You’d think, now, Bridget was bate, but she still hildt her trump card, an’ until that was played an’ lost the lad wasn’t safe. “All right, me brave hayro,” says she; “do you sit there be the fire; I’ll go meself,” she says. With that she bounced into the childher’s room an’ began to get ready her cloak an’ hood.
For a minute Darby sat pokin’ the fire, muttherin’ to himself an’ feeling very discommodious. Thin, just to show he wasn’t the laste bit onaisy, the lad cleared his throat, and waggin’ his head at the fire, began to sing:
The primrosies and daisies an’ cowslips were in bloom,
I spied a purty fair maid a-sthrollin’ on the lea,
An’ Rory Bory Alice, nor any other ould ancient haythan goddess was not half so fair as she.
Says I, ‘Me purty fair maid, I’ll take you for me bride,
An’ if you’ll pay no at-TIN-tion⸺’”
Glancing up sudden, he saw Malachi’s eye on him, and if ever the faytures of a cat spoke silent but plain langwidge Malachi’s face talked that minute to its master, and this is what it said:
“Well, of all the cowardly, creaking bostheens
