"It's throwin' away my time I have been all my life," says he, "livin' with you at all, and stuck at a loom nothin' but a poor Waiver, whin it's Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the sivin champions of Christendom."
"Well, suppose they christened him twice as much," says the wife, "sure, what's that to us?"
"Don't put in your prate." says he, "you ignorant shtrap," says he, "you're vulgar, woman,—you're vulgar—mighty vulgar; but I'll have nothin' more to say to any dirty snakin' trade agin—divil a more waivin' I'll do."
"Oh, Thady dear, and what'll the childre do then!"
"Let them go and play marvels," said he.
"That would be but poor feedin' for them, Thady."
"They shan't want for feedin'," says he, "for it's a rich man I'll be soon, and a great man too."
"Usha, but I'm glad to hear it, darlin'—though I donna how it's to be, but I think you had betther go to bed, Thady."'
"Don't talk to me of any bed, but the bed of glory, woman," says he— lookin' mortial grand.
"Oh, God sind we'll all be in glory yet," says the wife, crassin' herself, "but go to sleep, Thady, for this present."