Dan. And what made 'em to turn thee out o'the treade?
Dennis. I snored in sermon time. Dr. Snufflebags, the preacher, said I woke the rest of the congregation. Arrah, Dan, don't I see a tall customer stretching out his arms in the fog?
Dan. Na; that be the road-post.
Dennis. 'Faith, and so it is. Och! when I was turn'd out of my snug birth at Belfast, the tears ran down my eighteen year old cheeks, like buttermilk.
Dan. Pshaw, man! nonsense! Thee'dst never get another livelihood by crying.
Dennis. Yes, I did; I cried oysters. Then I pluck'd up——what's that? a customer!
Dan. [Looking out.] Na, a donkey.
Dennis. Well, then I pluck'd up a parcel of my courage, and I carried arms.
Dan. Waunds! what, a musket?
Dennis. No; a reaping hook. I cut my way half through England: till a German learn'd me physic, at a fair in Devonshire.