelf

And lawyers take to preaching “Love your neighbour as yourself.”

When our glorious Irish Party from its apathy is roused,

To think of poor town tenants worse than dogs or cattle housed.

Until our Urban Council has got clearly out of depth,

And those cottages long promised are all finished and to let;

And when our grand, big market house stands proudly in the sun,

Then Larry O, asthore machree, my penance here is done”.

The cocks then crew, he started up as if he’s got a fright:

He jumped into his coffin and then vanished out of sight,

I thought I heard a frightful noise above me in the air,

Then started up to find I had slumbered in a chair.

Beside me stood a bottle just half empty I could see:

The whole thing was a mystery and no one there but me

So where I was and not below conversing with the dead—

I took another bumper and went quickly to bed.

                                      Larry Doolan

                                 Ballina, December 20th, 1904.