The songs of our sires, chanted with all that melancholy softness and pathetic sweetness for which the voices of our wild Irish girls are remarkable, the wild legend recited with that rich brogue and waggish humour peculiar alone to the Irish peasant, and the romantic and absurd fairy tale, told with all the reverential awe and caution which the solemnity of the subject required, long amused and excited the captivated auditors; but at length, more’s the pity, the vocalist could sing no more, having “a mighty great could intirely.” The story-teller was “as dry as a chip wid all he talked,” and even the sides of most of the company “war ready to split wid the rale dint of laughin’;” whilst, as if to afford us another illustration of the truth of the old proverb, “one trouble never comes alone,” even the old crone who had astonished us with the richness and extent of her fairy lore, was also knocked up, or rather knocked _down_, for the quantity of earthly _spirits_ she had put _in_, entirely put _out_ all memory of _un_-earthly _spirits_, and sent her disordered fancy, all confused as it was, wool-gathering to the classic regions of _Their-na-noge_.[3] Well, what was to be done? It was still young in the night, and, better than that, a good “slug” still remained in the grey-beard, and as we all had contributed to procure the stock, so all declared that none should depart until the very last drop was drained. But how was the interval to be employed? The singer was hushed, the story-teller was exhausted, and vollies of wit and waggery had exploded until every one was tired; yet to remain silent was considered by all as the highest degree of discomfort. In this dilemma the man of the house scratched his pericranium, and, as acting by some sudden impulse, started up and handed me an old sooty book, “hoping that I would read a wollume for the edication of the company, until it would be time to retire.”