'"Sartin sure I will," she says, says she.
'So she sput in her han' an' hel' it out to me, an' aff we wint togither to find the praste, an' left the cows to stravague aff to the field their own swate way.
'Father O'Flatherty he was havin' his breakfast whin we come in, an' I says to him, "Good-morra to you, Father, we're come to be marrit."
'"Marrit," he says; he was takin' a drink ov tay at the time, an' he splutthers it ahl over the flure. "Git out wid yer practical jokin' makin' me choke over me tay. Git out ov my house before I take me horsewhip to ye both."
'"Ah be aisy now, Father," says I, "it's not jokin' we are. We're in sober arnest."
'"Is it argy wid me, yer own parish praste, ye wud, ye onnathral varmint. I tell ye, I'll not marry ye, an' that's flat."
'"Thin be the powers," says I, "marrit or not marrit, I'll live wid Mary Anne, an' she'll live wid me, an' you'll be the cause of immorality an' scandal in the parish. Ye wull, won't you, Mary Anne?" says I.
'"I wull," says she, grinnin' ahl roun' her head.
'"Ye two divils," says the praste girnin' at us, "for that's just what ye are. Ye'll be sorry for this day, I promise you. I'll marry you, an' I cudn't wish worse to neither of you, for I don't know which is the warst. Ye're both as mad as leppin' sterks, but it's betther maybe to mix the blood nor spoil two dacint stocks. The Lord sind ye won't have no childher," says he, the ould haythin, an' we niver did to this day.
'So thin he calls the sexton, an' the foor of us proceeds to the chapel roun' the corner, an' us two was marrit.