To drink a toast, A proctor roast, Or bailiff as the case is; To kiss your wife, Or take your life At ten or fifteen paces; To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox, To drink in punch the Solway, With debts galore, but fun far more,-- Oh, that’s “the man for Galway.” CHORUS: With debts, etc. The King of Oude Is mighty proud, And so were onst the _Caysars_; But ould Giles Eyre Would make them stare, Av he had them with the Blazers. To the devil I fling--ould Runjeet Sing, He’s only a prince in a small way, And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall; Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.” CHORUS: With debts, etc. Ye think the Blakes Are no “great shakes;” They’re all his blood relations. And the Bodkins sneeze At the grim Chinese, For they come from the _Phenaycians_. So fill the brim, and here’s to him Who’d drink in punch the Solway, With debts galore, but fun far more,-- Oh, that’s “the man for Galway.” CHORUS: With debts, etc. I much fear that the reception of this very classic ode would not be as favorable in general companies as it was on the occasion I first heard it; for certainly the applause was almost deafening, and even Sir George, the defects of whose English education left some of the allusions out of his reach, was highly amused, and laughed heartily. The conversation once more reverted to the election; and although I was too far from those who seemed best informed on the matter to hear much, I could catch enough to discover that the feeling was a confident one. This was gratifying to me, as I had some scruples about my so long neglecting my uncle’s cause. “We have Scariff to a man,” said Bodkin. “And Mosey’s tenantry,” said another. “I swear, though there’s not a freehold registered on the estate, that they’ll vote, every mother’s son of them, or devil a stone of the court-house they’ll leave standing on another.” “And may the Lord look to the returning officer!” said a third, throwing up his eyes. “Mosey’s tenantry are droll boys; and like their landlord, more by token, they never pay any rent.” “And what for shouldn’t they vote?” said a dry-looking little old fellow in a red waistcoat; “when I was the dead agent--” “The dead agent!” interrupted Sir George, with a start. “Just so,” said the old fellow, pulling down his spectacles from his forehead, and casting a half-angry look at Sir George, for what he had suspected to be a doubt of his veracity.