stha, I'll whale you
wid-in an inch of your life, if you don't Shrink. Send round the
punch, Dan; an' give us a song, Parra Gastha. Arrah, Paddy, do you
remimber--ha, ha, ha--upon my credit, I'll never forget it, the fun we
had catchin' Father Soolaghan's horse, the day he gave his shirt to the
sick man in the ditch. The Lord rest his sowl in glory--ha, ha, ha--I'll
never forget it. Paddy, the song, you thief?"

"No, but tell them about that, Misther Connell."

"Throth, an' I will; but don't be Mitherin me. Faith, this is The height
o' good punch. You see--ha, ha, ha! You see, it was one hard summer
afore I was married to Ellish--mavourneen, that you wor, asthore! Och,
och, are we parted at last? Upon my sowl, my heart's breakin'--breakin',
(weeps) an' no wondher! But as I was sayin'--all your healths! faith,
it is tip-top punch that--the poor man fell sick of a faver, an' sure
enough, when it was known what ailed him, the neighbors built a little
shed on the roadside for him, in regard that every one was afeard to let
him into their place. Howsomever--ha, ha, ha--Father Soolaghan was one
day ridin' past upon his horse, an' seein' the crathur lyin' undher the
shed, on a whisp o' straw, he pulls bridle, an' puts the spake on the
poor sthranger. So, begad, it came out, that the neighbors were very
kind to him, an' used to hand over whatsomever they thought best for him
from the back o' the ditch, as well as they could.

"'My poor fellow,' said the priest, 'you're badly off for linen.'

"'Thrue for you, sir,' said the sick man, 'I never longed for anything
so much in my life, as I do for a clane shirt an' a glass o' whiskey.'

"'The devil a glass o' whiskey I have about me, but you shall have
the clane shirt, you poor compassionate crathur,' said the priest,
stretchin' his neck up an' down to make sure there was no one comin' on
the road--ha, ha, ha!

"Well an' good--'I have three shirts,' says his Reverence, 'but I have
only one o' them an me, an' that you shall have.'

"So the priest peels himself on the spot, an' lays his black coat and
waistcoat afore him acrass the saddle, thin takin' off his shirt, he
threw it acrass the ditch to the sick man. Whether it was the white
shirt, or the black coat danglin' about the horse's neck, the divil a
one o' myself can say, but any way, the baste tuck fright, an' made off
wid Father Soolaghan, in the state I'm tellin' yez, upon his back--ha,
ha, ha!

"Parra Gastha, here, a