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mouth-piece which had been publicly used.
There would also be some expenditure necessitated
in fitting the London cabs with such an
apparatus. No such objection could possibly
apply to the other plan. A couple of holes
bored in the wooden division wliich separates
the two front windows of the conveyance, and
a piece of worsted cord passed through each,
would be all that need be provided.

Were some plan of this sort once adopted, there
need be no more struggling through windows,
no more ineffectual attempts to reach the driver
with umbrellas, no more shouting directions
rendered inaudible by the sound of the wheels.
When the "fare" wanted to go to the right, he
would touch the right check-string, when he
wanted to go to the left, he would touch the
left check-string, and when he desired to stop,
he could pull both. Thus the occupant of the
vehicle would be virtually his own coachman;
he would drive the cabman, and the cabman
would drive the horse.

In our open hansom cabs, a system of
telegraphy is already established between the fare
and the driver, the former communicating his
wishes to the latter by means of certain
indicative movements of his stick or umbrella.
This plan answers completely, and the being
able to dispense with the shouting process,
even in the instance of those who have voices
to shout with, is conducive to good temper, a
tranquil expression of countenance, and the
dignity of personal repose; all irreconcileable
with anxious struggling and shouting, even if
such shouting were efficacious, which is
certainly not the case, for his efforts will infallibly
disappoint, as well as discompose, the shouter,
and will bring him to the melancholy conviction
that under such circumstances at any
rate, if under no other,

            THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA.


                   To the Wake of O'Hara
                       Came companie :—
                   All St. Patrick's Alley
                       Was there to see,
                   With the friends and kinsmen
                       Of the family.
      On the old deal table Tim lay, in white,
      And at his pillow the burning light;
      While pale as himself, with the tear on her cheek,
      The mother received us,— too full to speak.
      But she heap'd the fire, and with never a word,
      Set the black bottle upon the board,
      While the company gathered, one and all,
      Men and women, big and small, —
      Not one in the alley but felt a call
                   To the Wake of Tim O'Hara.


                   At the face of O'Hara
                       All white with sleep,
                   Not one of the women
                       But took a peep,
                   And the wives new wedded
                      Began to weep.
      The mothers clustered around about,
      And praised the linen and laying out,
      For white as snow was his winding-sheet,
      And all looked peaceful, and clean, and sweet.
      The old wives, praising the blessed dead,
      Clustered thick round the old press-bed,
      Where O'Hara's widow, tattered and torn,
      Held to her bosom the babe new born,
      And stared all round her, with eyes forlorn,
                   At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.


                   For the heart of O'Hara
                       Was true as gold,
                   And the life of O'Hara
                       Was bright and bold,
                   And his smile was precious
                       To young and old.
      Gay as a guinea, wet or dry,
      With a smiling mouth and a twinkling eye!
      Had ever an answer for chaff or fun,
      Would fight like a lion with any one!
      Not a neighbour of any trade
      But knew some joke that the boy had made
      Not a neighbour, dull or bright,
      But minded something, frolic or fight,
      And whispered it round the fire that night,
                   At the Wake of Tim O'Hara!


                   "To God be glory
                       In death and life!
                   He's taken O'Hara
                       From trouble and strife,"
                   Said one-eyed Biddy,
                       The apple-wife.
      "God bless old Ireland!" said Mistress Hart,
      Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart:
      "God bless old Ireland till all be done!
      She never made wake for a better son!"
      And all joined chorus, and each one said
      Something kind of the boy that was dead.
      The bottle went round from lip to lip,
      And the weeping widow, for fellowship,
      Took the glass of old Biddy, and had a sip,
                   At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.


                   Then we drank to O'Hara
                       With drams to the brim,
                   While the face of O'Hara
                       Looked on so grim,
                   In the corpse-light shining
                       Yellow and dim.
      The drink went round again and again;
      The talk grew louder at every drain;
      Louder the tongues of the women grew;
      The tongues of the boys were loosing too!
      But the widow her weary eyelids closed,
      And, soothed by the drop of drink, she dozed;
      The mother brightened and laughed to hear
      Of O'Hara's fight with the grenadier,
      And the hearts of us all took better cheer
                   At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.


                   Tho' the face of O'Hara
                       Looked on so wan,
                   In the chimney corner
                       The row began;
                   Lame Tony was in it,
                       The oyster-man.
      For a dirty low thief from the north came near
      And whistled "Boyne Water" in his ear,
      And Tony, with never a word of grace,
      Hit out his fist in the blackguard's face.
      Then all the women screamed out for fright;
      The men that were drunkest began to fight;
      Over, the chairs and tables they threw;
      The corpse-light tumbled, the trouble grew;
      The new-born joined in the hullaballoo,
                   At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.