“Bedad, Cauth (Kate),” sez she, “but this beggarman is a fine bit of a bouchal (boy),” sez she; “it’s in the arumy (army) he ought to be,” sez she, lookin’ at him agen, an’ admirin’ him, like.
So, Fan, purtendin’ to be fixin’ his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two lusmores (fox-gloves) an’ put them anunder his heels; for thim wor the fairies’ own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an’ he, ov coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an ould lenaun (fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he was a little stand-a-loney.
Well, me dear, ye’d think it was on’y over a little creepie (three-legged) stool he was leppin’ whin he landed like a thrish jist at the fut ov the prencess; an’ his father’s son he was, that put his two arums around her, an’ gev her a kiss—haith, ye’d hear the smack ov it at the Castle o’ Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake, an’ pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an’ at last he ordhered the bowld beggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuck off weskit an’ seen the collar ov goold around Fan’s neck the ould chap became delighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun (Erin) for a son-in-law.
“Hello!” sez the king, “who have we now?” sez he, seein’ the collar. “Begonny’s,” sez he, “you’re no boccagh (beggar) anyways!”
“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as a cocksparra’; “have you anything to say agen me?” for his name wasn’t up, at that time, like afther.
“Ay lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ round this a-way, dressed like a playacthor, takin’ us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to be vexed; “an’ now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ jump back agen afore you gets me daughter for puttin’ on (deceiving) us in such a manner.”
“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must have a word or two with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft to her, an’ the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were croosheenin’ an’ colloguin’ (whispering and talking), an’ not mindin’ him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who comes up but the Prence of Imayle, afther dryin’ himself, to put his pike in the hay too.
“Well, avochal (my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry yet?” an’ the Prencess laughed like a bell round a cat’s neck.
“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez the other; “but there’s one thing you can’t do wid all your prate!”
“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not” sez he.