“You shall not be disappointed in Paul Dempsey, anyhow,” said he, as he buttoned up the collar of his coat, and pressed his hat more firmly on his head. “No, my Lady, he may be vulgar and inquisitive, though I confess it's the first time I ever heard of either; but he is not the man to turn his back on a good-natured action, when it lies full in front of him. What a climate, to be sure! it blows from the four quarters of the globe all at once, and the rain soaks in and deluges one's very heart's blood. Paul, Paul, you 'll have a smart twinge of rheumatism from this night's exploit.”
It may be conjectured that Mr. Dempsey, like many other gifted people, had a habit of compensating for the want of society by holding little dialogues or discourses with himself,—a custom from which he derived no small gratification, for, while it lightened the weariness of a lonely way, it enabled him to say many more flattering and civil things to himself than he usually heard from an ungrateful world.
“They talk of Demerara,” said he; “I back Antrim against the world for a hurricane. The rainy season here lasts all the year round; and if practice makes perfect—There, now I 'm wet through, I can't be worse. Ah! Helen, Helen, if you knew how unfit Paul Dempsey is to play Paris! By the way, who was the fellow that swam the Hellespont for love of a young lady? Not Laertes, no—that's not it-Leander, that's the name—Leander.”
Paul muttered the name several times over, and by a train of thought which we will not attempt to follow or unravel, began humming to himself the well-known Irish ditty of—
“Teddy, ye gander,
Yer like a Highlander.”
He soon came to a stop in the words, but continued to sing the air, till at last he broke out in the following version of his own:—
“Paul Dempsey, ye gander,
You 're like that Leander
Who for somebody's daughter—for somebody's daughter
Did not mind it one pin
To be wet to the skin,
With a dip in salt water—a dip in salt water.
“Were you wiser, 'tis plain,
You 'd be now in Coleraine,
A nightcap on your head—a nightcap on your head,
With a jorum of rum,
Made by old Mother Fum,
At the side of your bed—at the side of your bed.
“For tho' love is divine,
When the weather is fine,
And a season of bliss—a season of bliss,
'Tis a different thing
For a body to sing
On a night such as this—a night such as this.
“Paul Dempsey! remember,
On the ninth of December
You 'll be just forty-six—you 'll be just forty-six,
And the world will say
That at your time o' day
You 're too old for these tricks—you 're too old for these tricks.
“And tho' water may show
One's love, faith,
I know I 'd rather prove mine—I 'd rather prove mine
With my feet on the fender;
'T is then I grow tender,
O'er a bumper of wine—o'er a bumper of wine!
“A bumper of wine!” sighed he. “On my conscience, it would be an ugly toast I 'd refuse to drink this minute, if the liquor was near.
“Ah! when warm and snog,
With my legs on the rug,
By a turf fire red—a turf fire red—
But how can I rhyme it?
With this horrid climate,
Destroying my head—destroying my head?
“With a coat full of holes,
And my shoes without soles,
And my hat like a teapot—my hat like a teapot—
“Oh, murther, murther!” screamed he, aloud, as his shins came in contact with a piece of timber, and he fell full length to the ground, sorely bruised, and perfectly enveloped in snow. It was some minutes before he could rally sufficiently to get up; and although he still shouted for help, seeing a light in a window near, no one came to his assistance, leaving poor Paul to his own devices.