'Larry McGee.'"

"Wisha, byes, wouldn't wan of ye run over to Mrs. Haley's for a pint.
'T is mighty dhry up here."

"Here ye are," said the chorus, chipping in and making up the requisite
"tuppence." "Don't be long about it, ye young ruffian."

"But what about the pledge, Jem?" asked a conscientious spectator.
"Shure your time isn't up yet."

"'T is up long ago," cried another. "'Twas three months yesterday since
he took the pledge."

"Byes," said Jem, who was troubled at the possible scandal he was about
to give, "I promised not to dhrink in a public house; and shure this
isn't a public house, glory be to God!"

They took off their hats reverently; and then the pint came, was taken
up the ladder with great care and solemnity, and a few minutes after,
Father Letheby heard:--

"What is it going to be, byes? I've left me music on the pianney!"

"'Larry McGee!' 'Larry McGee!' No. No. 'T is Yares Since Last----.' No.
No. 'The Byes of Wexford.'"

"Byes, I think the majority is in favor of 'Larry McGee.'--Here's to yer
health!"

And then came floating from the roof in various quavers and semiquavers
and grace-notes the following, which is all Father Letheby can remember.

"I--in the town of Kilkinny lived Larry McGee,
Oh--oh the divil's own boy at divarshion was he;
He--he had a donkey, a pig, but he hadn't a wife,
His cabin was dreary, and wretched his life."

Then the notes came wavering and fitful, as the wind took them up, and
carried them struggling over the moorland; and all that Father Letheby
could hear was about a certain Miss Brady, who was reared up a lady, and
who was requested to accept the name of Mrs. McGee. This suit must have
been successful, because, as the wind lulled down, the words came
clearly:--

"Sure the chickens were roasted,--the praties was biled,
They were all in their jackets, for fear they'd be spiled;
And the neighbors came flockin', for to fling up the stockin',
And dance at the weddin' of Larry McGee."

It was interesting; but Father Letheby's temper was rising with the
undulations of the song. He came out into the graveyard, and there was a
stampede of the spectators. Jem was lifting the porter to his lips, and
looked down calmly and philosophically at the young priest.

"Mr. Deady," said the latter, putting on his strongest accent, "I do not
think I engaged you to entertain the village with your vocal powers,
much as I esteem them. I enga