“No, indeed,” says the waiver, “you have the advantage o’ me.”
“To be sure, I have,” says the king, moighty high; “sure, ain’t I the King o’ Dublin?” says he.
The waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the King, and, says he, “I beg your pardon for the liberty I tuk; plaze your holiness, I hope you’ll excuse it.”
“No offince,” says the King; “get up, good man. And what brings you here?” says he.
“I’m in want of work, plaze your riverence,” says the waiver.
“Well, suppose I give you work?” says the king.
“I’ll be proud to sarve you, my lord,” says the waiver.
“Very well,” says the King. “You killed three score and tin at one blow, I understan’,” says the King.
“Yis,” says the waiver; “that was the last thrifle o’ work I done, and I’m afraid my hand ‘ill go out o’ practice if I don’t get some job to do at wanst.”
“You shall have a job immediately,” says the King. “It is not three score and tin or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin’ the counthry and ruinatin’ my tinanthry wid aitin’ their powlthry, and I’m lost for want of eggs,” said the King.