“Why, you poor turncoat, isn't the whole country laughin' at you, and none more than your own friends. The great fightin' Orangeman and blood-hound turned voteen!—oh, are we alive afther that!”
“The blaggard bailiff and swindler turned swadler, hopin' to get a fatter cut from the Bible blades, oh!”
“Have you your bades about you? if you have, I'll throuble you to give us a touch of your Padareen Partha. Orange Bob at his Padareen Partha! ha, ha, ha.”
“You know much about Protestantism. Blow me, but it's a sin to see such a knavish scoundrel professing it.”
“It's a greater sin, you Orange omad-hawn, to see the likes o' you disgracin' the bades an' the blessed religion you tuck an you.”
“You were no disgrace, then, to the one you left; but you are a burnin' scandal to the one you joined, and they ought to kick you out of it.”
In fact, both converts, in the bitterness of their hatred, were beginning to forget the new characters they had to support, and to glide back unconsciously, or we should rather say, by the force of conscience, to their original creeds.
“If Father M'Cabe was wise he'd send you to the heretics again.”
“If the Protestants regarded their own character, and the decency of their religion, they'd send you back to your cursed Popery again.”
“It's no beef atin' creed, anyway,” said Darby, who had, without knowing it, become once more a staunch Papist, “ours isn't.”