“Arn't I goin' on wid it?” said the hag, as fire flashed in her eye; “is it the likes of you is to tache me how to modulate a strain?” And she resumed:—
“Says Major Swan to Major Sirr,
One man's a woman! ye may take her.
'T is little we gets for them at all—
Oh! the curse of Cromwell be an ye all!
Toi! loi! loll lay.”
The grand Demosthenic abruptness of the last line was the signal for an applauding burst of voices, whose sincerity it would be unfair to question.
“Where are you pushin' to! bad scran to ye! ye ugly varmint!” said the lady, as Sandy endeavored to force his passage through the crowd.
“Hurroo! by the mortial, it's Daly's man!” screamed she, in transport, as the accidental light of a window showed Sandy's features.
Few, if any, of those around had ever seen him; but his name and his master's were among the favored traditions of the place, and however unwilling to acknowledge the acquaintance, Sandy had no help for it but to exchange greetings and ask the way to “the Moon,” which he found he had forgotten.
“There it is fornint ye, Mr. M'Granes,” said the lady, in the most dulcet tones; “and if it's thinking of trating me ye are, 't is a 'crapper' in a pint of porter I 'd take; nothing stronger would sit on my heart now.”
“Ye shall hae it,” said Sandy; “but come into the house.”