Tom. Dear Pady, and what use do they make of all them things?
Teag. Then, Tom, since you are so inquisitive, you must go ask the priest.
Tom. What did you make of your children then Pady?
Teag. And what should I make of them, do you imagine that I should give them into the hands of the butchers, as they had been a parcel of young hogs: by shaint Patrick, I had more unnaturality in me, than to put them in an hospital as others do.
Tom. No, I suppose you would leave them with your friends?
Teag. Ay, ay, a poor man’s friends is sometimes worse than a profest enemy: the best friend I ever had in the world was my own pocket while my money lasted; but I left two babes between the priest’s door and the parish church, because I thought it was a place of mercy, and then set out for England in quest of another fortune.
Tom. And did you not take good-night with your friends ere you came away?
Teag. Arra, dear honey, I had no friends in the world but an Irish half-crown, and I would have been very sorry to parted with such a dear pocket-companion at such a time.
Tom. I fancy Pady, you’ve come off with what they call a moon-shine flitting.