and biled turnips, and white bread an’ butther, and petaties, and pots of tay.
“Noggin, noggin, where’s your manners?” says the King, for the last time.
At that the little black men, afther puttin’ a silver shillin’ beside every plate at the table, jumped into the noggin an’ pulled down its lid.
Whin the ating and drinking and jollity were at their hoight the King arose, drew tight his crown on his head, and pointing once more to the silver-covered noggin, said:
“This is my gift to you and your reward, Tom Mulligan, maker of ballads and journeyman worker in fine tales. ’Tis more than your wish was. Nayther you nor anyone who sits at your table, through all your life, will ever want a bite to ate or a sup to dhrink, nor yet a silver shilling to cheer him on his way. Good luck to all here and good-bye!” Even as they looked at the King he was gone, vanished like a light that’s blown out—and they never saw him more.
But the news spread. Musicianers, poets, and story-tellers, and jayniouses flocked to the ballad-maker’s cabin from all over Ireland. Any fine day
