Our spirits are always the same;
We’re free from every dull thought,
And the “Boys of old Ireland’s” our name!
I never saw a poor fellow so pleased as the pike-man; the words hit his fancy: he shook us all round, most heartily, by the hand; and running into his lodge, brought out a pewter pot of frothing beer, which he had just got for himself, and insisted on each of us taking a drink. We of course complied. He gave Matthew a drink too, and desired him not to be so handy with his whip to other pike-men, or they’d justice him at Kilmainham. He then helped up our traces; and Matthew meanwhile, who, having had the last draught, had left the pot no further means of exercising its hospitality—enlivened by the liquor and encouraged by the good-nature of the pike-man, and his pardon for the walloping—thought the least he could do in gratitude was to give the honest man a sample of his own music, vocal and instrumental: so taking his hunting horn from under his coat (he never went a yard without it) and sounding his best “Death of Reynard,” he sang a stave which was then the charter song of his rank, and which he roared away with all the graces of a view holloa:
Ho! ro! the sup of good drink!
And it’s ho! ro! the heart wou’dn’t think!
Oh! had I a shilling lapp’d up in a clout,
’Tis a sup of good drink that should wheedle it out.
And it’s ho! ro! &c. &c.
The man of the pike was delighted. “Why, then, by my sowl, you ould mummer,” said he, “it’s a pity the likes of you should want a hog. Arrah! here (handing him a shilling), maybe your whistle would run dry on the road, and you’ll pay me when you come back, won’t you? Now all’s settled, off wid yees! Success!—success!” And away we went, as fast as the halt and blind could convey us.