Another
favorite song of hers, God rest her, was 'Brian O'Lynn.' Troth an' I'll
sing it, so I will, for if she was livin' she'd like it.
'Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male,
A two-lugged porringer wanfcin' a tail.'
Oh, my head's through other! The sarra one o' me I bleeve, but's out o'
the words, or, as they say, there's a hole in the ballad. Send round
the punch will ye? By the hole o' my coat, Parra Gastha, I'll whale you
wid-in an inch of your life, if you don't Shrink. Send round the
punch, Dan; an' give us a song, Parra Gastha. Arrah, Paddy, do you
remimber--ha, ha, ha--upon my credit, I'll never forget it, the fun we
had catchin' Father Soolaghan's horse, the day he gave his shirt to the
sick man in the ditch. The Lord rest his sowl in glory--ha, ha, ha--I'll
never forget it. Paddy, the song, you thief?"
"No, but tell them about that, Misther Connell."
"Throth, an' I will; but don't be Mitherin me. Faith, this is The height
o' good punch. You see--ha, ha, ha! You see, it was one hard summer
afore I was married to Ellish--mavourneen, that you wor, asthore! Och,
och, are we parted at last? Upon my sowl, my heart's breakin'--breakin',
(weeps) an' no wondher! But as I was sayin'--all your healths! faith,
it is tip-top punch that--the poor man fell sick of a faver, an' sure
enough, when it was known what ailed him, the neighbors built a little
shed on the roadside for him, in regard that every one was afeard to let
him into their place.
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