h'd at the frowning face of danger.

But journeying on to his native place,
Through Ballinamone pass'd the stranger;
Where, fix'd by the charms of Katy's face,
He swore he'd no longer be a ranger,
Pretty Kate,
Witty Kate,
Vow'd that no time could ever change her;
And kiss,
Bliss--
O, she hugg'd to her heart the welcome stranger.

LARRY. How's that? Ballinamone, Kate, did you say, Kate?

KATE. Aye, Katy Maclure; as neat a little wanton tit--

LARRY. My wife a wanton tit!--Hark ye, master Whippersnapper, do you
pretend--

KATE. Pretend! no, faith, sir, I scorn to _pretend_, sir; I am above
boasting of ladies' favours, unless I receive 'em. Pretend, quotha!

LARRY. Fire and faggots! Favours!--

KATE. You seem to know the girl, mister--a--

LARRY. Know her! she's my wife.

KATE. Your wife! Ridiculous! I thought, by your pother, that she had been
_your friend's wife_, or your mistress. Hark ye, mister--a--cuckoo--

LARRY. Cuckoo!

KATE. Your ear. Your wife loved me as she did herself.

LARRY. She did?

KATE. Couldn't live without me; all day we were together.

LARRY. You were!

KATE. As I'm a cavalier; and all night--we lay----

LARRY. How?

KATE. How! why, close as two twin potatoes; in the same bed, egad!

LARRY. Tunder and turf! I'll split you from the coxcomb to the----

KATE. Ay, do split the twin potato asunder, do.

[_Discovers herself._

LARRY. It is--no--what! Och, is it nobody but yourself? O my
darling!--[_Catches her in his arms._] And so--But how did you?--And
where--and what--O boderation! [_Kisses._] And how d' ye do? and how's
your mother? and the pigs and praties, and--kiss me, Kate. [_Kiss._

KATE. So; now may I speak?

LARRY. Aye, do be telling me--but stop every now and then, that I may
point your story with a grammatical kiss.

KATE. Oh, hang it! you'll be for putting nothing but periods to my
discourse.

LARRY. Faith, and I should be for counting--[_Kisses._]--four.--Arrah!
there, then; I've done with that sentence.

KATE. You remember what caused me to stay behind, when you embarked for
America?

LARRY. Aye, 'twas because of your old sick mother. And how does the good
lady? [_KATE weeps._] Ah! well, Heaven rest her soul.--Cheerly, cheerly.
To be sure, I can't give _you_ a mother; but I tell you what I'll do, I'll
give your childre