The diversion was successful. The boatswain, with a few indignant mutterings, devoted himself to doling out the tots of grog, and then proposed Dennis O'Moore's health in a speech full of his own style of humour, which raised loud applause; Dennis commenting freely on the text, and filling up awkward pauses with flourishes on Sambo's fiddle. The boatswain's final suggestion that the ship's guest should return thanks by a song, instead of a sentiment, was received with acclamations, during which he sat down, after casting a mischievous glance at Dennis, who was once more blushing and fidgeting with shyness. "Ye've taken your revenge, bo'sun," said he. "Them that blames should do better, sir," replied the boatswain, folding his arms. "A song! a song! Mr. O'Moore!" shouted the men. "I only know a few old Irish songs," pleaded Dennis. "Ould Ireland for ever!" cried Pat Shaughnessy. "Hear! hear! Encore, Pat!" roared the men. They were still laughing. Then one or two of those nearest to us put up their hands to get silence. Sambo's fiddle was singing (as only voices and fiddles can sing) a melody to which the heads and toes of the company soon began to nod and beat: "La, l[)e] l[=a] la la, la la la, l[=a] l[)e] la, la L[=a], le l[=a] la la, la la la, la--l[)e] la la," hummed the boatswain. "Lor' bless me, Mr. O'Moore, I heard that afore you were born, though I'm blessed if I know where. But it's a genteel pretty thing!" "It's all about roses and nightingales!" shouted Dennis, with comical grimaces. "Hear! hear!" answered the oldest and hairiest-looking of the sailors, and the echoes of his approbation only died away to let the song begin. Then the notes of Sambo's fiddle also dropped off, and I heard Dennis O'Moore's beautiful voice for the first time as he gave his head one desperate toss and began: "There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the night long. In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song." One by one the pipes were rested on the smokers' knees; they wanted their mouths to hear with. I don't think the assembled company can have looked much like exiles from flowery haunts of the nightingale, but we all shook our heads, not only in time but in sympathy, as the clear voice rose to a more passionate strain: "That bower and its music I never forget; But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think--is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?" I and the oldest and hairiest sailor were sighing like furnaces as the melody recommenced with the second verse: