Gardiner Street: Uisce, an ea?
But the day before the show, my mind was made up for me at the cheek and impudence counter of Hugh MacCallion’s shop in Dorset Street. It was said that you paid for the pig’s cheek and the impudence was thrown in for choice.
Still, Hugh was a decent old skin in his own way and maybe it was only the uncouth Derry accent that made his utterance so harsh on our refinedMetropolitan ears. No matter what way you looked at it, he was a match for his customers.
This old one asked him for a shilling pig’s cheek, and while he muttered about himself paying more than that for them, and all to that effect, the usual old shopman’s cant, he was rooting in the barrel for something that he could sell for a shilling and still add something to the Hugh Fund out of it.
At last he emerged from the blood-red depths of the briny barrel bearing aloft the three-quarter profile of a pig, very much battered. It seemed that this cheek had been squeezed up against the side of the barrel by the others and his appearance was certainly very odd.
‘There’s a grand cheek now for the money,’ said Hugh.
The old one looked at it, very doubtfully, and in its twisted way, it returned her glance.
‘The Lord between us and all harm, Mr. Hug MacScallion …’
‘Hugh, Hugh, and my neems MacCallion.’
‘Whatever it is, and Hew here or Hew there, that’s a very peculiar looking cheek.’
Hugh swelled up bigger than the barrel, looking from her to the cheek as much as to say that if it went to looks there wasn’t much between them, and roared: ‘An’ what do you axpect for a shillin’ – Micheál Mac Lallimore?’
I’d seen the noblest youth of the Fianna* , and heard MacLiammóir’s high Castilian brogue: Éist , a chuid den tsaol. Is iad na tonntracha a chanfas amhrán ár bpósta dúinn anocht …*
I regretfully decided there would be no excuse accepted for gagging this bit into the Primary SchoolsCup competition, but I could model my interpretation of my part in Toirneach Luimnigh on Diarmuid’s last words: Uisce, a Fhinn, tabhair deoch uisce chugam …*
Well, they are not quite the last words. He says at the finish: Breathnaigh isteach sna súile orm, a Ghráinne .*
But I didn’t think Feis Átha Cliath* would wear an interpolation of this nature either, but I’d do the best I could with my head turned sideways till the great moment came.
I was nearly deformed for life, waiting for it. I had to wait, head to one side, like I’d seen your man at the Gate, till the saighdiúir eile É ireannach* crouched the far side of me wondered whether there was something offensive about himself or his accoutrements, my head turned away from him for half the play.
A fellow called Pa Bla from that good day to this, though he has since held commissioned rank in the armed forces of this State, comes out in his French uniform, shouting like a Gallic-Gaelic bull: Parbleu, cad is fiú botún, thall is abhus ,* the significance of which message is forever lost to me, owing to overdue concentration on my twisted neck, so that I might have presented the starboard side of my face when the time came.
A boy from Summerhill called Pigeon is hit by a cannon ball and falls off Limerick’s Walls, or whichever of them he was on, before being bombarded by the other crowd, and moans, ‘Uisce . . uisce.’
Up I leaped in my profile. Into bed or out of barracks … ‘Uisce, an ea? ’
‘Sea,’* mutters poor Pigeon.
I see. Nothing like making sure. I’ll repeat it.
‘Uisce, an ea?’
‘Sea, sea.’
I think I was just a little, er, underdone, that time. Besides you can’t get too much of a good thing.
‘Uisce, an ea?’
‘Sea, sea, sea!’
All right. No need to take the needle over it. Just answer a civil question. I walked over, head twisted sideways, to get the water, tripped and nearly broke my neck over a Dutch cavalryman in the wings, and the play went on in my absence.
Pigeon recovered from his cannon
But the day before the show, my mind was made up for me at the cheek and impudence counter of Hugh MacCallion’s shop in Dorset Street. It was said that you paid for the pig’s cheek and the impudence was thrown in for choice.
Still, Hugh was a decent old skin in his own way and maybe it was only the uncouth Derry accent that made his utterance so harsh on our refinedMetropolitan ears. No matter what way you looked at it, he was a match for his customers.
This old one asked him for a shilling pig’s cheek, and while he muttered about himself paying more than that for them, and all to that effect, the usual old shopman’s cant, he was rooting in the barrel for something that he could sell for a shilling and still add something to the Hugh Fund out of it.
At last he emerged from the blood-red depths of the briny barrel bearing aloft the three-quarter profile of a pig, very much battered. It seemed that this cheek had been squeezed up against the side of the barrel by the others and his appearance was certainly very odd.
‘There’s a grand cheek now for the money,’ said Hugh.
The old one looked at it, very doubtfully, and in its twisted way, it returned her glance.
‘The Lord between us and all harm, Mr. Hug MacScallion …’
‘Hugh, Hugh, and my neems MacCallion.’
‘Whatever it is, and Hew here or Hew there, that’s a very peculiar looking cheek.’
Hugh swelled up bigger than the barrel, looking from her to the cheek as much as to say that if it went to looks there wasn’t much between them, and roared: ‘An’ what do you axpect for a shillin’ – Micheál Mac Lallimore?’
I’d seen the noblest youth of the Fianna* , and heard MacLiammóir’s high Castilian brogue: Éist , a chuid den tsaol. Is iad na tonntracha a chanfas amhrán ár bpósta dúinn anocht …*
I regretfully decided there would be no excuse accepted for gagging this bit into the Primary SchoolsCup competition, but I could model my interpretation of my part in Toirneach Luimnigh on Diarmuid’s last words: Uisce, a Fhinn, tabhair deoch uisce chugam …*
Well, they are not quite the last words. He says at the finish: Breathnaigh isteach sna súile orm, a Ghráinne .*
But I didn’t think Feis Átha Cliath* would wear an interpolation of this nature either, but I’d do the best I could with my head turned sideways till the great moment came.
I was nearly deformed for life, waiting for it. I had to wait, head to one side, like I’d seen your man at the Gate, till the saighdiúir eile É ireannach* crouched the far side of me wondered whether there was something offensive about himself or his accoutrements, my head turned away from him for half the play.
A fellow called Pa Bla from that good day to this, though he has since held commissioned rank in the armed forces of this State, comes out in his French uniform, shouting like a Gallic-Gaelic bull: Parbleu, cad is fiú botún, thall is abhus ,* the significance of which message is forever lost to me, owing to overdue concentration on my twisted neck, so that I might have presented the starboard side of my face when the time came.
A boy from Summerhill called Pigeon is hit by a cannon ball and falls off Limerick’s Walls, or whichever of them he was on, before being bombarded by the other crowd, and moans, ‘Uisce . . uisce.’
Up I leaped in my profile. Into bed or out of barracks … ‘Uisce, an ea? ’
‘Sea,’* mutters poor Pigeon.
I see. Nothing like making sure. I’ll repeat it.
‘Uisce, an ea?’
‘Sea, sea.’
I think I was just a little, er, underdone, that time. Besides you can’t get too much of a good thing.
‘Uisce, an ea?’
‘Sea, sea, sea!’
All right. No need to take the needle over it. Just answer a civil question. I walked over, head twisted sideways, to get the water, tripped and nearly broke my neck over a Dutch cavalryman in the wings, and the play went on in my absence.
Pigeon recovered from his cannon
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