Maggie. That I will—the dear docther! The luck's a-coomin'.
Dennis. Ah, ye's the fine gurl! Sure ye's remind me uv Donnybrook fair, in the ould counthry, wid ye's rosy cheeks, and pearly teeth, as white as—as—as—tombstones.
Maggie. Ah, will, will! It's the blarney-stone ye've kissed, sure, in the ould counthry.
Dennis. To be sure I have, colleen. Ah, bliss the ould sod! Sorry's the day I lift it, wid my own purty wife, Molly, who's been dead and gone the year, an' me wid the childers wid their bills open for food loike the little birds—
Maggie. 'Tis a widerer ye's are?
Dennis. A lone widerer, wid a tear in one eye and the other wide open tight for a purty girl to fill the sitivation made vacant by the absince of my Molly.
Maggie. Is it lonesome ye are?
Dennis. Lonesome is it? Begorra! ye may will say that. Sure there's not blankets enough to kape the chill out uv me heart, whin I wake in the night and miss the music uv Molly's snore—for she had a powerful organ, and could pipe "St. Pathrick's Day" through her nose widout missing a note. Could ye's riccommend me?
Maggie. Troth, I don't know what ye mane.
Dennis. To a nice, respectable gurl that wouldn't mind incumbrances in the shape of nine as purty childers as iver built stone huts or made dirt pies, the darlints.