"a broiled bone 'ud do no manner ov harm at
this present time; but a smoke," says he, "'ud flavor both the devil and
the dhrink."

"What sort o' tobaccay is it that's in it?" says the Pope.

"Raal nagur-head," says his Riv'rence, "a very mild and salubrious
spacies ov the philosophic weed."

"Then, I don't care if I do take a dhraw," says the Pope. Then Father
Tom held the coal himself till his Holiness had the pipe lit; and they
sat widout saying anything worth mentioning for about five minutes.

At last the Pope says to his Riv'rence, "I dunna what gev me this plaguy
hiccup," says he. "Dhrink about," says he--"Begorra," he says, "I think
I'm getting merrier'an's good for me. Sing us a song, your Riv'rence,"
says he.

Father Tom then sung him Monatagrenage and the Bunch o' Rushes, and he
was mighty well pleased wid both, keeping time wid his hands, and
joining in the choruses, when his hiccup 'ud let him. At last, my dear,
he opens the lower button ov his waistcoat, and the top one of his
waistband, and calls to Masther Anthony to lift up one ov the windys. "I
dunna what's wrong wid me, at all at all," says he; "I'm mortal sick."

"I thrust," says his Riv'rence, "the pasthry that you ate at dinner
hasn't disagreed wid your Holiness's stomach."

"O my! oh!" says the Pope, "what's this at all?" gasping for breath, and
as pale as a sheet, wid a could swate bursting out over his forehead,
and the palms ov his hands spread out to cotch the air. "O my! O my!"
says he, "fetch me a basin!--Don't spake to me. Oh!--oh!--blood
alive!--O, my head, my head, hould my head!--oh!--ubh!--I'm
poisoned!--ach!"

"It was them plaguy pasthries," says his Riv'rence. "Hould his head
hard," says he, "and clap a wet cloth over his timples. If you could
only thry another dhraw o' the pipe, your Holiness, it 'ud set you to
rights in no time."

"Carry me to bed," says the Pope, "and never let me see that wild Irish
priest again. I'm poisoned by his manes--ubplsch!--ach!--ach!--He dined
wid Cardinal Wayld yestherday," says he, "and he's bribed him to take me
off. Send for a confessor," says he, "for my latther end's approaching.
My head's like to split--so it is!--O my! O my!--ubplsch!--ach!"

Well, his Riv'rence never thought it worth his while to make him an
answer; but, when he seen how ungratefully he was used, afther all his
throuble in making the evening agreeable to the ould man, he called
Spring, and put the but-end ov the seco