"Sure the chickens were roasted,—the praties was biled,
They were all in their jackets, for fear they'd be spiled;
And the neighbors came flockin', for to fling up the stockin',
And dance at the weddin' of Larry McGee."
It was interesting; but Father Letheby's temper was rising with the undulations of the song. He came out into the graveyard, and there was a stampede of the spectators. Jem was lifting the porter to his lips, and looked down calmly and philosophically at the young priest.
"Mr. Deady," said the latter, putting on his strongest accent, "I do not think I engaged you to entertain the village with your vocal powers, much as I esteem them. I engaged you to work,—to do honest work for honest wages."
"Begor," said the unabashed Jem, "if I was a Turk, or a Armaynian, I'd be allowed to ate my dinner."
"But this is not your dinner hour!"
"Twelve to wan is the dinner hour, except when I dines at the Grate House, whin, for my convaynience, they puts it off till aight."
It was a sly cut at Father Letheby, and he felt it.
"And your dinner, I presume, is the usual quantity of filthy porter, such as I see represented in your hand."
"It is, your reverence, excep' whin I dines with the Captain. Den we haves roast beef and champagne."
All this Father Letheby told me, with a look of puzzled anger, and with many exclamations.