“Now, Phelim,” said the father, “look about you, an' tell us what girl in the neighborhood you'd like to be married to.”
“Why,” replied Phelim, “I'll lave that to you; jist point out the girl you'd like for your daughter-in-law, an' be she rich, poor, ould, or ugly, I'll delude her. That's the chat.”
“Ah, Phelim, if you could put your comedher an Gracey Dalton, you'd be a made boy. She has the full of a rabbit-skin o' guineas.”
“A made boy! Faith, they say I'm that as it is, you know. But would you wish me to put my comedher on Gracey Dalton? Spake out.”
“To be sure I would.”
“Ay,” observed the mother, “or what 'ud you think of Miss Pattherson? That 'ud be the girl. She has a fine farm, an' five hundre pounds. She's a Protestant, but Phelim could make a Christian of her.”
“To be sure I could,” said Phelim, “have her thumpin' her breast, and countin' her Padareens in no time. Would you wish me to have her, mudher?”
“Throth an' I would, avick.”
“That 'ud never do,” observed the father. “Sure you don't think she'd ever think of the likes o' Phelim?”
“Don't make a goose of yourself, ould man,” observed Phelim. “Do you think if I set about it, that I'd not manufacture her senses as asy as I'd peel a piatee?”