A MORNING AT BALLYSHANNON. 365 



earnestly watched for by the beggars as the 

 rising of the sun by the Mussulman Arab; 

 for, in truth, the worthy man's liberality got 

 far the start of his judgment, and shillings 

 and sixpences flowed from both pockets with 

 indiscriminate profusion. And there they 

 stood in every variety of age, sex, and con- 

 dition — old and young, men and women, 

 widows, whose strapping husbands were 

 waiting for them round the corner, and de- 

 solate orphans, whose parents wanted money 

 for the next shebeen house. Here and 

 there stood modest poverty, but its voice 

 was lost in the clamour, and seldom reached 

 the Squire's ears. 



Yet, disgusting as this scene was, it was 

 not without its scraps of Irish humour. 

 " May every hair in your honour's head," 

 said a wild old lady, looking at his pow- 

 dered and pomatumed locks — a May every 

 hair in your honour's head be a mould- 

 candle to light your sowl to glory." And, as 

 he bowed, hat in hand, in acknowledgment, 

 and disclosed his bare crown, — " May the 

 blessed Vargin give you more of them/ 



" Thank Heaven," said the Squire, " I 

 am rid of those torments," as the crazv boat 



