Catty. The counshillor’s always very kind to me, and genteel.
Pat. And was up till past two in the morning, last night, madam, he bid me say, looking over them papers you left with him for your shuit, ma’am, with the McBrides, about the bit of Ballynascraw bog; and if you call upon the counshillor in the course of the morning, he’ll find, or make, a minute, for a consultation, he says. But mane time, to take no step to compromise, or make it up, for your life, ma’am.
Catty. No fear, I’ll not give up at law, or any way, to a McBride, while I’ve a drop of blood in my veins—and it’s good thick Irish blood runs in these veins.
Pat. No doubt, ma’am—from the kings of Ireland, as all the world knows, Mrs. Rooney.
Catty. And the McBrides have no blood at-all-at-all.
Pat. Not a drop, ma’am—so they can’t stand before you.
Catty. They ought not, any way!—What are they? Cromwellians at the best. Mac Brides! Scotch!—not Irish native, at-all-at-all. People of yesterday, graziers—which tho’ they’ve made the money, can’t buy the blood. My anshestors sat on a throne, when the McBrides had only their hunkers{1} to sit upon; and if I walk now when they ride, they can’t look down upon me—for every body knows who I am—and what they are.
{Footnote 1: Their hunkers, i.e. their hams.}
Pat. To be sure, ma’am, they do—the whole country talks of nothing else, but the shame when you’d be walking and they riding.
Catty. Then could the counshillor lend me the horse?