“There was old Tom Whaley,
And Anthony Baillie,
And Fitzgerald, the Knight of Glynn,
And Father Clare,
On his big brown mare,
That moruin' at Corralin!”
“Well done, Andy! well done!” exclaimed Dalton. “You 're as fresh as a four-year-old.”
“Iss!” said Andy, and went on with his song.
“And Miles O'Shea,
On his cropped tail bay,
Was soon seen ridin' in.
He was vexed and crossed
At the light hoar frost,
That mornin' at Corralin.”
“Go on, Andy! go on, my boy!” exclaimed Dalton, in a rapture at the words that reminded him of many a day in the field and many a night's carouse. “What comes next?”
“Ay!” cried Andy.
“Says he, 'When the wind
Laves no scent behind,
To keep the dogs out 's a sin;
I 'll be d—d if I stay,
To lose my day,
This mornin' at Corralin.'”
But ye see he was out in his reck'nin'!” cried Andy; “for, as if
“To give him the lie,
There rose a cry,
As the hounds came yelpin' in;
And from every throat
There swelled one note,
That moruin' at Corralin.”
A fit of coughing, brought on by a vigorous attempt to imitate the cry of a pack, here closed Andy's minstrelsy; and Ellen, who seemed to have anticipated some such catastrophe, now induced her father to return to the sitting-room, while she proceeded to use those principles of domestic medicine clapping on the back and cold water usually deemed of efficacy in like cases.