Through green glasses

I suppose it’s well known that King John made two visits to the city of Watherford. The first time he came he was only a slip of a boy of about nineteen year, an’ his father, who had a hard job rearin’ him (for ’tis the unmannerdly young cub he was) thought he’d kill two birds wud wan stone by gettin’ rid of the prince for a short spell in the first place, an’ by gettin’ the boy to make himself frindly wud the Irish chiefs in the second place.

But nothin’ would suit young Masther John except divarsion an’ bla’guardin’. The moment he put his fut on Irish soil he began to poke fun at the ould chieftains’ beards. ’Twas jealous the young jackanapes was of the fine hairy faces of the crowd that met him on the quay of Watherford, for divil a hair he could grow on the upper part of his lip, though he was near dhraggin’ the English coort into bankruptcy wud the quantities of bears’ grease an’ other barbers’ thricks he thried day afther day to coax out even a few morsels of a moustache.

Anyhow he made naither a good beginnin’ nor a good endin’ on his first thrip to Ireland. He ate so much fresh salmon that a rash broke out on him, an’ nearly dhrove him to despair, for he was fond of the faymales, an’ a man wud a bad rash even if he’s a prince of the blood isn’t the soort of craychur to make much headway wud the girls.

He got over the rash, however, in due coorse; an’ built an hospital in mimory of his recovery; an’ to this day it stands there at the fut of John’s Hill, an’ is called the “Leper Hospital.”

As soon as he got well rid of the rash, he began to make ructions in the counthry, kickin’ out the rale ould anshant owners of the soil, an’ makin’ presents of what didn’t belong to him to his own follyers. Begor even owld Henery, the father, got unaisy at the son’s plan of campaign, so back he calls Prince John an’ puts a Misther Decoorcy in his place.

Well, time passed on, an’ when his call came, ould Henery the Second wint to Limbo; an’ afther a spell, the son John got a howld of the throne. He had always a hankerin’ for the Watherford salmon, even afther the rash it broke out on him, so as soon as he could make things snug in the English coort, away he sails again for Ireland.

This time of coorse he was a full king, an’ as he was several years ouldher, the Watherford people naaturally expected his manners would have improved; so they made up their minds to forget the thricks an’ bla’guardin’ of the nineteen year ould prince, an’ to give King John a hearty welcome.

When the Mayor an’ Corporation heard the news that the royal barge was comin’ up the river, they put on their grand robes and started down the quay. They wint outside the walls a bit until they came to a piece of slob land near the mouth of a sthrame, an’ there they stud up to their ankles in slush until the king’s ship hove in sighth. Thin they waved a flag of welcome to his Majesty, who was standin’ on deck, an’ bawled out to him to dhrop anchor abreast of them. So the captain—a red-whiskered Welshman who chawed more tobaccy than was wholesome for him—puts the ship’s head in for the shore, an’ dhropped anchor as soon as he got close to the slob where the Mayor and Corporation wor standin’.

“How are we to get ashore, boys?” says King John, makin’ a foghorn of his fists.

“Aisy, avic,” says the Mayor. “It’s a sthrong ebb tide now, an’ if you’ll go below into your cabin the ship will dhry while your clanein’ your face an’ hands an’ fixin’ the crown on your poll.”

“All right,” says King John. “Come aboord as soon as the tide laives her.”

“I will,” says the Mayor.

Wud that King John went down to the cabin, an’ in about half an hour the ship began to ground an’ very soon afther the Mayor, not heedin’ the sighth of a fut or two of wather between him an’ the king’s craft, made a start to go down to her.

“Howld on there, where ye are,” says he to the Corporation. “If ye was all to come aboord maybe ’tis heel over the little vessel would, for she looks a crank piece of goods.”

“All right,” says the Corporation. “We’ll wait here till you return, an’ a safe journey to your worship!”

Well, whin the Mayor got on deck of coorse his boots were dhrippin’ wud mud an’ wather.

“Is there a door-mat aboord?” says he to the skipper.

“Divil a wan,” says the skipper. “Do you think ’tis in a lady’s chamber you are?”

“You’re an unmannerdly lot,” says the Mayor, stampin’ on the decks an’ givin’ a kick out wud his left leg to shake some of the water out of his boot.

Just at that moment up comes King John from the cabin, an’ a few spatthers of mud went into his royal eye.

Before the Mayor could open his mouth to ax pardon the King bawls out at him, “What the mischief do you mane, you lubber? Will nothin’ plaize you only knockin’ the sighth out of my eyes an’ dirtyin’ my decks wud your muddy say-boots? ’Tis more like a mud-lark than a Mayor you are.”

