While all these preparations were going forward, the “waking” was kept up in all the barbarous style of old times; eating and drinking in profusion went on in the house, and the kitchen of the hall rang with joviality. The feats of sports and arms of the man who had passed away were lauded, and his comparative achievements with those of his progenitors gave rise to many a stirring anecdote; and bursts of barbarous exultation, or more barbarous merriment, rang in the house of death. There was no lack of whisky to fire the brains of these revellers, for the standard of the measurement of family grandeur was, too often, a liquid one in Ireland, even so recently as the time we speak of; and the dozens of wine wasted during the life it helped to shorten, and the posthumous gallons consumed in toasting to the memory of the departed, were among the cherished remembrances of hereditary honour. “There were two hogsheads of whisky drank at my father's wake!” was but a moderate boast of a true Irish squire, fifty years ago.
And now the last night of the wake approached, and the retainers thronged to honour the obsequies of their departed chief with an increased enthusiasm, which rose in proportion as the whisky got low; and songs in praise of their present occupation--that is, getting drunk--rang merrily round, and the sports of the field and the sorrows and joys of love resounded; in short, the ruling passions of life figured in rhyme and music in honour of this occasion of death--and as death is the maker of widows, a very animated discussion on the subject of widowhood arose, which afforded great scope for the rustic wits, and was crowned by the song of “Widow Machree” being universally called for by the company; and a fine-looking fellow with a merry eye and large white teeth, which he amply displayed by a wide mouth, poured forth in cheery tones a pretty lively air which suited well the humorous spirit of the words:--
“Widow _machree_, it's no wonder you frown, Och hone! widow machree: 'Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone! widow machree. How altered your hair, With that close cap you wear-- 'Tis destroying your hair Which should be flowing free: Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, Och hone! widow machree.