A pair of breeches like a cobweb fine,
High-trottin' horse, and many a mile to go,
For him that to ould Ireland proves a foe!'"
Miss Biddy Reilly was the siren next
Knock'd down for melody: she seem'd perplext,
And said: "Upon my conscience—ralely—now—
I—Tommy, sing for me—well, anyhow,
I've nothin' new to trate ye with—"
"No matther!"
(From all parts of the room,) "sing Stoney Batther!"