ways was. You think
I'm joking, but troth I wouldn't say a lie before the holy man beside me;
sure I wouldn't, Father?"

The friar grunted out something in reply, not very unlike, in sound at
least, a hearty anathema.

"Ah, then, isn't it yourself has the illigant time of it, Father dear!"
said he, tapping him familiarly upon his ample paunch, "and nothing to
trouble you; the best of divarsion wherever you go, and whether it's
Badahos or Ballykilruddery, it's all one; the women is fond of ye. Father
Murphy, the coadjutor in Scariff, was just such another as yourself, and
he'd coax the birds off the trees with the tongue of him. Give us a pull at
the pipkin before it's all gone, and I'll give you a chant."

With this he seized the jar, and drained it to the bottom; the smack of his
lips as he concluded, and the disappointed look of the friar as he peered
into the vessel, throwing the others, once more, into a loud burst of
laughter.

"And now, your rev'rance, a good chorus is all I'll ask, and you'll not
refuse it for the honor of the church."

So saying, he turned a look of most droll expression upon the monk, and
began the following ditty, to the air of "Saint Patrick was a Gentleman":--

What an illegant life a friar leads,
With a fat round paunch before him!
He mutters a prayer and counts his beads,
And all the women adore him.
It's little he's troubled to work or think,
Wherever devotion leads him;
A "pater" pays for his dinner and drink,
For the Church--good luck to her!--feeds him.

From the cow in the field to the pig in the sty,
From the maid to the lady in satin,
They tremble wherever he turns an eye.
He can talk to the Devil in Latin!
He's mighty severe to the ugly and ould,
And curses like mad when he's near 'em;
But one beautiful trait of him I've been tould,
The innocent craytures don't fear him.

It's little for spirits or ghosts he cares;
For 'tis true as the world supposes,
With an Ave he'd make them march down-stairs,
Av they dared to show their noses.
The Devil himself's afraid, 'tis said,
And dares not to deride him;
For "angels make each night his bed,
And then--lie down beside him."

A perfect burst of laughter from Monsoon prevented my hearing how Mike's
minstrelsy succeeded within doors; but when I looked again, I found
that the friar had decamped, leaving the field open to