Har. Then you have several good Poets in Ireland.
Sir Pat. Yes to be sure, Sir, there is hardly a Gentleman there but knows every one of the Ninety Nine Muses, and can speak all the Mechanical Sciences by Heart, and most of the liberal Languages except Irish and Welch.
Har. And how happens it that they don't speak their own Language?
Sir Pat. Because, Madam, they are ashamed of it; it has such a rumbling Sound with it. Now when I was upon my Travels I liked the Language so well that I learned it. Madam, if it won't be over and above encumbersome to your sweet Ladyship, I will sing you an Irish Song I learnt there—it was made upon a beautiful young Creature that I was in Love wi[th] there, one Mrs. Gilgifferaghing.
Har. Not at all encumbersome; I dare swear it will be very entertaining.
Sir Pat. Hem, hem, hem. (Sings an Irish Song)
Har. I protest, Sir, you have a great deal of very diverting Humour; and upon my Word you sing extremely well. For my part, I think Irish singing is as diverting as Italian.
Sir Pat. O Madam, that is more my Deserts than your Goodness to say so.
Both. Ha, ha, ha.
Har. I am surprized the Directors of the Opera do not send over to Ireland for a Set of Irish Singers.