And then galloping round as if put in a rage.
Working harder—I'll bet ten young pigs to a sow,
Than they've been all day long at the tail of the plough."
"Stop!" I fancy I hear some fair maiden exclaim,
In a tone full of ire strongly mixed with disdain.
"'Tis some horrid old man has been writing this tale,
Who will make his remarks, though so stupid and stale."
Now, kind reader, of this I must beg to assure you,
That 'twas Flanagan muttered those words placed before you.
Rat-a-tat! "Who is that?" Murphy cried; "pray come in."