Pady. Dear shoy, I wish I had first the money he would take for it, I would rather drink it myself, and then give him both my bill and my honest word, payable in the other world.
Tom. And how then are you to get a passage to the other world, or who is to carry you there?
Pady. O my dear shoy, Tom, you know nothing of the matter; for, when I die, they will bury my body, flesh, blood, dirt and bones, only my skin will be blown up full of wind and spirit, my dear shoul I mean; and then I will be blown over to the other world, on the wings of the wind; and after that I shall never be kill’d hang’d nor drowned, nor yet die in my bed, for when any hits me a blow, my new body will play buff upon it like a bladder.
Tom. But what way will you go to the new world, or where is it?
Pady. Arra, dear shoy, the priest knows where it is, but I do not, but the Pope of Rome keeps the outer-port, shaint Patrick the inner-port, and gives us a direction of the way to shaint Patrick’s palace, which stands on the head of the Stalian-loch, where I’ll have no more to do but chap at the gate.
Tom. What is the need for chapping at the gate, is it not always open?
Pady. Dear Shoy, you know little about it, for there is none can enter in but red-hot Irishmen, for when I call, “Allelieu, dear honey, shaint Patrick countenance your own dear countryman if you will.” Then the gates will be opened directly to me, for he knows and loves an Irishman’s voice, as he loves his own heart.
Tom. And what entertainment will you get when you are in?
Pady. O my dear, we are all kept there until a general review, which is commonly once in the week; and then we are drawn up, like as many young recruits, and all the black-guard scoundrels is pickt out of the ranks, and one half of them is sent away to the Elysian fields, to curry the weeds from among the potatoes, the other half of them to the river Sticks, to catch fishes for shaint Patrick’s table; and all them that is owing the priests any money, is put in the black hole, and then given into the hands of a great black bitch of a devil which they keep for a hangman, who whips them up and down the smoaky dungeon every morning for six months, then holds their bare back-side to a great fire, until their hips be all in one blister, and after all, they are sent away to the poor parish of Pig-trantum, where they get nothing to eat but cold sowens, burgue, and butter-milk.
Tom. And where does your good people go when they are separated from the bad?