"Young Rory O'More courted Kathaleen bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn;
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.
'Now, Rory, be aisy,' sweet Kathleen would cry,
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,
'With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about;
Faith, you've teaz'd till I've put on my cloak inside out.'
'Oh, jewel!' says Rory, 'that same is the way
You've thrated my heart for this many a day,
And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?
For 'tis all for good luck,' says bold Rory O'More."
The voices at the window started the next verse:—
"'Indeed, then,' says Kathleen, 'don't think of the like,
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound.'
'Faith,' says Rory, 'I'd rather love you than the ground.'
'Now, Rory, I'll cry, if you don't let me go;
Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!'
'Oh!' says Rory, 'that same I'm delighted to hear,
For dhrames always go by contraries, my dear.'
'Now, Rory, leave off, sir. You'll hug me no more;
That's eight times to-day, that you've kissed me before.'
'Then here goes another,' says he, 'to make sure,
For there's luck in odd numbers,' says Rory O'More."
As the last words rang out Nell flung down a sixpence.
"A Merry Christmas!"
"Shure and 'tis afther the same I'd be wishing you entirely, at all, at all!" came the sonorous response. "Shure and 'tis the Oirish are afther being the gradely folks on this earrth, me beautiful honour, your leddyship!"
"You're not Irish!" shrilled out an indignant little voice.
"Och, begorra, and would yez be insulting us now, at all, at all, your honour? Shure 'tis the Oirish we are, thin, and long may they live, hoots toots! Ochone!"
Nell flung down a piece of holly she was wearing in her waist belt; she flung it waveringly, overcome with mirth.
Denis shouted aloud. Of all of them the Atom alone refused to even smile.