“To the divil I pitch them gaugers. Long life to y’r honour. Bad cess to ’em, I’d bail ’em out of —— (purgatory?) ev they’d wait. Och, thin, God bless you and y’r min! And thim to say I had a still!—the blag-g-a-ards!” All the time never moving from her seat amongst the ferns, whence she challenged the gaugers to search the skibeen and welcome. “Bad luck to you and your ugly mate!”
Finding the fun was over, I assembled my men and started on the homeward march; but wishing to reward the ancient sibyl for her blessing with a taste of tobacco, I halted the party in the road for a minute, and hurried back.
“You’re lucky not to have had your still discovered,” I remarked.
“Oh thin, good luck to your honour, and it’s you and your min saved it. May you live till the longest tooth in your head makes a walking-stick for you.”
“How do you mean, my good woman?”
“Sure the boys seen the soldiers coming, and they lighted a bit fire to blind ’em. The gauger was never near our plant; and for the worm, I was sitting on it all the time.”
I gave the old woman a blast for her pipe, and drank a tot of the best potheen I ever tasted.
To revert to the subject of Irish coaching which, as I have said before, was of the wildest and most primitive description, before the great mail contractor monopolised nearly every road in the country, conveying both mails and passengers on cars in a manner much better suited to the taste and habits of the people.