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He had curly black hair, over an open and smiling face; he was big, but not too big, and he looked the priest, the soggarth aroon kind, you know, so that you just felt that if you ever did get into difficulties, Father Tom Connolly would be the first man for you to talk it all over with.
He cocked his hat at me, as if I had been to blame for this partiality; then changed again into his usual swaggering civility, shook me by the hand, and set off down to the boat, with the money under his arms, and whistling as he went the pathetic air of SHULE AROON. It was the first time I had heard that tune; I was to hear it again, words and all, as you shall learn, but I remember how that little stave of it ran in my head after the freetraders had bade him "Wheesht, in the deil's name," and the grating of the oars had taken its place, and I stood and watched the dawn creeping on the sea, and the boat drawing away, and the lugger lying with her foresail backed awaiting it.
Sampson and Hardie, was a simple eloquent Irish song called Aileen Aroon. Whose history, by-the-bye, was a curious one. Early in this century it occurred to somebody to hymn a son of George the Third for his double merit in having been born, and going to a ball.
"My head's goin' round like a top." "Ate your breakfast," said his mother; it's the best thing for you." "Where wor you last night, Phelim?" inquired the father. "What are you sayin', ould man?" "Who wor you wid last night?" "Do, Phelim," said the mother, "tell us, aroon. I hope it wasn't out you wor. Tell us, avourneen?" "Ould woman, what are you talking about?"
"Oh, I see that, acushla, you would a known me if you had: well then, did ye never hear of Sol Donnel, the pilgrim?" "I never did," I replied, "but are we not all pilgrims while here?" "To be sure, aroon, but I'm a pilgrim every place else, you see, as well as here, my darlin' sweet young man." "Then you're a pilgrim by profession?"
The voice was the voice of Julia; the song was Aileen Aroon, the hymn of constancy. So sudden and full was the bliss, which poured into the long and sore-tried listener at this sudden answer to his fears, that tears of joy trembled in his eyes.
"Kenny," he said with a pitiful air of bravado, "do you know a tune, an Irish tune called 'Eileen Aroon'?" "Yes," said Kenny, clearing his throat. "Yes." "Whistle it." Kenny obeyed. His eyes were sympathetic, "Well," said Adam in muffled tones, "it isn't Irish. It's Robin Adair and it came from Scotland." But his voice was tired. Kenny rummaged in the closet for his brandy.
Dodd's severe taste in music rejected those ignoble jerks, and her enthusiastic daughter having the option to hymn immortal Constancy or mortal Fat, decided thus: When like the early rose, Aileen aroon, Beauty in childhood glows, Aileen aroon, When like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem? Aileen aroon. Is it the laughing eye? Aileen aroon. Is it the timid sigh?
Presently she heard an excited voice, towards which she dared not look; it was inquiring whether any lady could sing Aileen Aroon. With every desire to gratify the young millionaire, nobody knew Aileen Aroon, nor had ever heard of it. "Oh, impossible!" cried Alfred. "Why, it is in praise of Constancy, a virtue ladies shine in: at least, they take credit for it."
"Well," said the son, "it's the last day ever I'll stay in the family; thrate me as bad as you plase. I'll take the king's bounty, an' list, if I live to see to-morrow." "Oh, thin, in the name o' Goodness, do so," said the father; "an' so far from previntin' you, we'll bless you when you're gone, for goin'." "Arrah, Frank, aroon," said Mrs.
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