Fiddles and pipes were in busy
requisition, and "The Boys of Rathfillan," the favorite local air,
resounded in every direction. And now that the master and the quality
had made their appearance, of course the drink should soon follow, and
in a short time the hints to that effect began to thicken.
"Thunder and turf, Jemmy, but this is dry work; my throat's like a
lime-burner's wig for want of a drop o' something to help me for the
cheerin'."
Hould your tongue, Paddy; do you think the masther's honor would allow
us to lose our voices in his behalf. It's himself that hasn't his heart
in a trifle, God bless him."
"Ah, thin, your honor," said another fellow, in tatters, "isn't this
dust and hate enough to choke a bishop? O Lord, am I able to spake at
all? Upon my sowl, sir, I think there's a bonfire in my throath."
Everything, however, had been prepared to meet these demands; and in
about a quarter of an hour barrels of beer and kegs of whiskey were
placed under the management of persons appointed to deal out their
contents to the thirsty crowds. Then commenced the dancing, whilst the
huzzaing, shouting, jingling of bells, squeaking of fifes, blowing of
horns, and all the other component parts of this wild melody, were once
more resumed with still greater vigor.
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