“I 'm quite willing,” said Dan, good-humoredly; “a man has no right to be impatient in the midst of such pleasant company;” and as he spoke, he seated himself on a low stone bench beside the house door, with, all the ease of one bent on being companionable. Had MacNaghten assumed airs of haughty superiority or insolent contempt for that motley assembly, he never could have attained to the position to which the last words, carelessly uttered as they were, at once raised him. They not only pronounced him a gentleman, but a man of the world besides,--the two qualities in the very highest repute in that class by which he was surrounded. Instead, therefore, of the familiar tone they had previously used towards him, they now stood silently awaiting him to speak. “Do the people hereabouts follow any particular trade?” asked Dan. “'T is straw chairs principally, your honer,” replied the cripple, “is the manufacture of the place; but most of us are on the streets.” “On the streets,--how do you mean?” “There's Billy Glory, there yonder, he sings ballads; that man with the bit of crape round his hat hawks the papers; more of us cry things lost or stolen; and a few more lives by rows and rucktions at elections, and the like.” “Faix! and,” sighed the strong man, “the trade isn't worth the following now. I remember when Barry O'Hara would n't walk the streets without a body-guard,--five in front, and five behind him,--and well paid they were; and I remember Hamilton Brown payin' fifty of us to keep College Green against the Government, on a great Parliament night. Ay, and we did it too!” “They wor good times for more than you,” broke in the woman in the uniform coat; “I made seven-and-sixpence on Essex Bridge in one night by the 'Shan van voght.'” “The grandest ballad that ever was written,” chimed in an old man with one eye; “does yer honer know it?” “I'm ashamed to say not perfectly,” said Dan, with an air of humility. “Molly Daly's the one can sing it well, then,” cried he; a sentiment re-echoed with enthusiasm by all. “I'm low and down-hearted of a mornin',” said Molly, bashfully; “but maybe after a naggin and a pint I'll be better.” “Let me have the honor to treat the company,” said Dan, handing a crown-piece to one near him. “If your honor wants to hear Molly right, make her sing Tom Molloy's ballad for the Volunteers,” whispered the cripple; and he struck up in a hoarse voice,-- “'Was she not a fool, When she took off our wool, To leave us so much of the Leather--the leather! “'It ne'er entered her pate That a sheepskin will 'bate,' Will drive a whole nation Together--together.'” “I'd rather she 'd sing Mosy Cassan's new song on Barry Rutledge,” growled out a bystander. “A song on Rutledge?” cried Dan. “Yes, sir. It was describin' how Watty Carew enticed him downstairs, to kill him. Faix, but there's murder now goin' on upstairs; do ye hear ould Joe, how he's cursin' and swearin'?”