As he proceeded, the mountain bee hummed his tune of gladness around the holy man, save when buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling upon a fragrant bunch of thyme; and even then the little voice murmured out happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight. Father Cuddy derived no small comfort from the sound, for it presaged a good metheglin season; and metheglin he considered, if well manufactured, to be no bad liquor, particularly when there was no stint or usquebaugh in the brewing. Arrived within the abbey garth, he was received with due respect by the brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the wine were completed to his entire satisfaction.--"Welcome, Father Cuddy!" said the prior, "grace be on you." "Grace before meat then," said Cuddy, "for a long walk always makes me hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half-a-mile this morning, to say nothing of crossing the water." A pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion as regarded Father Cuddy's appetite. After such consoling repast, it would have been a reflection on monastic hospitality to have departed without partaking of the grace-cup; moreover, Father Cuddy had a particular respect for the antiquity of that custom. He liked the taste of the grace-cup well; he tried another,--it was no less excellent; and when he had swallowed the third he found his heart expand, and put forth its fibres, as willing to embrace all mankind! Surely then there is Christian love and charity in wine! I said he sung a good song. Now though psalms are good songs, and in accordance with his vocation, I did not mean to imply that he was a mere psalm-singer. It was well known to the brethren, that wherever Father Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him. Mirth in his eye, and melody on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well known to be thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let them run dry. To please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased him, he sung, and as "_in vino veritas_," his song will well become this veritable history. "O, 'tis eggs are a treat When so while and so sweet From under the manger they're taken; And by fair Margery, Och! 'tis she's full of glee, They are fried with fat rashers of bacon. "Just like daisies all spread O'er a broad sunny mead In the sun-beams so beauteously shining, Are fried eggs, well displayed On a dish, when we've laid The cloth, and are thinking of dining." Such was his song. Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection of Margery's delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar relish to his liquor. The very idea provoked Cuddy to raise the cup to his mouth, and, with one hearty pull thereat, he finished its contents.