"Full b.u.mpers of whiskey, Will make us all frisky, On Patrick's day in the morning."

_Miss G._ (_aside_) Oh! King of glory, if he is not come up after all!

_Clara._ "What noise is that, unlike the former sound?"

_Sir W._ Only some man, singing in honour of St. Patrick, I suppose.

_Enter_ CHRISTY GALLAGHER, BIDDY _trying to hold him back._

_Christy._ Tut! let me in: I know the lady is here, and I must thank her as becoming--

[_CLARA puts her hand before her face and retires as he advances._

_Miss G._ Oh! father, keep out--you're not in a condition.

_Sir W._ John! Thomas! carry this man off.

_Christy._ Ah, now, just let me remark to his honour--did he ever hear this song in England? (_He struggles and sings, while they are carrying him off,_)

"O'Rourke's n.o.ble feast shall ne'er be forgot, By those who were there, or by those who were not."

But it was not O'Rourke's n.o.ble feast at all, it was O'Hara's n.o.ble feast, to the best of my knowledge--I'll take my affidavit; and am not I here, on the spot, ready and proud to fight any one that denies the contrary? Let me alone, Florry, for I'm no babby to be taken out of the room. Ready and proud, I say I am, to fight any tin men in the county, or the kingdom itself, or the three kingdoms entirely, that would go for to dare for to offer to articulate the contrary. So it's Miss O'Hara for ever, huzza! a! a! a! a!

_Sir W._ Carry him off this instant. Begone!

[_The servants carry off CHRISTY GALLAGHER, while he sings, to the tune of "One bottle more,"_

"Oh, give me but whiskey, continted I'll sing, Hibernia for ever, and G.o.d save the king!"

[_Miss GALLAGHER directs and expedites her father's retreat._

_Clara._ Shame! shame! Is this the tenant I have chosen?

_Miss G._ Indeed, and indeed, then, Miss O'Hara, I often preach to him, but there's no use in life preaching to him--as good preaching to the winds! for, drunk or sober, he has an answer ready at all points. It is not wit he wants, sir.

_Sir W._ And he is happy in having a daughter, who knows how to make the best of his faults, I see. What an excellent landlord he will be for this new inn!

_Miss G._ Oh, certainly, sir--only it's being St. Patrick's night, he would be more inexcusable; and as to the new inn, plase Heaven! he shall get no pace on earth till he takes an oath afore the priest against spirits, good or bad, for a twil'month to come, before ever I trust a foot of his in the new inn.

_Clara._ But, ma'am, from your own appearance, I should apprehend that you would not be suited to the business yourself--I should suppose you would think it beneath you to keep an inn.

_Miss G._ Why, ma'am--why, sir--you know when it is called an hotel, it's another thing; and I'm sure I've a great regard for the family, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to oblige Miss O'Hara.

_Clara._ Miss Gallagher, let me beg that if you wish to oblige me--

_Enter GILBERT._

_Sir W._ Well, Gilbert?

_Gilb._ Only, sir, if you and Miss O'Hara were at leisure, sir, one Mr.

Andrew Hope, the master of the band, would wish to be allowed to come in to sing a sort of a welcome home they have set to music, sir, for Miss O'Hara.

_Clara._ I do believe this is the very song which that drunken man gave me this morning, and for which I gave him the promise of the inn. I shall be ashamed to hear the song.

_Sir W._ Let me hear it, at all events. Desire Mr. Andrew Hope, and his merry-men-all, to walk in. [_Exit GILBERT._

_Enter Mr. HOPE and band.--Some of the country-people peep in, as if wishing to enter._

_Sir W._ Come in, my good friends.

[_Enter, among others, the Widow LARKEN, and MABEL, and OWEN.--BIDDY follows timidly.--Miss GALLAGHER takes a conspicuous place.--Sir WILLIAM and CLARA continue speaking._

_Sir W._ Did Gilbert introduce his bride elect to you, Clara?

_Clara._ Yes, Mabel Larken, that girl with the sweet modest countenance--and her mother, that respectable-looking woman; and her brother, I see, is here, that boy with the quick, intelligent eyes. I know all the family--know them all to be good; and these were the people I might have served! Oh, fool! fool!

_Sir W._ Well, well, well, 'tis over now, my dear Clara--you will be wiser another time. Come, Mr. Hope, give us a little flattery, to put us in good-humour with ourselves.

[_The band prelude; but just as they begin, Sir WILLIAM sees CHRISTY, who is coming in softly, holding back the skirts of his coat.--Sir WILLIAM in a loud voice exclaims,_

Turn out that man! How dare you return to interrupt us, sir? Turn out that man!

_Christy._ (_falling on his knees_) Oh! plase your honour, I beg your pardon for one minute: only just give me lave to _insense_ your honour's honour. I'm not the same man at all.

_Sir W._ Stand up, stand up--an Englishman cannot bear to see a man kneel to him. Stand up, pray, if you can.

_Christy._ Then I can, plase your honour (_rises_), since I got a shock.

_Clara._ What shock? What do you mean?

_Christy._ Oh, nothing in life, miss, that need consarn you--only a fall I got from my horse, which the child they set to lead me would put me up upon, and it come down and kilt me; for it wasn't a proper horse for an unfortunate man like me, that was overtaken, as I was then; and it's well but I got a kick of the baast.

_Sir W._ Do you say you were kicked by a horse?

_Christy._ Not at all, plase your honour--I say _it was well but_ I got a kick of the baast. But it's all for the best now; for see, I'm now as sober as a jidge, and _quite_ as any lamb; and if I'd get lave only just to keep in this here corner, I would be no let or hinderance to any.

Oh! dear miss! spake for me! I'm an ould man, miss, that your father's honour was partial to always, and called me _honest_ Christy, which I was once, and till his death too.

_Sir W._ What a strange mixture is this man!

_Clara._ Pray let him stay, uncle--he's sober now.

_Sir W._ Say not one word more, then; stand still there in your corner.

_Christy._ And not a word for my life--not breathe, even--to plase you!

becaase I've a little business to mintion to the lady. Sixty guineas to resave from Mr. Gilbert, yonder. Long life to you, miss! But I'll say no more till this Scotchman has done with his fiddle and his musics.

_Sir W._ I thought, sir, you were not to have spoken another syllable.