When good Saint Patrick banished frogs, And shook them from his garment, He never thought we’d go abroad, To live upon such varmint; Nor quit the land where whiskey grew To wear King George’s button, Take vinegar for mountain dew, And toads for mountain mutton. Moddirederoo aroo, aroo, etc. “I say, Mike, stop that confounded keen, and tell me where are we?” “Off the ould head of Kinsale, sir.” “Where is Captain Power?” “Smoking a cigar on deck, with the captain, sir.” “And Mr. Sparks?” “Mighty sick in his own state-room. Oh, but it’s himself has enough of glory--bad luck to it!--by this time. He’d make your heart break to look at him.” “Who have you got on board besides?” “The adjutant’s here, sir; and an old gentleman they call the major.” “Not Major Dalrymple?” said I, starting up with terror at the thought, “eh, Mike?” “No, sir, another major; his name is Mulroon, or Mundoon, or something like that.” “Monsoon, you son of a lumper potato,” cried out a surly, gruff voice from a berth opposite. “Monsoon. Who’s at the other side?” “Mr. O’Malley, 14th,” said I, by way of introduction. “My service to you, then,” said the voice. “Going to join your regiment?” “Yes; and you, are you bound on a similar errand?” “No, Heaven be praised! I’m attached to the commissariat, and only going to Lisbon. Have you had any dinner?” “Not a morsel; have you?” “No more than yourself; but I always lie by for three or four days this way, till I get used to the confounded rocking and pitching, and with a little grog and some sleep, get over the time gayly enough. Steward, another tumbler like the last; there--very good--that will do. Your good health, Mr.--what was it you said?” “O’Malley.” “O’Malley--your good health! Good-night.” And so ended our brief colloquy, and in a few minutes more, a very decisive snore pronounced my friend to be fulfilling his precept for killing the hours.