"But what about the pledge, Jem?" asked a conscientious spectator. "Shure your time isn't up yet."
"'T is up long ago," cried another. "'Twas three months yesterday since he took the pledge."
"Byes," said Jem, who was troubled at the possible scandal he was about to give, "I promised not to dhrink in a public house; and shure this isn't a public house, glory be to God!"
They took off their hats reverently; and then the pint came, was taken up the ladder with great care and solemnity, and a few minutes after, Father Letheby heard:—
"What is it going to be, byes? I've left me music on the pianney!"
"'Larry McGee!' 'Larry McGee!' No. No. 'T is Yares Since Last——.' No. No. 'The Byes of Wexford.'"
"Byes, I think the majority is in favor of 'Larry McGee.'—Here's to yer health!"
And then came floating from the roof in various quavers and semiquavers and grace-notes the following, which is all Father Letheby can remember.
"I—in the town of Kilkinny lived Larry McGee,
Oh—oh the divil's own boy at divarshion was he;
He—he had a donkey, a pig, but he hadn't a wife,
His cabin was dreary, and wretched his life."
Then the notes came wavering and fitful, as the wind took them up, and carried them struggling over the moorland; and all that Father Letheby could hear was about a certain Miss Brady, who was reared up a lady, and who was requested to accept the name of Mrs. McGee. This suit must have been successful, because, as the wind lulled down, the words came clearly:—