“Bedad!” says the gineral, afther a divil iv a long spy, “I’d bet half a pint,” says he, “that’s Billy Malowney himself,” says he, “down there,” says he.
“Och!” says Bonypart, “do you tell me so?” says he—“I’m fairly heart-scalded with that same Billy Malowney,” says he; “an’ I think if I wanst got shut iv him, I’d bate the rest of them aisy,” says he.
“I’m thinking so myself,” says the general, says he; “but he’s a tough bye,” says he.
“Tough!” says Bonypart, “he’s the divil,” says he.
“Begorra, I’d be better plased,” says the gineral, says he, “to take himself than the Duke iv Willinton,” says he, “an’ Sir Edward Blakeney into the bargain,” says he.
“The Duke of Wellinton and Gineral Blakeney,” says Bonypart, “is great for planning, no doubt,” says he; “but Billy Malowney’s the boy for action,” says he—“an’ action’s everything, just now,” says he.
So with that Bonypart pushes up his cocked hat, and begins scratching his head, and thinking and considherin’ for the bare life, and at last says he to the gineral:
“Gineral Commandher iv all the Foorces,” says he, “I’ve hot it,” says he: “ordher out the forlorn hope,” says he, “an’ give them as much powdher, both glazed and blasting,” says he, “an’ as much bullets, do ye mind, an’ swan-dhrops an’ chainshot,” says he, “an’ all soorts iv waipons an’ combustables as they can carry; an’ let them surround Bill Malowney,” says he, “an’ if they can get any soort iv an advantage,” says he, “let them knock him to smithereens,” says he, “an’ then take him presner,” says he; “an’ tell all the bandmen iv the Frinch army,” says he, “to play up ‘Garryowen,’ to keep up their sperits,” says he, “all the time they’re advancin’. And you may promise them anything you like in my name,” says he; “for, by my sowl, I don’t think it’s many iv them ‘ill come back to throuble us,” says he, winkin’ at him.
So away with the gineral, an’ he ordhers out the forlorn hope, an’ tells the band to play, an’ everything else, just as Bonypart desired him. An’ sure enough whin Billy Malowney heerd the music where he was standin’ taking a blast of the dhudheen to compose his mind for murdherin’ the Frinchmen as usual, being mighty partial to that tune intirely, he cocks his ear a one side, an’ down he stoops to listen to the music; but, begorra, who should be in his rare all the time but a Frinch grannideer behind a bush, and seeing him stooped in a convenient forum, bedad he let flies at him straight, and fired him right forward between the legs an’ the small iv the back, glory be to God! with what they call (saving your presence) a bum-shell.