The poor Mayor very nearly lost his timper intirely at the insultin’ words of King John, for ’twas none of his fault that he dirtied the decks, but he managed to conthrol himself, an’ says he, “I ax your majesty’s pardon for bringing the mud aboord, but might I make so bowld as to inquire how I could be expected to have clane boots afther thrampin’ through the slush out there. An’ as for knockin’ the sighth out of your eyes,” says he, “I give you me word I never seen you comin’ up the cabin stairs or I wouldn’t have lashed out wud my leg.”

“Give me none of your lip,” says the King. “I’d cut your ugly sconce off if I thought there was an atom of thraison in your mind.”

“Thraison!” says the Mayor, mighty indignant, for ’tis a proud soort of a man he was in his way. “I don’t know the maynin’ of the word.”

“I’ll soon tache you the maynin’ of it, you spalpeen,” says the King; “an’ if you don’t go down on your bended knees an’ beg my pardon this minute, an’ give me your note of hand for five hundred pound I’ll dhraw your teeth first for you, an’ thin I’ll thry you for thraison, wud meself for judge and jury, as soon as I sets fut in the city.”

The mischief only knows what would have happened thin only for a chum of the King’s who came up from the cabin at that minute.

“Your Majesty,” says the young lord, “I think, with all due respects to you, you’re too hard agen the Mayor. Sure the poor man did his best. He came aboord at the risk of gettin’ a heavy cowld in his head, in ordher to give you an airly welcome, an’ how could he mane thraison when he ran such a risk to sarve you?”

“Maybe you’re right,” says King John, who owed the young lord a big lump of money and was partial to him for other raisons too. “Maybe you’re right; an’ I know,” says he, “that my timper is none of the best; and moreover the say-sickness isn’t out of my stomach yet, bad luck to it! All right,” says he, turnin’ to the Mayor, an’ spittin’ on his fist. “Put it there,” says King John, howldin’ out his hand.

So the Mayor spit in his own fist, an’ the pair shuk hands quite cordial.

All would have gone well then but for the iligant beard an’ whiskers the Mayor wore. The sighth of them fairly tormented King John, an’ the bla’guard broke out in him again as he looked at his worship an’ saw him sthrokin’ the fine silky hairs which (savin’ your presence) nearly shut out the view of the honest man’s stomach.

“I’ll take me oath ’tis a wig,” says the King to himself; “an’ faith if the wig isn’t stuck mighty fast to his chin the tug I’ll give it will soon laive it in fragments on the deck.”

So the King goes over to the Mayor an’ purtended to be admirin’ the beautiful goold chain his worship carried round his neck, an’ while a cat would be lickin’ her ear he gives the beard such an onmerciful dhrag that he tore a fistful of it clane out of the dacent man’s chin.

The Mayor set up a screech—an small blame to him—that you’d hear from this to Mullinavat, an’ begor the crowd ashore thought ’twas bein’ murdhered he was; so King John, fearin’ the Corporation might thry to sink himself an’ the ship if they knew he was afther damagin’ their mayor, thought ’twas the best of his play to knuckle undher at wance. He begs the Mayor’s pardon in a mortial funk, an’ says he to him, “We’d best be gettin’ ashore immajertly the both of us.”

The poor Mayor of coorse couldn’t afford to show timper agen a king, so brushin’ the scaldin’ tears off his cheek he made up his mind to pocket his pride; but at the same time says he to himself, “I’ll tache this unmannerdly cub a lesson before he’s many hours ouldher.”

“All right, your majesty,” says he, aloud, to the King, “I quite agrees wud you that ’tis betther the pair of us should go ashore at wance; but come here,” says he, takin’ King John to the bulwarks of the ship an’ pointin’ over the side. “Now I ax you,” says he, “how are you to get ashore wud at laiste a fut of wather inside the little vessel still, an’ fifty yards, more or less, of dirty soft mud forenenst you?”

Begor, the King seemed puzzled at this; but he knew there was no time to be lost, for the crowd ashore was beginnin’ to grow bigger, and it was aisy to see that throuble was brewin’, for a few of the quay boys were peltin’ an odd pavin’-stone at the ship. “I laive it to you, Misther Mayor,” says he; “but whatever you do, don’t keep me standin’ here in the cowld, for I have a wake chest, an’ my inside is complately out of ordher afther the voyage.”

