“MADAME MARA.
Madame Mara, in one of her professional trips with Daly, the Dublin manager, to his provincial theatre in Ireland, arrived at Limerick, where her appearance and vocal powers were announced with pompous panegyric, in the play-bills; and all the fashion of the town and country were assembled to see and hear her. The upper gallery of that theatre is generally crowded with a boisterous mob of fellows from a faunbourg of Limerick, called Garry Owen, and scorning the ceremony of paying for their admission, they generally cudgelled their way to the upper region, and knocked down all door-keepers who presumed to oppose their entrance. Their criticism is usually exercised in a way not less discordant; for whenever any thing displeases them in the performance, or when such tunes as they call for are not played by the orchestra, about an hundred fellows commence such a sonnata with their shillelahs upon the boarded front of the gallery, as to stun all powers of hearing. There is a favourite Irish air, composed by some piper of this mob, and called Garry Owen, which is constantly ground at present by all the barrel-organs, syrinæs, and hurly burlies in London. Madame Mara came forward, honoured by the plaudits of the fashionable part of the audience, and had proceeded half way through her first song in all the elegant variations and quavers of an Italian bravura, In an instant the cudgells of the upper gallery commenced their astonishing concert, and the yell of “Garry Owen! Garry Owen!" was vociferated from the gods above. Madame Mara, almost terrified into fits, retreated by the prompter's side, and was there met by Mr. Daly, who endeavoured to persuade her to resume her song. She returned, attempted it again, was again terrified by the war-whoop aloft; and again retreated. Mr. Daly met her the second time, and endeavoured to encourage her with, "My dear madam! pray don't be alarmed! consider you are surrounded, and I shall be ruined if you don't go through the part." But the affrighted Italian dared not proceed, but answered: "Oh! Mistere Daly, Mistere Daly, 'tis Mistere Owen they call for; pray send dem Mistere Owen, or dey will pull down de house."
[The Spirit of Irish Wit, or Post-Chaise Companion, By Irish Wit, 1812]