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"It's little for glory I care; Sure ambition is only a fable; I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor, With lashings of drink on the table. I like to lie down in the sun And drame, when my faytures is scorchin' That when I'm too ould for more fun, Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune.
"O, there you are, my darlint ould head! An' where's the head like o' you? Throth, it's little I thought I'd ever set eyes an your good-looking faytures agin. But God's good!"
"Thrue for you, Miss they worr, and it's meself that was lyin' flat in the ditch wid me faytures makin' an illigant cast in the mud more betoken, as ye see even now and the sarjint and his daytail thrampin' round me. It was thin that the mortial cold sthruck thro' me mouth, and made me wake for the whiskey that would resthore me." "What did you desert fer?" "Ah, list to that now!
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