“Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm; His father’s a tanner,—but then where’s the harm? Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?” _Lord J._ Encore! encore! Why, Rory, I did not think you could make so good a song. _Rory_. Sure ’twas none of I made it—’twas Talbot here. _Talb._ I! _Rory_ (_aside_). Not a word: I’ll make you a present of it: sure, then, it’s your own. _Talb._ I never wrote a word of it. _Rory_ (_to Lord J._). Phoo, Phoo! he’s only denying it out of false modesty. _Lord. J._ Well, no matter who wrote it,—sing it again. _Rory_. Be easy; so I will, and as many more verses as you will to the back of it. (_Winking at Talbot aside_.) You shall have the credit of all. (_Aloud_.) Put me in when I’m out, Talbot, and you (_to Lord John_) join—join. _Rory sings, and Lord John sings with him_. “Then there’s he with the purse that’s as long as my arm; His father’s a tanner,—but then where’s the harm? Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won’t his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree? There’s my lord with the back that never was bent—” (_Lord John stops singing_; _Talbot makes signs to Rory to stop_; _but Rory does not see him_, _and sings on_.) “There’s my lord with the back that never was bent; Let him live with his ancestors, I am content.” (_Rory pushes Lord J. and Talbot with his elbows_.) _Rory_. Join, join, both of ye—why don’t you join? (_Sings_.) “Who’ll buy my Lord John? the arch fishwoman cried, A nice oyster shut up in a choice shell of pride.” _Rory_. But join or ye spoil all. _Talb._ You have spoiled all, indeed. _Lord J._ (_making a formal low bow_). Mr. Talbot, Lord John thanks you. _Rory_. Lord John! blood and thunder! I forgot you were by—quite and clean. _Lord J._ (_puts him aside and continues speaking to Talbot_). Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot: this is the second part of the caricature. Lord John thanks you for these proofs of friendship—Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. Talbot. _Rory_. No reason in life now. Don’t be thanking so much for nothing in life; or if you must be thanking of somebody, it’s me you ought to thank. _Lord J._ I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who— _Talb._ (_warmly_). Unmasking, my lord— _Rory_ (_holding them asunder_). Phoo! phoo! phoo! be easy, can’t ye?—there’s no unmasking at all in the case. My Lord John, Talbot’s writing the song was all a mistake. _Lord J._ As much a mistake as your singing it, sir, I presume—