to wear their name again as long as he breathed: so he took to his mother's--she was a Fogarty;--and you couldn't offend him more any way in the world than you would if you upset his whiskey, singed his nose while he was asleep, or called him Luke Sweeney.” “He's a room above stairs, I hope,” says the gentleman. “He _had_; and the floor of it went three parts across the kitchen; and when you got up, you could look over a board and see your peathees boiling below for breakfast:--and you might, to this day, if the rain hadn't soaked through the ould thatch and rotted the timber, so that it fell down with nineteen of us, one night at a dance, years and years ago.” “Then I'll be compelled to sleep with nothing above me but the bare thatch!” “That, and the cobwebs:--and you'll see how the big spiders will run down their little ropes, and dangle over the table, when I'm playing Garry-hone-a-gloria!--But there's no harm in the cratures; nor much in ould Ramilies herself, if she hasn't been drinking. I've known her get so drunk, on beer-grounds they gave her at The Beg, that it took seven men and a boy to bring her home, with Luke Fogarty's sister going before, pinching one o' the little pigs, so as to make him squeal out, by the way of wheedling her on quietly.” “Right glad am I that I've my dog to watch me:--but, of course, they'll keep her out if I ask it,” says the gentleman. “They will, if she'll let them; but her word isn't worth a bad song, if you could get her to give it;--and you couldn't, could you?--But, _na boeklish!_ hav'n't you your dog!--I'll promise to persuade Fogarty to give you up his own little black oak bedstead, that stands beside the chimney: and then who knows but you'll get the canvass bed stuffed with louchaun--that's the chaff that comes from the oats when they're winnowed--and three rugs to cover you! But what's better than all, though we shouldn't be there till midnight,--and, faith! then, we won't at this rate,--there'll be an iligant supper, and all the gorlochs--except Susey, the eldest--put to bed. What'll we have, you'd like to know, eh?--Well, then, I'd tell you, if I could, but I can't. May be, if Luke's had luck lately, we'll get a bonnov,--that's a little pig, you know and if not, there'll be a cobbler's nob, and a dish of caulcannon at any rate, we're sure of hot ghindogues and praupeen, or stirabout, or shloucaun,--that's the sea-weed,--the dillosk, you know, that the girls gather, boiled down to a nicety, and which, as they say, is what Saint Ambrose lived upon, and the same thing you rade of in books, by the name of ambrosia. Rory tells me they'd a breast of mutton,--he don't precisely remember what day, but it was lately,--and we'll get that made up into beggar's-dish, with onions, and a bit of tripe, may be, if it's not eat, and Ramilies hasn't stolen it. That pig's a witch, as I tould you before; but sure you needn't mind her with your dog, need you?--If it comes to the worst, we're certain of