"We'll be the 'Alps in the sunset,' my boys," said Murphy; "and here's the wine to enlighten us! But what are _you_ about there, doctor?--is it a prescription you are writing?" "No. Prescriptions are written in Latin, and this is a bit of Greek I'm doing. Mr. Reddy has inspired me with a classic spirit, and if you will permit me, I'll volunteer a song [_bravo! bravo!_], and give you another version of the subject he has so beautifully treated--only mine is not so heart-breaking." The doctor's proposition was received with cheers, and after he had gone through the mockery of clearing his throat, and pitching his voice after the usual manner of your would-be fine singers, he gave out, to the tune of a well-known rollicking Irish lilt, the following burlesque version of the subject of Reddy's song:-- LOVE AND LIQUOR _A Greek Allegory_ I Oh sure 't would amaze yiz How one Misther Theseus Desarted a lovely young lady of owld. On a dissolute island, All lonely and silent, She sobbed herself sick as she sat in the cowld. Oh, you'd think she was kilt, As she roar'd with the quilt Wrapp'd round her in haste as she jumped out of bed, And ran down to the coast, Where she looked like a ghost, Though 't was _he_ was departed--the vagabone fled And she cried, "Well-a-day! Sure my heart it is grey: They're deceivers, them sojers, that goes on half-pay." II Whilst abusing the villain, Came riding postilion A nate little boy on the back of a baste, Big enough, faith, to ate him, But he lather'd and bate him, And the baste to unsate him ne'er struggled the laste, And an iligant car He was dhrawing--by gar! It was finer by far than a Lord Mayor's state coach, And the chap that was in it He sang like a linnet, With a nate kag of whisky beside him to broach. And he tipped now and then Just a matter o' ten Or twelve tumblers o' punch to his bold sarving-men. III They were dress'd in green livery, But seem'd rather shivery, For 't was only a trifle o' leaves that they wore; But they caper'd away Like the sweeps on May-day, And shouted and tippled the tumblers galore. A print of their masther Is often in plasther O' Paris, put over the door of a tap; A fine chubby fellow, Ripe, rosy, and mellow, Like a peach that is ready to drop in your lap. Hurrah! for brave Bacchus, A bottle to crack us, He's a friend of the people, like bowld Caius Gracchus. IV