out among his neighbours the next day,
and he got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another; and
he took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o' tin clothes
like any knight arriant and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he was
very partic'lar about, bekase it was his shield and he wint to a frind
o' his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield in
big letthers--

'I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,
THAT KILL'D THREE SCORE AND TIN
AT A BLOW.'

'When the people sees _that_,' says the waiver to himself, 'the sorra
one will dar' for to come near me.'

And with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for
him, 'For,' says he, 'it will make an iligant helmet'; and when it was
done, he put it an his head, and his wife said, 'Oh, murther, Thady
jewel, is it puttin' a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by
way iv a hat?'

'Sartinly,' says he; 'for a knight arraint should always have _a
woight an his brain_.'

'But, Thady dear,' says the wife, 'there's a hole in it, and it can't
keep out the weather.'

'It will be the cooler,' says he, puttin' it an him; 'besides, if I
don't like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o' sthraw, or the
like o' that.'

'The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin' up,' says she.

'Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it,' says the
waiver; 'and if mine has three, it's only the grandher it is.'

'Well,' says the wife, getting bitther at last, 'all I can say is, it
isn't the first sheep's head was dhress'd in it.'

'_Your sarvint, ma'am_,' says he; and off he set.

Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by,
where the miller's horse was grazin', that used to carry the ground
corn round the counthry.

'This is the idintical horse for me,' says the waiver; 'he is used to
carryin' flour and male, and what am I but the _flower_ o' shovelry in
a coat o' _mail_; so that the horse won't be put out iv his way in the
laste.'

But as he was ridin' him out o'the field, who should see him but the
miller.

'Is it stalin' my horse you are, honest man?' says the miller.

'No,' says the waiver; 'I'm only goin' to _ax_ercise him,' says he,
'in the cool o' the evenin'; it will be good for his health.'

'Thank you kindly,' says the miller; 'but lave him where he is, and
you'll obleege me.'

'I can't afford it,' says the waiver, runnin' the horse at the ditch.

'Bad luck to your impidence,' says the miller