Alley was about to bear fiery and vehement testimony to the truth of all this; but Lucy, whose bosom heaved up strongly two or three times at these affecting allusions to her beloved mother, and who almost sobbed aloud, not merely from sorrow but distress, arising from the whole tenor of the conversation, whispered a few words into her ear, and she was instantly silent.  The farmer seemed somewhat startled; for, in truth, as we have said, he was naturally one of those men who wish to hear themselves talk.  In this instance, however, he found, after having made three or four colloquial attacks upon the stranger, but without success, that he must only have recourse either to soliloquy or silence.  He accordingly commenced to hum over several old Irish airs, to which he ventured to join the words—­at first in a very subdued undertone.  Whenever the coach stopped, however, to change horses, which it generally did at some public house or inn, the stranger could observe that the grazier always went out, and on his return appeared to be affected with a still stronger relish for melody.  By degrees he proceeded from a tolerably distinct undertone to raise his voice into a bolder key, when, at last, throwing aside all reserve, he commenced the song of Cruiskeen Lawn, which he gave in admirable style and spirit, and with a rich mellow voice, that was calculated to render every justice to that fine old air.  In this manner, he literally sang his way until within a few miles of the metropolis.  He was not, however, without assistance, during, at least, a portion of the journey.  Our friend Dandy, who was on the outside, finding that the coach came to a level space on the road, placed the dulcimer on his knees, and commenced an accompaniment on that instrument, which produced an effect equally comic and agreeable.  And what added to the humor of this extraordinary duet—­if we can call it so—­was the delight with which each intimated his satisfaction at the performance of the other, as well as with the terms in which it was expressed.

“Well done, Dandy! dang my buttons, but you shine upon the wires.  Ah, thin, it’s you that is and ever was the wiry lad—­and sure that was what made you take to the dulcimer of course.  Dandy, achora, will you give us, ‘Merrily kissed the Quaker?’ and I ask it, Dandy, bekaise we are in a religious way, and have a quakers’ meetn’ in the coach.”

“No,” replied Dandy; “but I’ll give you the ‘Bonny brown Girl,’ that’s worth a thousand of it, you thief.”

“Bravo, Dandy, and so it is; and, as far as I can see in the dark, dang my buttons, but I think we have one here, too.”

“I thank you for the compliment, sir,” said Alley, appropriating it without ceremony to herself.  “I feel much obliged to you, sir; but I’m not worthy of it.”

“My darling,” replied the jolly farmer, “you had betther not take me up till I fall.  How do you know it was for you it was intended?  You’re not the only lady in the coach, avourneen.”