Rory. There’s a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler,—you take it?
Talb. O yes, yes, we take it; go on.
Rory sings.
“I’m true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me.
Of all birds, beasts, or fishes, that swim in the sea,
Webb’d or finn’d, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory,
None but Talbot, O, Talbot’s the dog for Rory.”
Talb. “Talbot the dog” is much obliged to you.
Lord J. But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot too long, Mr. O’Ryan.
Rory. Phoo, put the best foot foremost for a frind. Slur it in the singing, and don’t be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot more or less. The more feet the better it will stand, you know. Only let me go on, and you’ll come to something that will plase you.
Rory sings.
“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm.”
Rory. That’s Bursal, mind now, whom I mean to allude to in this verse.