Though it was evident very little of his eloquent announcement was comprehended by the party, their laughter was not less ready, and a general chorus proclaimed their attention to the song. Darby accordingly assumed his wonted dignity of port, and having given some half dozen premonitory flourishes, which certainly had the effect of astonishing and overawing the audience, he began, to the air of “The Night before Larry was stretched,” the following ditty:-- DARBY THE BLAST. Oh! my name it is Darby the Blast; My country is Ireland all over; My religion is never to fast, But live, as I wander, in clover; To make fun for myself every day, The ladies to plaise when I 'm able, The boys to amuse as I play, And make the jugs dance on the table. Oh! success to the chanter, my dear! Your eyes on each side you may cast, But there is n't a house that is near ye But they 're glad to have Darby the Blast, And they 'll tell ye 'tis he that can cheer ye. Oh! 't is he can put life in a feast; What music lies under his knuckle; As he plays “Will I send for the Priest?” Or a jig they call “Cover the Buckle.” Oh! good luck to the chanter, your sowl! But give me an audience in rags; They 're illigant people for list'ning; 'T is they that can humor the bags As I rise a fine tune at a christ'ning. There 's many a weddin' I make Where they never get further nor sighing; And when I perform at a wake, The corpse looks delighted at dying. Oh! success to the chanter, your sowl! “Eh! what's that?” cried a gruff voice; “the corpse does what?” “'T is a rhetorical amplification, that means he would if he could,” said Darby, stopping to explain. “I say,” said another, “that's all gammon and stuff; a corpse could n't know what was doing,--eh, old fellow?” “'T is an Irish corpse I was describin',” said Darby, proudly, and evidently, while sore pushed for an explanation, having a severe struggle to keep down his contempt for the company that needed it.