Thus did Mr. Nickie ramble on, in the popular cant, over the subject of the day; for although the Union was now carried, and its consequences--whatever they might be--so far inevitable, the men whose influence effected the measure were still before the bar of public opinion,--an ordeal not a whit more just and discriminating than it usually is. While the current of these reminiscences ran on, varied by some anecdote here or some observation there, both master and man drank deeply. So long as good liquor abounded, Mr. M'Dermot could have listened with pleasure, even to a less entertaining companion; and as for Nickie, he felt a vulgar pride in discussing, familiarly and by name, the men of rank and station who took a leading part in Irish politics. The pamphlets and newspapers of the day had made so many private histories public, had unveiled so many family circumstances before the eyes of the world, that his dissertations had all the seeming authenticity of personal knowledge. It was at the close of a rather violent denunciation of the “Traitors”--as the Government party was ever called--that Nickie, striking the table with his fist, called on M'Dermot to sing. “I say, Mac,” cried he, with a faltering tongue, and eyes red and bleared from drink,--“the old lady--wouldn't accept my society--she did n't think--An-tho-ny Nickie, Esquire--good enough--to sit down--at her table. Let us show her what she has lost, my boy. Give her 'Bob Uniake's Boots' or 'The Major's Prayer.'” “Or what d' ye think of the new ballad to Lord Castlereagh, sir?” suggested M'Dermot, modestly. “It was the last thing Rhoudlim had when I left town.” “Is it good?” hiccuped Nickie. “If ye heerd Rhoudlim--” “D----n Rhoudlim!--she used to sing that song Parsons made on the attorneys. Parsons never liked us, Mac. You know what he said to Holmes, who went to him for a subscription of five shillings, to help to bury Mat Costegan. 'Was n't he an attorney?' says Parsons. 'He was,' says the other. 'Well, here 's a pound,' says he; 'take it and bury four!'” “Oh, by my conscience, that was mighty nate!” said M'Dermot, who completely forgot himself. Nickie frowned savagely at his companion, and for a moment seemed about to express his anger more palpably, when he suddenly drank off his glass, and said, “Well, the song,-let us have it now.” “I 'm afraid--I don't know more than a verse here and there,” said Mac, bashfully stroking down his hair, and mincing his words; “but with the help of a chorus--” “Trust me for that,” cried Nickie, who now drank glass after glass without stopping; “I'm always ready for a song.” So saying he burst out into a half-lachryinose chant,-- “An old maid had a roguish eye! And she was call'd the great Kamshoodera! Rich was she and poor was I! Fol de dol de die do!