“Agreed,” said Father Malachi, finishing a bumper, and after giving a few preparatory hems, he sang the following “singularly wild and beautiful poem,” as some one calls Christabel:— “Here’s a health to Martin Hanegan’s aunt, And I’ll tell ye the reason why! She eats bekase she is hungry, And drinks bekase she is dry. “And if ever a man, Stopped the course of a can, Martin Hanegan’s aunt would cry— ‘Arrah, fill up your glass, And let the jug pass; How d’ye know but what your neighbour’s dhry?’” “Come, my lord and gentlemen, da capo, if ye please—Fill up your glass,” and the chanson was chorussed with a strength and vigour that would have astonished the Philharmonic. The mirth and fun now grew “fast and furious;” and Father Malachi, rising with the occasion, flung his reckless drollery and fun on every side, sparing none, from his cousin to the coadjutor. It was not that peculiar period in the evening’s enjoyment, when an expert and practical chairman gives up all interference or management, and leaves every thing to take its course; this then was the happy moment selected by Father Malachi to propose the little “conthribution.” He brought a plate from a side table, and placing it before him, addressed the company in a very brief but sensible speech, detailing the object of the institution he was advocating, and concluding with the following words:—“and now ye’ll just give whatever ye like, according to your means in life, and what ye can spare.” The admonition, like the “morale” of an income tax, having the immediate effect of pitting each man against his neighbour, and suggesting to their already excited spirits all the ardour of gambling, without, however, a prospect of gain. The plate was first handed to me in honour of my “rank,” and having deposited upon it a handful of small silver, the priest ran his finger through the coin, and called out:— “Five pounds! at least; not a farthing less, as I am a sinner. Look, then,—see now; they tell ye, the gentlemen don’t care for the like of ye! but see for yourselves. May I trouble y’r lordship to pass the plate to Mr. Mahony—he’s impatient, I see.” Mr. Mahony, about whom I perceived very little of the impatience alluded to, was a grim-looking old Christian, in a rabbit-skin waistcoat, with long flaps, who fumbled in the recesses of his breeches pocket for five minutes, and then drew forth three shillings, which he laid upon the plate, with what I fancied very much resembled a sigh. “Six and sixpence, is it? or five shillings?—all the same, Mr. Mahony, and I’ll not forget the thrifle you were speaking about this morning any way;” and here he leaned over as interceding with me for him, but in reality to whisper into my ear, “the greatest miser from this to Castlebar.” “Who’s that put down the half guinea in goold?” (And this time he spoke truth.) “Who’s that, I say?”