'tis a thousand
pities that such musical owld crathers should be suffered to die, at
all at all, to be poked away into a dirthy, dark hole, when their
canthles shud be burnin' a-top of a bushel, givin' light to the
house. An' then it is she that was the illigant dancer, stepping out
so lively and frisky, just so."
And here he minced to and fro, affecting the airs of a fine lady.
The suppositious bagpipe gave an uncertain, ominous howl, and he
flung it down, and started back with a ludicrous expression of
alarm.
"Alive, is it ye are? Ye croaking owld divil, is that the tune you
taught your son?
"Och! my old granny taught me, but now she is dead,
That a dhrop of nate whiskey is good for the head;
It would make a man spake when jist ready to dhie,
If you doubt it - my boys! - I'd advise you to thry.
"Och! my owld granny sleeps with her head on a stone, -
'Now, Malach, don't throuble the galls when I'm gone!'
I thried to obey her; but, och, I am shure,
There's no sorrow on earth that the angels can't cure.
"Och! I took her advice - I'm a bachelor still;
And I dance, and I play, with such excellent skill,
(Taking up the bellows, and beginning to dance.)
That the dear little crathurs are striving in vain
Which furst shall my hand or my fortin' obtain."
"Malach!" shouted a laughing group.
