“They wor good times for more than you,” broke in the woman in the uniform coat; “I made seven-and-sixpence on Essex Bridge in one night by the 'Shan van voght.'”
“The grandest ballad that ever was written,” chimed in an old man with one eye; “does yer honer know it?”
“I'm ashamed to say not perfectly,” said Dan, with an air of humility.
“Molly Daly's the one can sing it well, then,” cried he; a sentiment re-echoed with enthusiasm by all.
“I'm low and down-hearted of a mornin',” said Molly, bashfully; “but maybe after a naggin and a pint I'll be better.”
“Let me have the honor to treat the company,” said Dan, handing a crown-piece to one near him.
“If your honor wants to hear Molly right, make her sing Tom Molloy's ballad for the Volunteers,” whispered the cripple; and he struck up in a hoarse voice,—
“'Was she not a fool,
When she took off our wool,
To leave us so much of the
Leather—the leather!
“'It ne'er entered her pate
That a sheepskin will 'bate,'
Will drive a whole nation
Together—together.'”
“I'd rather she 'd sing Mosy Cassan's new song on Barry Rutledge,” growled out a bystander.
“A song on Rutledge?” cried Dan.