Curse You!

One of the most wonderful things about my grandfather was the way he would curse. None of this dull, braindead “f-” or “s-” for him. No; he would holler out “Liars, cheats, and thieves!” “A pox on you!” or, if things were really bad, “Hells bells and panther tracks! Dirty old man with a busted crutch!”

I don't know where these came from. I've never heard them anywhere else, although “A pox on you” does sound Shakespearean.

The art of interesting and elegant ejaculations is a sadly lost art. It was once a fine one, in Ireland or among the Arabs. My grandfather's taste for it may indeed have come from his Irish heritage. The Irish folk song “Nell Flaherty's Drake,” reputedly about the execution of Robert Emmett, is one long, sustained cuss.

Bad luck to the robber be he drunk or sober
That murdered Nell Flaherty's beautiful drake

May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig
May each hair in his wig be well trashed with the flail
My his door never latch, may his roof have no thatch
May his turkeys not hatch, may the rats eat his meal
May every old fairy from Cork to Dun Laoghaire
Dip him snug and airy in river or lake
That the eel and the trout they may dine on the snout
Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt
May a ghost ever haunt him the dead of the night
May his hens never lay, may his horse never neigh
May his coat fly away like an old paper kite
That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease
May the piercin' March breeze make him shiver and shake
May a lump of the stick raise the bumps fast and quick
On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake

We need more of this.