“Are you goin’ to lep back agen?” sez ould King Garry, wantin’ to see more sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein’ the like as if he was a lad ov twenty.
“To be shure I will!” sez Fan, ready enough, “but I’ll have to take the girl over with me this time!” sez he.
“Oh, no, Fan!” sez Maynish, afeered ov her life he might stumble an’ that he’d fall in with her; an’ then she’d have to fall out with him—“take me father with you,” sez she; an’ egonnys, the ould king thought more about himself than any ov them, an’ sed he’d take the will for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin’ went on; an’ maybe that wasn’t the grand blow-out. But I can’t stay to tell yous all the fun they had for a fortnit; on’y, me dear, they all went into kinks ov laughin’, when the ould king, who tuk more than was good for him, stood up to drink Fan’s health, an’ forgot himself.
“Here’s to’ards your good health, Fan MaCool!” sez he, as grand as you like—“an’ a long life to you, an’ a happy wife to you—an’ a great many ov them!” sez he, like he’d forgot somethin’.
Well, me dear, every one was splittin’ their sides like the p’yates, unless the prencess, an’ she got as red in the face as if she was churnin’ in the winther an’ the frost keepin’ the crame from crackin’; but she got over it like the maisles.
But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an’ as the evenin’s gettin’ forrard I’ll stop; so put down the kittle an’ make tay, an’ if Fan and the Prencess Maynish didn’t live happy together—that we may!
The Kildare Pooka.
From “Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts.”