No More Learning

'

'Saints and angels, is there no protection against this? You're a most
inhuman blaguard to try to deprive me of my honest bread this way,'
replied poor Moran.

'And you, you wretch, won't let me go on with the beautiful poem.
Christian people, in your charity, won't you beat this man away? he's
taking advantage of my darkness. '

The pretender, seeing that he was having the best of it, thanked the
people for their sympathy and protection, and went on with the poem,
Moran listening for a time in bewildered silence. After a while Moran
protested again with:

'Is it possible that none of yez can know me? Don't yez see it's
myself; and that's some one else? '

'Before I can proceed any further in this lovely story,' interrupted
the pretender, 'I call on yez to contribute your charitable donations
to help me to go on. '

'Have you no sowl to be saved, you mocker of heaven? ' cried Moran, put
completely beside himself by this last injury. 'Would you rob the poor
as well as desave the world? O, was ever such wickedness known? '

'I leave it to yourselves, my friends,' said the pretender, 'to give to
the real dark man, that you all know so well, and save me from that
schemer,' and with that he collected some pennies and half-pence. While
he was doing so, Moran started his _Mary of Egypt_, but the indignant
crowd seizing his stick were about to belabour him when they fell back
bewildered anew by his close resemblance to himself.
The pretender now
called to them to 'just give him a grip of that villain, and he'd soon
let him know who the imposhterer was! ' They led him over to Moran,
but instead of closing with him he thrust a few shillings into his
hand, and turning to the crowd explained to them he was indeed but an
actor, and that he had just gained a wager, and so departed amid much
enthusiasm, to eat the supper he had won.

In April, 1846, word was sent to the priest that Michael Moran was
dying. He found him at 15 (now 141/2) Patrick Street, on a straw bed, in
a room full of ragged ballad-singers come to cheer his last moments.
After his death the ballad-singers, with many fiddles and the like,
came again and gave him a fine wake, each adding to the merriment
whatever he knew in the way of rann, tale, old saw, or quaint rhyme.
He had had his day, had said his prayers and made his confession, and
why should they not give him a hearty send-off? The funeral took place
the next day. A good party of his admirers and friends got into the
hearse with the coffin, for the day was wet and nasty. They had not
gone far when one of them burst out with 'It's cruel cowld, isn't it? '
'Garra',' replied another, 'we'll all be as stiff as the corpse when
we get to the berrin-ground. ' 'Bad cess to him,' said a third; 'I wish
he'd held out for another month until the weather got dacent. ' A man
named Carroll thereupon produced a half-pint of whiskey, and they all
drank to the soul of the departed. Unhappily, however, the hearse was
overweighted, and they had not reached the cemetery before the spring
broke, and the bottle with it.

Moran must have felt strange and out of place in that other kingdom he
was entering, perhaps while his friends were drinking in his honour.
Let us hope that some kindly middle region was found for him, where he
can call dishevelled angels about him with some new and more rhythmical
form of his old

Gather round me, boys, will yez
Gather round me?
And hear what I have to say
Before ould Salley brings me
My bread and jug of tay;

and fling outrageous quips and cranks at cherubim and seraphim.