Tim. Idol of me sowl!
Eben. Irish, as I’m alive!
Tim. Och, yees illigent darlint! and did yees think yer own Kathleen, accushla, would deny yees the comfort of her prisence?
Eben. So, madam, you are found out! Know, to your sorrow, that you stand in the presence of the father of the unhappy young man you came to meet?
Tim. It’s the ould man—is it? Faith, ould chap, how is yes, onyhow?
Eben. Insolent!
Tim. It’s a foine-looking ould fellow yees are; and is that yer own hair, or is it a wig, I’d like to know.
Eben. Young woman, no more of this. I came to snatch my son from your society.
Tim. My society! Faix, yes might do better. It’s a comfort I am to him anyhow. You would be afther parting us at all at all!
Eben. Hold your tongue, and leave the room!