“Ay, do, Masther, an’ faix the priest ’ll be complate—­there can be no mistakin’ him thin.  Divil a one but that’s a good thought!”

“There it is in black an’ white.  Who comes next?  Frank M’Carroll.  He’s a farmer.  I’ll put down a spade an’ a harrow.  Well, that’s done—­two tumblers.”

“I won’t mistake that, aither.  It’s clear enough.”

“Bartle Gorman’s of Cargah.  Bartle’s a little lame, an’ uses a staff wid a cross on the end that he houlds in his hand.  I’ll put down a staff wid a cross on it.”

“Would there be no danger of me mistakin’ that for the priest’s cudgel?”

“Divil the slightest.  I’ll pledge my knowledge of geography, they’re two very different weapons.”

“Well, put it down—­I’ll know it.”

“Roger M’Gaugy of Nurchasy.  What for him?  Roger’s a pig-driver.  I’ll put down pig.  You’ll comprehend that?”

“I ought; for many a pig I sould in my day.  Put down the pig; an’ if you could put two black spots upon his back, I’d know it to be one I sould him about four years agone—­the fattest ever was in the country—­it had to be brought home on a car, for it wasn’t able to walk wid fat.”

“Very good; the spots are on it.  The last is Owen Smith of Lisbuy.  Now, do you see that I’ve drawn a line from place to place, so that you have nothing to do only to keep to it as you go.  What for Owen?”

“Owen!  Let me see—­Owen!  Pooh!  What’s come over me, that I’ve nothin’ for Owen?  Ah!  I have it.  He’s a horse-jockey:  put down a gray mare I sould him about five years agone.”

“I’ll put down a horse; but I can’t make a gray mare wid black ink.”

“Well, make a mare of her, any way.”

“Faith, an’ that same puzzles me.  Stop, I have it; I’ll put a foal along wid her.”

“As good as the bank.  God bless you, Misther O’Flaherty.  I think this ‘ll keep me from mistakes.  An’ now, if you’ll slip up to me afther dusk, I’ll send you down a couple o’ bottles and a flitch.  Sure you desarve more for the throuble you tuck.”

Many of our readers, particularly of our English readers, will be somewhat startled to hear that, except the change of names and places, there is actually little exaggeration in the form of this oath; so just is the observation, that the romance of truth frequently exceeds that of fiction.

Peter had, however, over-rated his own strength in supposing that he could bear the long dozen in future; ere many months passed he was scarcely able to reach the half of that number without sinking into intoxication.  Whilst in this state, he was in the habit of going to the graveyard in which his wife lay buried, where he sat, and wept like a child, sang her favorite songs, or knelt and offered up his prayers for the repose of her soul.  None ever mocked him for this; on the contrary, there was always some kind person to assist him home.  And as he staggered on, instead of sneers and ridicule, one might hear such expressions as these:—­