Christy. Or the schoolmaster’s foul copy may be, for it was he was putting the song down for me on paper. My own hand-writing shaking so bad, I could not make a fair copy fit for the lady.
Mr. H. Mr. Gallagher, don’t plunge farther in falsehood—you know the truth is, that song’s not yours.
Christy. Why, then, by all—
Mr. H. Stop, stop, Mr. Gallagher—stop, I advise you.
Christy. Why, then, I won’t stop at any thing—for the song’s my own.
Mr. H. In one sense of the word, may be, it may be called your own, sir; for you bought it, I know.
Christy. I bought it? Oh, who put that in your Scotch brains? Whoever it was, was a big liar.
Biddy. No liar at all, sir—I ax your pardon—‘twas I.
Christy. And you overheard my thoughts, then, talking to myself—ye traitor!
Biddy. No, sir—again I ax your pardon; no listener Biddy Doyle. But I was at the schoolmaster’s, to get him pen a letter for me to my poor father, and there with him, I heard how Christy bought the song, and seen the first copy—and the child of the house told me all about it, and how it was lift there by Mr. Owen Larken.