Catty. The spalpeen! turned into a buckeen, that would be a squireen,—but can’t.
Pat. No, for the father pinches him.
Catty. That’s well—and that ould Matthew is as obstinate a neger as ever famished his stomach. What’s he doing in Ballynavogue the day?
Pat. Standing he is there, in the fair-green with his score of fat bullocks, that he has got to sell.
Catty. Fat bullocks! Them, I reckon, will go towards Honor McBride’s portion, and a great fortin she’ll be for a poor man—but I covet none of it for me or mine.
Pat. I’m sure of that, ma’am,—you would not demane yourself to the likes.
Catty. Mark me, Pat Coxe, now—with all them fat bullocks at her back, and with all them fresh roses in her cheeks—and I don’t say but she’s a likely girl, if she wa’n’t a McBride; but with all that, and if she was the best spinner in the three counties—and I don’t say but she’s good, if she wa’n’t a McBride;—but was she the best of the best, and the fairest of the fairest, and had she to boot the two stockings full of gould, Honor McBride shall never be brought home, a daughter-in-law to me! My pride’s up.
Pat. (aside) And I’m instructed to keep it up.—(Aloud) True for ye, ma’am, and I wish that all had as much proper pride, as ought to be having it.
Catty. There’s maning in your eye, Pat—give it tongue.
Pat. If you did not hear it, I suppose there’s no truth in it.