“Throth, an' I will; but don't be Mitherin me. Faith, this is The height o' good punch. You see--ha, ha, ha! You see, it was one hard summer afore I was married to Ellish--mavourneen, that you wor, asthore! Och, och, are we parted at last? Upon my sowl, my heart's breakin'--breakin', (weeps) an' no wondher! But as I was sayin'--all your healths! faith, it is tip-top punch that--the poor man fell sick of a faver, an' sure enough, when it was known what ailed him, the neighbors built a little shed on the roadside for him, in regard that every one was afeard to let him into their place. Howsomever--ha, ha, ha--Father Soolaghan was one day ridin' past upon his horse, an' seein' the crathur lyin' undher the shed, on a whisp o' straw, he pulls bridle, an' puts the spake on the poor sthranger. So, begad, it came out, that the neighbors were very kind to him, an' used to hand over whatsomever they thought best for him from the back o' the ditch, as well as they could. “'My poor fellow,' said the priest, 'you're badly off for linen.' “'Thrue for you, sir,' said the sick man, 'I never longed for anything so much in my life, as I do for a clane shirt an' a glass o' whiskey.' “'The devil a glass o' whiskey I have about me, but you shall have the clane shirt, you poor compassionate crathur,' said the priest, stretchin' his neck up an' down to make sure there was no one comin' on the road--ha, ha, ha! “Well an' good--'I have three shirts,' says his Reverence, 'but I have only one o' them an me, an' that you shall have.' “So the priest peels himself on the spot, an' lays his black coat and waistcoat afore him acrass the saddle, thin takin' off his shirt, he threw it acrass the ditch to the sick man. Whether it was the white shirt, or the black coat danglin' about the horse's neck, the divil a one o' myself can say, but any way, the baste tuck fright, an' made off wid Father Soolaghan, in the state I'm tellin' yez, upon his back--ha, ha, ha! “Parra Gastha, here, an' I war goin' up at the time to do a little in the distillin' way for Tom Duggan of Aidinasamlagh, an' seen what was goin' an. So off we set, an we splittin' our sides laughin'--ha, ha, ha--at the figure the priest cut. However, we could do no good, an' he never could pull up the horse, till he came full flight to his own house, opposite the pound there below, and the whole town in convulsions when they seen him. We gother up his clothes, an' brought them home to him, an' a good piece o' fun-we had wid him, for he loved the joke as well as any man. Well, he was the good an' charitable man, the same Father Soolaghan; but so simple that he got himself into fifty scrapes, God rest him! Och, och, she's lyin' low that often laughed at that, an' I'm here--ay, I have no one, no one that 'ud show me sich a warm heart as she would. (Weeps.) However, God's will be done. I'll sing yez a song she liked:-- 'Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male, A two-lugged porringer wantin' a tail.'