“‘Are you fond of reading?’ ses Cormac.
“‘There’s nothing gives me more pleasure,’ ses the King, ‘except teaching my chef to cook a Scotchman, and ’tis as hard to catch as ’tis to cook one.’
“‘I have heard of a Scotchman who was caught one time,’ ses Cormac.
“‘When he was dead, I suppose,’ ses the King.
“‘The time is flying, and a man gets hungry, and angry likewise, and there you are gabbing away, and myself waiting for dinner for the last three hours, and you showing no consideration for me at all. What way would you like to be cooked?’ ses the King. ‘You must be killed first, of course, though sometimes we does the cooking and the killing together, without as much as wasting a word about it. Howsomever, I am always lenient to the Irish, for I have an English strain in my temperament, and that’s why I am giving you your choice in the matter of cooking.’
“‘Well, bedad, to tell the truth, I’m not a bit particular about the cooking, but I am a trifle concerned about the killing. And before you will send me to my grave, I would like your Majesty to grant me one request,’ ses Cormac.
“‘And what’s that?’ ses the King, as he looked at his watch, for he was getting hungry and impatient.
“‘’Tis that I will be allowed to sing my swan song, so to speak, before I will die.’
“‘Sing away to your heart’s content,’ ses the King. And the words were no sooner spoken than Cormac commenced to sing ‘The Valley Lay Smiling Before Me,’ and when he finished the last verse, there wasn’t a dry handkerchief in the multitude that gathered around.