“It’s not so when you’re beside a purty girl, Frank. But sure that’s not surprisin’; you were born wid butther in your mouth, an’ that’s what makes your orations to the fair sect be so soft an’ meltin’, ha, ha, ha! Well, Frank, never mind; there’s worse where you’ll go to: keep your own counsel fast: let’s salt your gums, an’ you’ll do yet. Whisht, boys; I’m goin’ to sing a _rann_, an’ afther that Frank an’ I will pick a couple o’ dozen out o’ yez ‘to box the Connaughtman.’” Boxing the Connaughtman is a play or diversion peculiar to wakes; it is grotesquely athletic in its character, but full, besides, of comic sentiment and farcical humour. He then commenced an Irish rann or song, the substance of which was as follows, according to his own translation:-- “St Patrick, it seems, was one Sunday morning crossing a mountain on his way to a chapel to say mass, and as he was an humble man (coaches wern’t then invented, at any rate) an’ a great pedestrium (pedestrian), he took the shortest cut across the mountain. In one of the lonely glens he met a herd-caudy, who spent his time in eulogizin’ his masther’s cattle, according to the precepts of them times, which was not by any means so larned an’ primogenitive as now. The countenance of the dog was clear an’ extremely sabbathical; every thing was at rest barring the little river before him, an’ indeed one would think that it flowed on with more decency an’ betther behaviour than upon other sympathising occasions. The birds, to be sure, were singin’, but it was aisy to see that they chirped out their best notes in honour of the day. ‘Good morrow on you,’ said St Patrick; ‘what’s the raison you’re not goin’ to prayers, my fine little fellow?’ ‘What’s prayers?’ axed the boy. St Patrick looked at him with a very pitiful and calamitous expression in his face. ‘Can you bless yourself?’ says he. ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I don’t know what it means?’ ‘Worse and worse,’ thought St Patrick. ‘Poor bouchal, it isn’t your fault. An how do you pass your time here?’ ‘Why, my mate (food) ’s brought to me, an’ I do be makin’ kings’ crowns out of my rushes, whin I’m not watching the cows an’ sheep.’ St Patrick sleeked down his head wid great dereliction, an’ said, ‘Well, acushla, you do be operatin’ kings’ crowns, but I tell you you’re born to wear a greater one than a king’s, an’ that is a crown of glory. Come along wid me.’ ‘I can’t lave my cattle,’ said the other, ‘for fraid they might go astray.’