“'Ah, you cowardly scoundrels,' says he, 'that's a disgrace to the counthry, and to the very name of Irishman; it's no wondher for strangers to talk of you as they do--no wondher for your friends to have a shamed face for your disgraceful crimes. You would now take an inoffensive gintleman--one that never harmed a man of you, nor any one else--you'd take him out, bekaise some blackhearted cowardly villain among you has a pick (pique) against him, and some of you for half-a-crown or a bellyful of whisky would murdher him in could blood. Begone, or by the livin' Farmer, I'll scatter the contents of this blunderbush among you.' He that wishes to have M'Carthy done for was wid us himself, and tould us in Irish to fire at the windy, which we did, and on the instant slop came a shower of bullets among us. A boy from the Esker got one of them through the brain, and fell stone dead; two others--we can't mention names--was wounded, and it was well we got them off safe. So there's our night's work for us. Howaniver, the day's comin' when we'll pay them for all.” “I think, boys,” said a person, whose voice was evidently that of a man advanced in years, “I think you ought to give this procthor Purcel a cardin'. He lifts the tithes of four parishes, and so far he's a scourge over four parishes; himself and his blasted citations to the bishop's court and his blasted decrees--hell purshue him, as it will. Ah, the Carders wor fine fellows, so were the Sextons.” “Bravo, Billy Bradly, conshumin' to me but I'm--I'm main proud, and that we met you com--omin' from the wake to-night; I am, upon my sow--owl.” “I believe, Billy,” said another voice, “you had your own fun wid procthors in your day.”