"You divil!" she remarked, with the calmness of despair. "You red-handed rapscallion. You 've spiled me best Sunday Get-Up-and-Go-to-Early-Morning-Mass-Cap. Oh, you haythen!--you turk! Hanging is too good for the likes of you."
Moore, bawling and singing at the top of his lungs, heard nothing of the landlady's desperation.
"And lovers around her are sighing,
But coldly she turns--
Faith, the dear girl must have been taking a cold bath herself, I 'm thinking. Oh, murder! No! For, if that were so, how could the lovers be around her? No, indeed, no lady decent enough for Tom Moore to immortalize in song would be guilty of such immodesty, I am sure.
"But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
A beautiful sentiment, Mr. Moore."
"Oh, where is that soap?" and then again bursting into song, he warbled:
"Where is that soap?
Where is that soap?
Oh, where in Blazes is that so-o-o-ap?
Buster, you devil, bring me the soap."
"I 'll do nuthing of the kind," replied Mrs. Malone, ferociously.