"Regular Orange words!" said the fiddler, on my finishing the
second stanza.
"Do you choose to get on?" said I.
"More blackguard Orange words I never heard!" cried the fiddler, on
my coming to the conclusion of the third stanza. "Divil a bit
farther will I play; at any rate till I get the shilling."
"Here it is for you," said I; "the song is ended, and, of course,
the tune."
"Thank your hanner," said the fiddler, taking the money, "your
hanner has kept your word with me, which is more than I thought
your hanner would. And now your hanner let me ask you why did your
hanner wish for that tune, which is not only a blackguard one but
quite out of date; and where did your hanner get the words?"
"I used to hear the tune in my boyish days," said I, "and wished to
hear it again, for though you call it a blackguard tune, it is the
sweetest and most noble air that Ireland, the land of music, has
ever produced. As for the words, never mind where I got them; they
are violent enough, but not half so violent as the words of some of
the songs made against the Irish Protestants by the priests."
"Your hanner is an Orange man, I see. Well, your hanner, the
Orange is now in the kennel, and the Croppies have it all their own
way."
"And perhaps," said I, "before I die, the Orange will be out of the
kennel and the Croppies in, even as they were in my young days."
"Who knows, your hanner?
