Which has garnished her lungs with a feeling like holly; And has changed her sweet voice, as a matter of course, From the nightingale's tone to sound dreadfully hoarse. "Oh, how funny it seems to one not fond of dancing, To see women and men just like animals prancing! Roaming forwards and back like two bears in a cage, And then galloping round as if put in a rage. Working harder--I'll bet ten young pigs to a sow, Than they've been all day long at the tail of the plough." "Stop!" I fancy I hear some fair maiden exclaim, In a tone full of ire strongly mixed with disdain. "'Tis some horrid old man has been writing this tale, Who will make his remarks, though so stupid and stale." Now, kind reader, of this I must beg to assure you, That 'twas Flanagan muttered those words placed before you. Rat-a-tat! "Who is that?" Murphy cried; "pray come in." And a priest walked inside who had listening been. How the widow's heart beat as he stept up to greet her! He was very much like, still he was not old Peter. "Sure I'm in for it now," Murphy inwardly thought; "I would fly, but must own I've been quite fairly caught. No I aint!--'tis but Pat, though in clever disguise; He may cheat his old Mother's, but not these young eyes. But I'll not spoil the fun; I'm reprieved by his aid. Ah! his voice, as I feared, has the secret betrayed; And the good little dame appears quite in a pet. P'rhaps she'll wait longer still for a young bridegroom yet! For I rather repent having scouted poor Joan, She is prettier far, though I don't like her home. Still a second-hand wife, and four babes ready made, Must be popped in the scale and against that be weighed. "Now, Murphy," cried Flanagan, "your comical song! Why, you look black as if all on earth had gone wrong! Come, I'll bet what you like I can guess what you thought (If you did take the trouble to meditate aught), 'Tis a bother, I own, and you well may look blue (Still you're quite green enough if your friends all speak true). Oh, I fear you are out both of temper and tune, But I'll give you a song which shall banish care soon." Then he whetted his whistle, and clearing his voice, In a very gruff tone sang this ditty so choice:-- "Oh, those that like, let them be sad, For my part I'll be merry. A life like theirs would drive me mad, So I'll be jolly, very. If Cupid should catch hold of me, And from my love me sever, And into woe would turn my glee, Shall he succeed?--no, never! If valued friends prove false, unkind, When any scrape I get in; I'll drive their memory from my mind, And thus no sorrow let in. If Miss Fortune should use me ill, And steal my only penny, Contentedly I'll jog on still, As happy without any. Though Landladies may bore for rent, And duns may loudly bellow; I'll tell them, though my money's spent, I'm still a jolly fellow.