I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip, We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip, We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air, When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?" It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon, Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"-- He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone, Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on! He leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more, "Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore," But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place, He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face! Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk, You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk; We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand, So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command, Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack! Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back, An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat, Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!" I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose, To bid him go to blakers!--but the barrel at me nose, Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue, An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue! I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an' then, He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again, "You'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in Phoenix Park," He shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark, An' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke, As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke! Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more, I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door; I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long, That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song! * * * * * When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork, I read it on a paper,--in the Bowry of New York,-- Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June, Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!" [Illustration] He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor; And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door, He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon; Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!" He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip, The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip, He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart, Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!