“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.
“Yis,” says the waiver; “that was the last thrifle o’ work I done, and I’m afeared my hand ’ill go out o’ practice if I don’t get some job to do at wanst.”
ou shall have a job immediantly,” says the King. “It is not three score and tin, or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin’ the counthry and ruinatin’ my tinanthry wid aitin’ their powlthry, and I’m lost for want of eggs,” says the King.
“Throth, thin, plaze your worship,” says the waiver, “you look as yellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.”
“Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,” says the King. “It will be no throuble in life to you; and I’m only sorry that it isn’t betther worth your while, for he isn’t worth fearin’ at all; only I must tell you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage in that.”