“Come up here, you little sartor, till we get a dacent view of you. You're a son of Ned Malone's—aren't you?”
“Yes, and of Mary Malone, my mother, too, sir.”
“Why, thin, that's not so bad, any how—what's your name?”
“Dick, sir.”
“Now, Dick, ma bouchal, isn't it true that you can dance a horn-pipe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here, Larry Brady, take the door off the hinges, an' lay it down on the flure, till Dick Malone dances the Humors of Glynn: silence, boys, not a word; but just keep lookin' an.”
“Who'll sing, sir? for I can't be afther dancin' a step widout the music.”
“Boys, which of yez'll sing for Dick? I say, boys, will none of yez give Dick the Harmony? Well, come, Dick, I'll sing for you myself:
“Tooral lol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lorral, lol—
Toldherol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lol,” etc., etc.