230 LIFE IN IRELAND 



and as for the verses, they are well deserving of that 

 pound note. By my soul, said Rafferty, I never wrote 

 a song before that was reckoned worth sixpence, or a 

 tumbler of punch ; och, by Jasus, I '11 write no more 

 this month to come, if you does come here to expose 

 me. I '11 tell what you are after saying to Pat Delany, 

 said Blake^ — and mind ye, the one pound note won't 

 last for ever, and you '11 be glad of such an invitation 

 when you can't get it, you dallad-making blackguard. 

 So saying, he showed his heels, and ran down stairs. 

 There is some truth in what he says, so I '11 e'en go 

 down : my pound note won't last for ever, and your 

 honour won't always be here, more 's the pity — och, I 

 never wish to see you go outside of the gates. Here 

 Mr. Rafferty made his best bow, took up Pat Mooneys 

 hat in mistake for his own, and proceeded to sing in 

 praise of whiskey punch and corderoy breeches. 



Mooney soon missed his hat, and snatching up the 

 bit of old rotten felt left in its stead, pursued the 

 theorist bard ; him he found seated in Crofton's tap, 

 and exerting his energies to please his friends. 



Rajferty denied the hat, and said he had sent it back 

 by a boy, when he found his mistake. 



Mr. Rafferty. Mr. Rafferty., bawled a young spalpeen 

 in the gallery, knocking against the door with a pewter 

 pot ; where the devil do you get to? — I 've been all over 

 Straw Hall., and Dunghill Ron\ looking after you : 

 there's Mr. Dela?iy wants you to write some verses on 

 a pair of corderoy breeches which Tom Longstitch has 

 just seated for him, and there is plenty of whiskey 

 punch on the move. 



Damn Delany — Tom Stitch — his corderoy breeches 



