An Irish Peasant's Cabin at Drogheda

In the neighbourhood of this town we entered a genuine Irish cabin. Overtaken in a ramble by a shower of rain,—none of your gentle poetic sprinklings, but a downright unmistakeable Irish shower, that at once let you perceive it meant wetting you to the skin,—we were glad to seek the nearest shelter that offered, which happened to be a poor-looking hovel. Its inmates were a young woman, apparently under thirty years of age,—yet she was the mother of six fine, rosy-cheeked, curly-headed, potatoe-fed children, five of whom were shouting and scrambling about the earthen floor, unencumbered by much needless apparel. An inhospitable puff of smoke and a shaggy wire-haired cur, rushing from the "dim profound," assailed us on the threshold, and seemed determined to oppose the invasion of the stranger. We, however, forced our way through these obstacles. The woman rose to receive us on our entrance, and though her clothing was mean and scanty, there was a gentleness and modesty in her deportment that gave an indescribable interest to her appearance. A turf fire was smouldering on the hearth, and a few stones placed in front prevented it encroaching too far upon the floor. Suspended from an iron crane, a pot of potatoes hung over the fire, boiling for her husband's dinner, who was abroad engaged in some field-work. A deal table, a couple of chairs, and a dresser, on which a few plates and simple culinary utensils were displayed, comprised the entire furniture of the apartment, with the exception of a wicker cradle, in which a chubby little fellow lay sleeping soundly, covered by his mother's cloak. In an inner apartment we got a glimpse of a straw bed, with a rug coverlet; and beside it stood a large deal chest, which we fear was kept rather for ornament than use.

Everything around betokened penury and privation; yet the whole family, including the pig, who had sagaciously returned from a country ramble during our visit, seemed perfectly contented and happy; and if these poor people possess fewer of the comforts of life, they at least enjoy those that have fallen to their share with a keen relish and grateful hearts. Nor has the Irish cabin, uninviting as it may appear, been uncelebrated in song. One of the most beautiful women in the country once sang for us with an expression of humour perfectly delightful, the following amusing caricature description; and though it is of modern date, and rather Scoto-Irish in its dialect, it is still clever enough to merit being preserved.