In trem’lous accents ask’d what he was doing?
‘O, no great matter, Sir,’ replies O’Connor,
‘I’m making up your Bed, an’ plase your honour.’
‘A Bed for me!’ says John, half chok’d with rage,
Says Teague, ‘You’ll soundly sleep there, I’ll engage.’
Poor John, exhausted now, and sighing deep,
In sadness stretch’d himself, and groan’d to sleep.
Scarce had the Sun arose in all his glory,
Ere Johnny flew to Ward to tell his story.
‘Alas! dear Ward, ’tis fact what now I tell ye,