"Shall I come and give it to you, Mrs. Malone? Oh, Lord, it is freezing to death I am."
"I hope you are; when you die you 'll git a change," answered Mrs. Malone, sitting down by the table, decisively.
"Are you going to stay?" asked Moore.
"I 'll sit right here till I git me rint, Tom Moore."
"You will, eh?"
"Thot I will, you water t'rowing spalpeen."
"I said come back when I am dressed, did n't I? Well, I 'm not dressed, am I?"
"How should I know?" observed Mrs. Malone, loudly, meanwhile mopping her neck with her handkerchief.
"Well," responded the poet, "you will know, if you don't get out of here mighty quick, I can tell you. I 'll not be turned into a lump of ice for any old lady, Irish or no Irish. Whe-ee! Oh-h-h! G-r-r-r-h! When I get into the market the price of ice will drop a penny a pound."
"I wants me rint," reiterated the landlady, quite unconcerned as to her lodger's personal temperature.