“An’ welkim, Darby,” siz he; “it’s yours.”
“God bless your honour, sir,” siz I, “it’s my poor father that will pray for you. When I left home the creather hadn’t as much as an anvil but what was sthreeled away by the agint—bad end to them. This will be jist the thing that’ll match him; he can tie the horse to the ring, while he forges on the other part. Now, will ye obleege me by gettin’ a couple ov chaps to lay it on my shoulder when I get into the wather, and I won’t have to be comin’ back for it afther I shake hands with this fellow.”
Begar, the chap turned from yallow to white when he heard me say this. An’ siz he to the gintleman that was walkin’ by his side—
“I reckon I’m not fit for the shwimmin’ to-day—I don’t feel myself.”
“An’, murdher an’ Irish, if you’re yer brother, can’t you send him for yerself, an’ I’ll wait here till he comes. Here, man, take a dhrop ov this before ye go. Here’s to yer betther health, and your brother’s into the bargain.” So I took off my glass, and handed him another; but the never a dhrop ov it he’d take. “No force,” siz I, “avic; maybee you think there’s poison in it—well, here’s another good luck to us. An’ when will ye be able for the shwim, avic?” siz I, mighty complisant.
“I reckon in another week,” siz he.
So we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow went home, took the fever, then began to rave. “Shwim up catharacts!—shwim to the Keep ov Good Hope!—shwim to St Helena!—shwim to Keep Cleer!—shwim with an anchor on his back!—Oh! oh! oh!”
I now thought it best to be on the move; so I gother up my winners; and here I sit undher my own hickory threes, as indipindent as any Yankee.
Thomas Ettingsall (17—–1850?).
