“With all my heart, Mike; let’s hear it.”
“Arrah, is it here, before the Virgin and the two blessed saints that’s up there in the glass cases? But sure, when they make an hospital of the place, and after the major’s songs last night—”
“Exactly so, Mike; out with it.”
“Well, Ma’am,” said he, turning towards the Virgin, “as I suspect you don’t know English, may be you’ll think it’s my offices I’m singing. So, saving your favor, here it is.”
MR. FREE’S SONG.
AIR,—“Arrah, Catty, now can’t you be asy?”
Oh, what stories I’ll tell when my sodgering’s o’er,
And the gallant Fourteenth is disbanded;
Not a drill nor parade will I hear of no more,
When safely in Ireland landed.
With the blood that I spilt, the Frenchmen I kilt,
I’ll drive the young girls half crazy;
And some cute one will cry, with a wink of her eye,
“Mister Free, now why can’t you be asy?”
I’ll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight,
And destroyed them all at “Talavera,”
And then I’ll just add how we finished the night,
In learning to dance the “bolera;”
How by the moonshine we drank raal wine,
And rose next day fresh as a daisy;
Then some one will cry, with a look mighty sly,
“Arrah, Mickey, now can’t you lie asy?”
I’ll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we spent,
Around a big fire in the air too,
Or may be enjoying ourselves in a tent,
Exactly like Donnybrook fair too.
How he’d call out to me: “Pass the wine, Mr. Free,
For you’re a man never is lazy!”
Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye,
“Arrah, Mickey, dear, can’t you be asy?”
I’ll tell, too, the long years in fighting we passed,
Till Mounseer asked Bony to lead him;
And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last,
Begged of one Mickey Free to succeed him.
“But, acushla,” says I, “the truth is I’m shy!
There’s a lady in Ballymacrazy!
And I swore on the book—” He gave me a look,
And cried: “Mickey, now can’t you be asy?”
“Arrah, Mickey, now can’t you be asy?” sang out a voice in chorus, and the next moment Dr. Quill himself made his appearance.
“Well, O’Malley, is it a penitential psalm you’re singing, or is my friend Mike endeavoring to raise your spirits with a Galway sonata?”
“A little bit of his own muse, Doctor, nothing more; but tell me, how goes it with the major,—is the poor fellow out of danger?”
“Except from the excess of his appetite, I know of no risk he runs. His servant is making gruel for him all day in a thing like the grog-tub of a frigate. But you’ve heard the news,—Sparks has been exchanged. He came here last night; but the moment he caught sight of me, he took his departure. Begad, I’m sure he’d rather pass a month in Verdun than a week in my company!”
“By-the-bye, Doctor, you never told me how this same antipathy of Sparks for you had its origin.”