"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"
But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,
He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!
Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,
You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;
We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,
So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,
Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!
Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,
An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,