Major Jones himself, and his confederates, could not have more heartily relished this story, than did the party to whom the doctor heartily related it.  Much, if not all the amusement it afforded, however, resulted from his inimitable mode of telling, and the power of mimicry, with which he conveyed the dialogue with the sentry:  and this, alas, must be lost to my readers, at least to that portion of them not fortunate enough to possess Doctor Finucane’s acquaintance.

“Fin!  Fin! your long story has nearly famished me,” said the padre, as the laugh subsided; “and there you sit now with the jug at your elbow this half-hour; I never thought you would forget our old friend Martin Hanegan’s aunt.”

“Here’s to her health,” said Fin; “and your reverence will get us the chant.”

“Agreed,” said Father Malachi, finishing a bumper, and after giving a few preparatory hems, he sang the following “singularly wild and beautiful poem,” as some one calls Christabel:—­

“Here’s a health to Martin Hanegan’s aunt,
And I’ll tell ye the reason why! 
She eats bekase she is hungry,
And drinks bekase she is dry.

“And if ever a man,
Stopped the course of a can,
Martin Hanegan’s aunt would cry—­
’Arrah, fill up your glass,
And let the jug pass;
How d’ye know but what your neighbour’s dhry?”

“Come, my lord and gentlemen, da capo, if ye please—­Fill up your glass,” and the chanson was chorussed with a strength and vigour that would have astonished the Philharmonic.

The mirth and fun now grew “fast and furious;” and Father Malachi, rising with the occasion, flung his reckless drollery and fun on every side, sparing none, from his cousin to the coadjutor.  It was not that peculiar period in the evening’s enjoyment, when an expert and practical chairman gives up all interference or management, and leaves every thing to take its course; this then was the happy moment selected by Father Malachi to propose the little “contrhibution.”  He brought a plate from a side table, and placing it before him, addressed the company in a very brief but sensible speech, detailing the object of the institution he was advocating, and concluding with the following words:—­“and now ye’ll just give whatever ye like, according to your means in life, and what ye can spare.”

The admonition, like the “morale” of an income tax, having the immediate effect of pitting each man against his neighbour, and suggesting to their already excited spirits all the ardour of gambling, without, however, a prospect of gain.  The plate was first handed to me in honour of my “rank,” and having deposited upon it a handful of small silver, the priest ran his finger through the coin, and called out:—­

“Five pounds! at least; not a farthing less, as I am a sinner.  Look, then,—­see now; they tell ye, the gentlemen don’t care for the like of ye! but see for yourselves.  May I trouble y’r lordship to pass the plate to Mr. Mahony—­he’s impatient, I see.”