“And you’re not the only gintleman in the coach, Jemmy Doran,” replied Alley, indignantly.  “I know you well, man alive—­and you picked up your politeness from your cattle, I suppose.”

“A better chance of getting it from them than from you,” replied, the hasty grazier.  “But I tell you at once to take it aisy, achora; don’t get on fire, or you’ll burn the coach—­the compliment was not intended for you, at all events.  Come, Dandy, give us the ‘Bonny brown Girl,’ and I’ll help you, as well as I’m able.”

In a moment the dulcimer was at work on the top of the coach, and the merry farmer, at the top of his lungs, lending his assistance inside.

When the performance had been concluded, Alley, who was brimful of indignation at the slight which had been put upon her, said, “Many thanks to you, Misther Doran, but if you plaise we’ll dispense wid your music for the rest of the journey.  Remember you’re not among your own bullocks and swine—­and that this roaring and grunting is and must be very disagreeable to polite company.”

“Troth, whoever you are, you have the advantage of me,” replied the good-natured farmer, “and besides I believe you’re right—­I’m afraid I’ve given offince; and as we have gone so far—­but no, dang my buttons, I won’t—­I was going to try ‘Kiss my Lady,’ along wid Dandy, it goes beautiful on the dulcimer—­but—­but—­ah, not half so well as on a purty pair of lips.  Alley, darlin’,” he proceeded now, evidently in a maudlin state, “I never lave you, but I’m in a hurry home to you, for it’s your lips that’s—­”

“It’s false, Mr. Doran,” exclaimed Alley; “how dare you, sir, bring my name, or my lips either, into comparishment wid yourself?  You want to take away my character, Mr. Doran; but I have friends, and a strong faction at my back, that will make you suffer for this.”

The farmer, however, who was elevated into the seventh heaven of domestic affection, paid no earthly attention to her, but turning to the stranger said: 

“Sir, I’ve the best wife that ever faced the sun—­”

“I,” exclaimed Alley, “am not to be insulted and calumnied, ay, an’ backbitten before my own face, Misther Doran, and take my word you’ll hear of this to your cost—­I’ve a faction.”

“Sir—­gintleman—­miss, over the way there—­for throth, for all so close as you’re veiled, you haven’t a married look—­but as I was sayin’, we fell in love wid one another by mistake—­for there was an ould matchmaker, by name Biddlety Girtha, a daughter of ould Jemmy Trailcudgel’s—­God be good to him—­father of the present strugglin’ poor man of that name—­and as I had hard of a celebrated beauty that lived about twelve or fifteen miles down the country that I wished to coort—­and she, on the other hand, having hard of a very fine, handsome young fellow in my own neighborhood—­what does the ould thief do but brings us together, in the fair of Baltihorum, and palms her off on me as the celebrated beauty, and palms myself on her as the