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Be this as it may, Bob Martin had the credit of having made a drunkard of "black Phil Slaney" for by this cognomen was he distinguished; and Phil Slaney had also the reputation of having made the sexton, if possible, a "bigger bliggard" than ever.
'Oh! says she, 'there's no use in purtendin', I know he's kilt himself; he has committed infantycide an himself, says she, 'like a dissipated bliggard as he always was, says she, 'God rest his soul. Oh, thin, isn't it me an' not you, Jim Soolivan, that's the unforthunate woman, says she, 'for ain't I cryin' here, an' isn't he in heaven, the bliggard, says she.
'What do ye mane, you uncivilised bliggard? says his raverance. 'Is that a venerable way, says he, 'to approach your clargy? says he. 'Hould your tongue, says Bill, 'an' I'll do ye no harum, says he. 'Who are you, ye scoundhrel iv the world? says his raverance. 'Whisht! says he? 'I'm Billy Malowney, says he.
"Maybe your honour id wish to have a word with Father Murphy?" "Hould your tongue, you misherable bliggard," says the squire; "it's not iv my sowl I'm thinkin' an' I wondther you'd have the impitence to talk to a gintleman consarnin' his sowl; and when I want THAT fixed," says he, slappin' his thigh, "I'll go to them that knows what belongs to the likes," says he.
"'Hould your tongue, you misherable bliggard, says the squire; 'it's not iv my sowl I'm thinkin' an' I wondher you'd have the impitence to talk to a gintleman consarnin' his sowl; and when I want that fixed, says he, slappin' his thigh, 'I'll go to them that knows what belongs to the likes, says he.
An' at last says he: 'I onderstand, says he, 'very well how it is, says he. 'It's how she was in love, says he, 'wid that bliggard, Billy Malowney, says he, 'bad luck to him! says he; for by this time he was coming to his raison. 'Ah! says the wife, says she, 'Tim darlint, don't be cursin' them that's dead an' buried, says she. 'An' why would not I, says he, 'if they desarve it? says he.
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