Then in came the priest with his book,
He spoke him so smooth and so civil;
Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,
And pitch’d his big wig to the divil.
Then raising a little his head,
To get a sweet drop of the bottle,
And pitiful sighing he said,
“O! the hemp will be soon round my throttle[279],
And choke my poor windpipe to death!”
So mournful these last words he spoke,