“Begor!” says the Mayor, dodgin’ a box of a pavin’-stone that came aboord that minute, “I dunno what’s best to be done. You’d get your death if you wor to thramp it ashore in them patent leather boots of yours. I’ll tell you what I’ll propose,” says he.

“That’s what I’m waitin’ for you to do,” says the King, intherruptin’ him; “an’ if you don’t be quick about it, maybe ’tis hot wud a stone I’ll be, an’ in that case,” says he, “’twill be me duty as a king to bombard the city wud cannon-balls. D’ye mind me now?” says he, beginnin’ to show timper agen.

“I do,” says the Mayor. “Sure, if you didn’t take the words out of my mouth, I was goin’ to say that I’d carry you safe ashore on my own two showldhers.”

“Very well,” says King John; “but if you wish for paice an’ quietness you’d betther stir your stumps quick, for I tell you I won’t stand here to be made a cockshot of by these Watherford bla’guards.”

“Come on, thin,” says the Mayor.

So wud that the sailors fixed what they calls a cradle, an’ a few frinds of the King lifted him up on the showldhers of the Mayor, an’ down the pair wor lowered into the little wash of wather inside the ship.

“Howld a tight grip of me now,” says the Mayor, makin’ a start; “for ’tis an onsartin sort of a journey. There’s a dale of shifthin’ sands about here, an’ if I wor to make a false step or lose my bearin’s, maybe they’d never hear of your majesty again in England; p’raps ’tis swallyed up in the mud the pair of us ’ud be, an’ I have a heavy family dependin’ on me.”

“I’ll keep a study grip,” says the King; “an’ for your own sake, an’ the sake of your heavy family, I’d recommend you to pick your steps as if ’twas threadin’ on eggs you wor.”

“Never fear,” says the mayor. “Is the crown fixed firm on your head?”

“’Tis,” says King John.

“The raison I axed you,” says the Mayor, “is that I thought ’twas a thrifle too big for you. I noticed it wobblin’ about on your head afther you came up from the cabin.”

“Well, to tell you the thruth, an’ ’tisn’t often I do the like,” says the King, “I didn’t laive my measure for that crown; but I’ve rowled a sthrip of newspaper inside the rim of it, an’ it doesn’t fit at all bad now,” says he, shakin’ his head, an’ fixin’ an eye-glass into his eye.

“Did you buy it ready-made? pardon me for axin’,” says the Mayor.

“No,” says King John; “but it belonged to my big brother, Richard.”

“I’ve heard tell of him,” says the Mayor. “The ‘Lion Heart’ they called him, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” says King John; “but between yerself and meself”—for he was mighty jealous of his brother, an’ indeed, he hadn’t a good word to throw to a dog—“’twas a ‘thrick’ lion he tore the heart out of.”

“Is that so?” says the Mayor.

“’Tis,” says King John. “You see,” says he, “himself an’ Blondin wor great chums intirely, an’ Blondin bein’ a circus man—”

“I know,” intherrupted the Mayor. “He crossed over the Falls of Niagry on a rope, didn’t he?”

“He did,” says King John. “’Tis round his neck I’d like to have had the rope, for ’tis an onaisey time of it he gave meself be rescuin’ my brother. I made sure they’d cooked his goose in that Austrian castle, but nothin’ would suit his chum Blondin, if you plaize, except whistlin’ some of his ould circus tunes outside the walls, until the King of Austria let him in. Well, Blondin brought in a thrick lion wud him that he used to be showin’ off at the fairs. ‘Look here,’ says he to the King of Austria, ‘that man you’re keepin’ down in the cellar is a match for a lion.’ ‘Prove it,’ says the King of Austria. ‘I will,’ says Blondin. ‘Well, take the muzzle off yer baste,’ says the King of Austria, ‘an’ let the pair of ’em have a fair stand-up fight; an’ if King Richard bates the lion I’ll give him his liberty.’ ‘Done!’ says Blondin; so wud that he brings the lion down into the cellar, an’ of coorse my brother knew ’twas only an ould painted jackass without a tooth in his head, so he makes wan grab at the unfortunate animal an’ tore the heart clane out of him.”

“Oh, murdher!” says the Mayor. “An’ that’s why they call him the ‘Lion Heart,’ is it?”

“It is,” says King John.

“An’ what’s that they calls yerself?” says the Mayor, who knew well that King John didn’t like to be reminded of the nickname he was known undher in the English Coorts, an’ wanted to take a rise out of him on the quiet.

