_Rory_. Phoo! don’t be playing the innocent, now. Where have you lived all your life (I ask pardon, my l_a_rd) not to know a bogberry when you see or hear of it? (_Turns to Talbot_.) But what are ye standing idling here for? Sure, there’s Wheeler, and Bursal along with him, canvassing out yonder at a terrible fine rate. And haven’t I been huzzaing for you there till I’m hoarse? So I am, and just stepped away to suck an orange for my voice—(_sucks an orange_.) I am a _thorough going_ friend, at anyrate. _Talb._ Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, and a _thorough going_ friend; but have a care, or you’ll get yourself and me into some scrape, before you have done with this violent _thorough going_ work. _Rory_. Never fear! never fear, man!—a warm frind and a bitter enemy, that’s my maxim. _Talb._ Yes, but too warm a _friend_ is as bad as a bitter enemy. _Rory_. Oh, never fear me! I’m as cool as a cucumber all the time; and whilst they _tink_ I’m _tinking_ of nothing in life but making a noise, I make my own snug little remarks in prose and verse, as—now my voice is after coming back to me, you shall hear, if you _plase_. _Talb._ I do please. _Rory_. I call it Rory’s song. Now, mind, I have a verse for everybody—o’ the leading lads, I mean; and I shall put ’em in or _lave_ ’em out, according to their inclinations and deserts, _wise-a-wee_ to you, my little _frind_. So you comprehend it will be Rory’s song, with variations. _Talbot and Lord John_. Let’s have it; let’s have it without further preface. _Rory sings_. “I’m true game to the last, and no WHEELER for me.” _Rory_. There’s a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler,—you take it? _Talb._ O yes, yes, we take it; go on. _Rory sings_. “I’m true game to the last, and no Wheeler for me. Of all birds, beasts, or fishes, that swim in the sea, Webb’d or finn’d, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory, None but Talbot, O, Talbot’s the dog for Rory.” _Talb._ “Talbot the dog” is much obliged to you. _Lord J._ But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot too long, Mr. O’Ryan. _Rory_. Phoo, put the best foot foremost for a _frind_. Slur it in the singing, and don’t be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot more or less. The more feet the better it will stand, you know. Only let me go on, and you’ll come to something that will _plase_ you. _Rory sings_. “Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm.” _Rory_. That’s Bursal, mind now, whom I mean to allude to in this verse. _Lord J._ If the allusion’s good, we shall probably find out your meaning. _Talb._ On with you, Rory, and don’t read us notes on a song. _Lord J._ Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal. _Rory sings_.