peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,
when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the
Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it's the illigant big
figgur that I ave, for the rason o' which all the ladies fall in love
wid me. Isn't it my own swate silf now that'll missure the six fut, and
the three inches more nor that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly
will proportioned all over to match? And it is ralelly more than three
fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener
Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a oggling and
a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy
Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt-door neighbor, (God bliss her!)
and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the little
spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
sling, and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm going to give
you the good rason.

The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first
day that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the
strait to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a
gone case althegither with the heart o' the purty Misthress Tracle.
I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that's God's
truth. First of all it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she
threw open her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould
spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o' them and divil may burn me
if it didn't spake to me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it,
through the spy-glass: "Och! the tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen; and it's a nate gintleman that ye
are, sure enough, and it's mesilf and me forten jist that'll be at yur
sarvice, dear, inny time o' day at all at all for the asking." And it's
not mesilf ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness; so I made her
a bow that wud ha' broken yur heart altegither to behould, and thin I
pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid
both eyes, as much as to say, "True for you, yer a swate little crature,
Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog,
if it's not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, that'll make a
houl bushel o' love to yur leddyship, in the twinkling o' the eye of a
Londonderry purraty."

And it was the nixt mornin', sure, jist as I was making up me