“I’ll tell you what, my bucko,” says King John, for he felt the Mayor all of a thremble undher him, an’ he knew it was smotherin’ a laugh in his sleeve he was, “I’ll tell you what, my bucko,” says he, “you’d betther give me none of your sauce. Only for the onnathural way I’m placed now, perched up here like a canary-bird, I’d soon let you know who you wor thryin’ to poke your fun at. D’ye mind me now?”

“Begonnies!” says the Mayor, “’tis no fun, I can tell you, to be endeavourin’ to get safe ashore wud such a precious load on me showlders. If yer Majesty thinks ’tis for a lark I’m carryin’ you, let me tell you that you’re intirely mistaken. Oh murdher!” says he, dhroppin’ on wan knee, “but ’tis into a boghole we are!”

Of coorse he knew there wasn’t a boghole wudin a mile of him, but he wanted to divart the King’s mind from what he was afther sayin’ about his nickname, for ’tis in dhread he was that maybe he was carryin’ the joke too far.

“Boghole!” bawls the King, nearly jumpin’ out of his skin wud the fright. “Let me down, you scoundhrel,” says he. “I see now that ’tis a thraisonable plot you have agen me afther all. I wondhered why it was you worn’t makin’ a sthraight coorse for the firm shore.”

An’ sure enough the Mayor had gone a dale out of his road just in ordher to have a rise out of King John, to pay him off for havin’ given his beard the tug.

The pair of ’em wor now standin’ close to the mouth of the pill, an’ the mud all round was as soft as butthermilk, an’ the poor Mayor was more than half-way up to his knees in it; but he knew every inch of the ground, an’ wasn’t in the laiste danger or dhread of himself of coorse, if King John fell from his showlders there ’ud be an end of him, for he’d rowl down into the wathers of the pill before the Mayor could have time to get a grip of him.

“Go straight for the shore this minute, I command you,” says the King.

The Mayor saw that his Majesty was in a fair rage, so he made up his mind not to play any more thricks on him but to make a short cut through the mud to the Corporation.

“Howld your grip now,” says he, givin’ the King a sudden hoist to straighten him on his back; an’ before the words wor well out of his mouth off tumbles King John’s crown an’ down it rowls into the pill.

“Oh murdher!” says the mayor, forgettin’ himself complately, an’ going to dhrop the King into the mud. “’Tis lost the crown is! There’s twenty fut of wather there if there’s an inch, an’ there isn’t a diver on the face of the earth would take a headher into it, the wathers are that filthy!”

“What are you doin’, you ruffian?” screams the King, catchin’ a grip of the Mayor’s whisker wud wan hand an’ of the goold chain wud the other. “Dhrop me at the peril of your life, you onnathural mousther,” says he.

“An’ what about the crown?” says the Mayor, thryin’to take the King’s fist out of his whiskers.

“Let it go to Jericho!” says King John.

“’Twouldn’t be the first time ’twas there, anyhow” says the Mayor, who was fond of his joke.

“’Tis a quare man you are,” says King John, thryin’ to smother a laugh; “but go on, you bla’guard,” says he, “an’ put me on dhry land at wance, an’ no more of your thricks.”

“Never fear!” says the Mayor; “an’ I hopes we’re none the worst frinds afther all’s said an’ done.”

“None the worse,” says King John, “only we’ll be betther frinds as soon as you land me in a hard spot.”

So the Mayor put his best fut forward an’ in a few minutes himself an’ the King were shakin’ hands wud the Corporation.

“You’ll catch your death of cowld,” says the Mayor to King John, “if you stand there much longer wudout your crown. Have you any objection,” says he, “to wearin’ my hat for a spell until they have time to forge a new figure-head for you?”

“Not the laiste objection in life,” says King John, fixin’ the Mayor’s hat on his head. “But ’tis dhry work, shakin’ hands, boys,” says he, addhressin’ the crowd assembled on the quay; “so the sooner we shapes our coorse for the nearest shebeen the betther I’ll like it, at any rate.”

“Bravo!” says the Corporation, startin’ a procession wud King John at the head of ’em an’ a fife an’ dhrum band from Ballybricken follyin’ up in the rear.

Well, to cut a long story short, King John whin he was laivin’ Watherford made a present of his borrowed caubeen to the Corporation; an’ if you doubts my word you can go down to the Town Hall any day an’ ax to see King John’s hat, an’ the Mayor’s secrethary will show you the self-same wan that King John got the loan of from the ould anshent Mayor—an’ a very dilapidated speciment of head gear it is too.

That’s the true story of how King John lost his crown in the wash of the Pill, as the little sthrame is called; an’ sure ’tis known as John’s Pill to this day.