This announcement was followed by such an explosion of mirth that the boy looked fiercely round him, as if he could scarcely believe the fact that the whole party were laughing at him.
Malachi Chroak, who was good-naturedly drunk, had discovered an old pair of cracked bellows in a corner, which he placed under his arm, and applying his mouth to the pipe, and working his elbows to and fro, pretended that he was playing upon the bagpipes, every now and then letting the wind escape in a shrill squeak from this novel instrument.
“Arrah, ladies and jintlemen, do jist turn your swate little eyes upon me whilst I play for your iddifications the last illigant tune which my owld grandmother taught me. Och hone! ’tis a thousand pities that such musical owld crathers should be suffered to die, at all at all, to be poked away into a dirthy, dark hole, when their canthles shud be burnin’ a-top of a bushel, givin’ light to the house. An’ then it is she that was the illigant dancer, stepping out so lively and frisky, just so.”
And here he minced to and fro, affecting the airs of a fine lady. The suppositious bagpipe gave an uncertain, ominous howl, and he flung it down, and started back with a ludicrous expression of alarm.
“Alive, is it ye are? Ye croaking owld divil, is that the tune you taught your son?
“Och! my old granny taught me, but
now she is dead,
That a dhrop of nate whiskey is good for
the head;
It would make a man spake when jist ready
to dhie,
If you doubt it—my boys!—I’d
advise you to thry.
“Och! my owld granny sleeps with
her head on a stone,—
‘Now, Malach, don’t throuble
the galls when I’m gone!’
I thried to obey her; but, och, I am shure,
There’s no sorrow on earth that
the angels can’t cure.
“Och! I took her advice—I’m
a bachelor still;
And I dance, and I play, with such excellent
skill,
(Taking up the bellows, and
beginning to dance.)
That the dear little crathurs are striving
in vain
Which furst shall my hand or my fortin’
obtain.”
“Malach!” shouted a laughing group. “How was it that the old lady taught you to go a-courting?”
“Arrah, that’s a sacret! I don’t let out owld granny’s sacrets,” said Malachi, gracefully waving his head to and fro to the squeaking of the bellows; then, suddenly tossing back the long, dangling black elf-locks that curled down the sides of his lank, yellow cheeks, and winking knowingly with his comical little deep-seated black eyes, he burst out again—
“Wid the blarney I’d win the
most dainty proud dame,
No gall can resist the soft sound of that
same;
Wid the blarney, my boys—if
you doubt it, go thry—
But hand here the bottle, my whistle is
dhry.”
The men went back to the field, leaving Malachi to amuse those who remained in the house; and we certainly did laugh our fill at his odd capers and conceits.