The men ceased work for a few minutes while their comrade spoke as follows—
“It’s not a long story, boys, but it’s long enough to prove that ghosts drink.
“Ye must know that wance upon a time there wos a widdy as lived in a small town in the county o’ Clare, in Owld Ireland, an’ oh! but that was the place for drinkin’ and fightin’. It wos there that I learned to use me sippers; and it wos there, too, that I learned to give up drinkin’, for I comed for to see what a mighty dale o’ harm it did to my poor countrymen. The sexton o’ the place was the only man as niver wint near the grog-shop, and no wan iver seed him overtook with drink, but it was a quare thing that no wan could rightly understand why he used to smell o’ drink very bad sometimes. There wos a young widdy in that town, o’ the name o’ Morgan, as kep’ a cow, an’ owned a small cabin, an’ a patch o’ tater-ground about the size o’ the starn sheets of our owld long-boat. She wos a great deal run after, wos this widdy—not that the young lads had an eye to the cow, or the cabin, or the tater-estate, by no manes—but she wos greatly admired, she wos. I admired her meself, and wint to see her pretty fraquent. Well, wan evenin’ I wint to see her, an’ says I, ‘Mrs Morgan, did ye iver hear the bit song called the Widdy Machree?’ ‘Sure I niver did,’ says she. ‘Would ye like to hear it, darlint?’ says I. So she says she would, an’ I gave it to her right off; an’ when I’d done, says I, ‘Now, Widdy Morgan, ochone! will ye take me?’ But she shook her head, and looked melancholy. ‘Ye ain’t a-goin’ to take spasms?’ said I, for I got frightened at her looks. ‘No,’ says she; ‘but there’s a sacret about me; an’ I like ye too well, Phil, to decaive ye; if ye only know’d the sacret, ye wouldn’t have me at any price.’
“‘Wouldn’t I?’ says I; ‘try me, cushla, and see av I won’t.’
“‘Phil Briant,’ says she, awful solemn like, ‘I’m haunted.’
“‘Haunted!’ says I; ‘’av coorse ye are, bliss yer purty face; don’t I know that ivery boy in the parish is after ye?’
“‘It’s not that I mane. It’s a ghost as haunts me. It haunts me cabin, and me cow, and me tater-estate; an’ it drinks.’
“‘Now, darlint,’ says I, ‘everybody knows yer aisy frightened about ghosts. I don’t belave in one meself, an’ I don’t mind ’em a farden dip; but av all the ghosts in Ireland haunted ye, I’d niver give ye up.’
“‘Will ye come an’ see it this night?’ says she.
“‘Av coorse I will,’ says I. An’ that same night I wint to her cabin, and she let me in, and put a candle on the table, an’ hid me behind a great clock, in a corner jist close by the cupboard, where the brandy-bottle lived. Then she lay down on her bed with her clo’s on, and pulled the coverlid over her, and pretinded to go to slape. In less nor half-an-hour I hears a fut on the doorstep; then a tap at the door, which opened, it seemed to me, of its own accord, and in walks the ghost, sure enough! It was covered all over from head to fut in a white sheet, and I seed by the way it walked that it wos the worse of drink. I wos in a mortal fright, ye may be sure, an’ me knees shuk to that extint ye might have heard them rattle. The ghost walks straight up to the cupboard, takes out the brandy-bottle, and fills out a whole tumbler quite full, and drinks it off; it did, the baste, ivery dhrop. I seed it with me two eyes, as sure as I’m a-standin’ here. It came into the house drunk, an’ it wint out drunker nor it came in.”