_Sir W._ Stand up, stand up--an Englishman cannot bear to see a man kneel to him. Stand up, pray, if you can. _Christy._ Then I can, plase your honour (_rises_), since I got a shock. _Clara._ What shock? What do you mean? _Christy._ Oh, nothing in life, miss, that need consarn you--only a fall I got from my horse, which the child they set to lead me would put me up upon, and it come down and kilt me; for it wasn’t a proper horse for an unfortunate man like me, that was overtaken, as I was then; and it’s well but I got a kick of the baast. _Sir W._ Do you say you were kicked by a horse? _Christy._ Not at all, plase your honour--I say _it was well but_ I got a kick of the baast. But it’s all for the best now; for see, I’m now as sober as a jidge, and _quite_ as any lamb; and if I’d get lave only just to keep in this here corner, I would be no let or hinderance to any. Oh! dear miss! spake for me! I’m an ould man, miss, that your father’s honour was partial to always, and called me _honest_ Christy, which I was once, and till his death too. _Sir W._ What a strange mixture is this man! _Clara._ Pray let him stay, uncle--he’s sober now. _Sir W._ Say not one word more, then; stand still there in your corner. _Christy._ And not a word for my life--not breathe, even--to plase you! becaase I’ve a little business to mintion to the lady. Sixty guineas to resave from Mr. Gilbert, yonder. Long life to you, miss! But I’ll say no more till this Scotchman has done with his fiddle and his musics. _Sir W._ I thought, sir, you were not to have spoken another syllable. [_CHRISTY puts his finger on his lips, and bows to Sir WILLIAM and to CLARA._ _Sir W._ Now, Mr. Hope. _Mr. HOPE sings, and the Band join in chorus,_ Though Bannow’s heiress, fair and young, Hears polish’d praise from ev’ry tongue; Yet good and kind, she’ll not disdain The tribute of the lowly swain. The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee. That open brow, that courteous grace, Bespeaks thee of thy generous race; Thy father’s soul is in thy smile-- Thrice blest his name in Erin’s isle. The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee. The bright star shining on the night, Betokening good, spreads quick delight; But quicker far, more glad surprise, Wakes the kind radiance of her eyes. The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee[1]. [Footnote 1: Set to music by Mr. Webbe.] _Christy._ Then I’m not ashamed, any way, of that song of mine. _Sir W._ Of yours?--Is it possible that it is yours? _Clara._ It is indeed. These are the very lines he gave me this morning. _Christy._ And I humbly thank you, madam or miss, for having got them set to the musics. _Clara._ I had nothing to do with that. We must thank Mr. Hope for this agreeable surprise. _Christy._ Why, then, I thank you, Mr. Drum.