In a few minutes more, Mr. Free appeared in a state of very satisfactory elevation, his eyebrows alternately rising and falling, his mouth a little drawn to one side, and a side motion in his knee-joints that might puzzle a physiologist to account for.
“A sweet little song of yours, Mike,” said the major; “a very sweet thing indeed. Wet your lips, Mickey.”
“Long life to your honor and Master Charles there, too, and them that belongs to both of yez. May a gooseberry skin make a nightcap for the man would harm either of ye.”
“Thank you, Mike. And now about that song.”
“It’s the ouldest tune ever was sung,” said Mike, with a hiccough, “barring Adam had a taste for music; but the words—the poethry—is not so ould.”
“And how comes that?”
“The poethry, ye see, was put to it by one of my ancesthors,—he was a great inventhor in times past, and made beautiful songs,—and ye’d never guess what it’s all about.”
“Love, mayhap?” quoth Monsoon.
“Sorra taste of kissing from beginning to end.”
“A drinking song?” said I.