'God save you kindly,' says the waiver, purtendin' he was quite onknowst who he was spakin' to.
'Do you know who I am,' says the king, 'that you make so free, good man?'
'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 an his two knees forninst the king, and says he, 'I beg God's pardon and yours 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 o' 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.