“Man,” says she, looking up to him, “you've been a soldier.” “What then?” says he. “Here's a line in your hand,”--says she, “a line which tells me, that before another year has gone over your head, you'll be more frightened by a bulrush than ever you was by a baggonet;--and that's saying much.” Bat bullied her, but bit his lip for vexation; and, by-and-by, you'll hear how he got on, and what came of the cunning-woman's foreboding. But wait a little, for I'm before my story, and must go back.--You heard me say, Bat called himself by the name of Bat Muggleburgh, awhile ago; and so he did: for, as I tould you, he denied the name of Boroo, because he said he'd no call to it; and that Muggleburgh was what he'd a right to,--and he'd own to it, and nothing else. Now, all this may be true enough; Bat's name may be Muggleburgh, and he Dick Boroo's son for all that:--for did any one ever know, or take the trouble to inquire, what was ould Dick's rale name--if he had one--besides Dick?--Boroo was a nick-name he got for some saying or prank, that was past by and forgotten entirely in my time, though the name still stuck to him. He wasn't an Irishman; but where he came from,--except he was a bit of a Dutch smuggler or something in his young days,--myself neither knows nor cares. It's often he brags,--Bat does,--of the brave coat of arms that belongs to him, if he had his rights; and what great men the Muggleburghs was in times gone by. But that's no matter at all:--there's a regular descendant of the honourable kings of Meath sells butter at Cashel, and is as big a rogue as one here and there. I myself came from a fine family by my mother's side; but what's all the famous blood of her ancestors now?--One of the grandfathers of the worm you trod on o' Monday, had some of the best of it; and for my own part, I don't value that of great Bryan himself a rush and a half: but my mother didn't think so, poor thing,--rest her soul! Well, by this time, you must be pretty well acquainted with Bat,--and, may be, tired of him; but wait till you hear what happened him.--Many months, but not a year, after Bat had his fortune tould in the manner I mentioned, we'd a poor scholar--a stripling of sixteen or so--with us here, for two, or it might be, three days, at the most. Good luck follow him! He was a lad we all loved, high and low,--and it's not very high the best of us is, sure enough,--for the boy behaved beautifully, though he'd a spice of the wag in him--And why not?--wasn't he young?--and isn't young days the best of days with us? And if we ar'n't merry then, when will we, I'd like to know?