hese efforts of genius appeared many an old rhyme, scratched
with rusty nails by rustier policemen, while lounging in the
justice-room during the proceedings of the great O'Grady, and all these
were gone over again and again by Andy, till they were worn out, all but
one--a rough representation of a man hanging.

This possessed a sort of fascination for poor Andy; for at last,
relinquishing all others, he stood riveted before it, and muttered to
himself, "I wondher can they hang me--sure it's no murdher I done--but
who knows what witnesses they might get? and these times they sware
mighty hard; and Squire O'Grady has such a pack o' blackguards about
him, sure he could get anything swore he liked. Oh, wirra! wirra!
what'll I do at all! Faix! I wouldn't like to be hanged--oh! look at him
there--just the last kick in him--and a disgrace to my poor mother into
the bargain. Augh!--but it's a dirty death to die--to be hung up like a
dog over a gate, or an old hat on a peg, just that-away;" and he
extended his arm as he spoke, suspending his _caubeen_, while he looked
with disgust at the effigy. "But sure they _can't_ hang me--though now I
remember Squire Egan towld me long ago I'd be hanged some day or other.
I wondher does my mother know I'm tuk away--and Oonah, too, the
craythur, would be sorry for me. Maybe, if my mother spoke to Squire
Egan, his honour would say a good word for me:--though that wouldn't do;
for him and Squire O'Grady's bitther inimies now, though they wor once
good friends. Och hone! sure that's the way o' the world; and a cruel
world it is--so it is. Sure 't would be well to be out of it a'most, and
in a betther world. I hope there's no po'chaises in heaven!"

The soliloquy of poor Andy was interrupted by a low, measured sound of
thumping, which his accustomed ear at once distinguished to be the
result of churning; the room in which he was confined being one of a
range of offices stretching backward from the principal building and
next door to the dairy. Andy had grown tired by this time of his
repeated contemplation of the rhymes and sketches, his own thoughts
thereon, and his long confinement; and now the monotonous sound of the
churn-dash falling on his ear, acted as a sort of _busho_,[6] and the
worried and wearied Andy at last laid down on the platform and fell
asleep to the bumping lullaby.

[6] A soft, monotonous chant the nurses sing to children to induce
sleep.

CHAPTER XIII