“Tell’em it’s Molloy”

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17527, 2 May 1925, Page 17

“Tell’em it’s Molloy”

SATURDAY NIGHT AT A j COUNTRY HOTEL. A FEW SONGS IN THE PARLOUR. ("Written for th© 44 Star ”) SATURDAY night is concert night at most country hotels. The licensee and his family, the cook and her friend or friends, the housemaid and her friend or friends, plus A few casual visitors, and maybe their friends gather in the back parlour where the piano is. They they give cheerful voice to everything they know in the song line. There is no set programme or menu. The artists jnsb provide an item as they are called on or as opportunity offers. Last Saturday in* th© course of a hurried visit’ to the backbloeks of Canterbury, it ell to my lot to strike the Hotel about 5 p.m. Dinner was all that it should be, well cooked, nourishing, and hot. The delicious crust of the steak and kidney pie is a fragrant memory still. The final pipe over, and in preparation for an early start next morning, T retired to bed at 5.30. Unfortunately, that moment coincided with the opening of th© concert. It was not a bad concert as concerts go. but the walls of th© hotel were wooden and every note came through the thin partitions and reverberated along the corridors and against the corrugated roof. The principal performer was an Irish basso-prof undo with a voice that might have been good if it hadn’t been med bard for calling dogs off cattle all the rest of the week. The chorus of bis first contribution, as far as- I remember it, was something like this: - “ I r they ask you what your name is Toll ’em it’s Molloy. In an Irish name, There is no sliame, In an Irish name, me boy.” 1 was impressed by the long-drawn-out emphasis lie put on “me boy.” It had a charm that roused the echoes to rivalry. But .1. wished lie d been up in tlie wilds of Porter’s .Pass instead of tea yards from my bedroom. Then a little girl, “the landlord’s black-haired daughter,” probably, gave a tinkling pianoforte solo, neatly, sweetly, excruciatingly. I felt like paying her faro to a first-class musical college straight away. Someone else (f suspect a burly Christchurch angler) put liis whole soul into that sonorous recitation, “Lasca.” You’ve heard it perhaps -TEtut she sobbed, And sobbln.tr, so quickly bound. Tier torn riboso about my wound, That 1 forgave her. Stitches don’t count In Texas, Down by the Rio Gramle. T quite believe all tin's about Texas, * very wild country, but why get agitated over the place? As for Lasca, she was a brave, kind girl and should be allowed to rest in peace. Just when 3’d finished prescribing various kinds of torturing deaths for the angler, th© Irish basso-profundo burst out again. He was the headlined star artist of tho district and the “gods’* saw that ho was not allowed to forget it. This time lie gave 1 ‘The Rosary.’* I felt that all I required now was a really efficient coroner—a nice gentlemanlv old man who would be ready to bring in a verdict of death from accidental causes without pausing

to examine tbo blows from old boots j on tbe back of tbe bead of IJljo corpse, j Everything was silent for a few min- \ utes (bar tlio banging of a tray) and I then tbo pianist began to show tbo j world what ho knew. Ho bad what you call a wide range, omitting nothing that hud ever been rendered on the musical hall, stage, including the latest hits from London, Paris and New York with a few variations introduced and patented locally. Ho dipped into ‘‘Barney Google,” extracted ail the meat from “Going Up,” sailed vigorously into “Ain't AY© Got Fun,”, proceeded “To Say It On the Ukulele,” clattered gaily with “Morse./ Keep A our Tail Up,” and rang the changes on “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No Mo’.” These are just a few. The other people in the parlour helped him along by joining generously in every chorus. A pleasant time was being had by nil (or nearly all—the victim had to lie low.) On towards eleven-thirty, the beginning of the end started to make itself ielt. The landlord’s little daughter had long since gone to her rest and some of the others seemed to be fraying round the edges. Now and agaiu the singing would die away to a confused murmur. Then it would revive to a wonderful volume of sound with the Irish basso-prof undo hard pressed, but holding his place in the lead by superior vocal power. There was an argument as to whether he should give “The Rosary” another gallop, hub wiser counsel prevailed and the performers drowned the striking of the midnight hour by joining with magnificent enthusiasm and patlioe in that sorrowful ballad “Mother Machree.” A few minutes later the back door creaked and silence once again descended on the tin roof and wooden Avails of the Hotel. __T, A. F.