and—what is’t, Peter?”
“And mixed a drop of drink.”
“And mixed a drop of drink,” quoth Father Rush, with great emphasis; when scarcely were the spoken words than a loud shout of laughter showed him his mistake, and he overturned upon the luckless curate the full vial of his wrath.
“What is it you mean, Father Peter? I’m ashamed of ye; faith, it’s may be yourself, not Mars, you are speaking of.”
The roar of merriment around prevented me hearing what passed; but I could see by Peter’s gestures—for it was too dark to see his face—that he was expressing deep sorrow for the mistake. After a little time, order was again established, and Father Rush resumed:—
“But love drove battles from his head,
And sick of wounds and scars,
To Venus bright he knelt, and said—
and said—and said; what the blazes did he say?”
“I’ll make you Mrs. Mars,”
shouted Peter, loud enough to be heard.
“Bad luck to you, Peter Nolan, it’s yourself’s the ruin of me this blessed night! Here have I come four miles with my speech in my pocket, per imbres et ignes.” Here the crowd crossed themselves devoutly. “Ay, just so; and he spoiled it for me entirely.” At the earnest entreaty, however, of the crowd, Father Rush, with renewed caution to his unhappy prompter, again returned to the charge: