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Bruce Carmyle looked down his nose without speaking. A tense moment. "What," asked Uncle Donald, his fingers on the handle, "did you say it was called?" "What was what called?" "That whisky." "O'Rafferty Special." "And wherj get it?" "Bilby's, in Oxford Street." "I'll make a note of it," said Uncle Donald. "And after all I've done for her," said Mr.
Nary down; not me. I cheered up. I cheered up Mr. Long. I kep everybody in good sperrits. An what was the result? Result was, you all turned up in prime order and condition, a enjyin of yourselves like all possessed, along with old O'Rafferty. "Again, my friends," he continued, as the boys made no remark, "consider this life air short an full of vycissitoods.
Those who were inclined to devotion and there is no lack of it in Ireland took to carols and hymns, which they sang, for want of better airs, to tunes highly comic. We have ourselves often heard the Doxology sung in Irish verse to the facetious air of "Paudeen O'Rafferty," and other hymns to the tune of "Peas upon a Trencher," and "Cruskeen Lawn."
My grandfather concluded the latter to be the reason; so, being, like a true Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all times ready for a frolic, he bounced into the room, calling to the musician to strike up "Paddy O'Rafferty," capered up to the clothes-press and seized upon two handles to lead her out: When, whizz! the whole revel was at an end.
He was now in the greatest dilemmy, and didn't know how to manage, so he was driven at last to such an amplush, that he had no other shift for employment, only to sing Paddeen O'Rafferty out of mere vexation, and dance the hornpipe trebling step to it, cracking his fingers, half mad, through the stable.
I don't know yet that ye'd be willin' to come to terruuis; an' so ye're loike O'Rafferty in the song: "'Oh, a fine pair av handcuffs he wore, That the sheriff hiul nately adjusted, Because that official persayved That O'Rafferty couldn't be trusted." "Ah, sire," said Mrs. Russell, with a sigh, "Your Royal Majesty holds us by stronger bonds than bolts and bars."
Hobson allowed the unlicensed use of her Christian name to pass unnoticed; she closed the door behind her and spoke gently, as she took the other woman's hand and shook it, which was her somewhat masculine way of showing sympathy. "I don't know; none of us know that anything is wrong. As Mike O'Rafferty used to say. 'We may be afther barking in the wrong back-yard, but I had a dream, Jane Coop.
He'd say... What kind of whisky's this?" "O'Rafferty Special." "New to me. Not bad. Quite good. Sound. Mellow. Wherej get it?" "Bilby's in Oxford Street." "Must order some. Mellow. He'd say... well, God knows what he'd say. Whatch doing it for? Whatch doing it for? That's what I can't see. None of us can see. Puzzles your uncle George. Baffles your aunt Geraldine. Nobody can understand it.
And some doubted the bird's sojourn on a sailing-vessel in the full-rigged, full-mouthed days of 1840! Her grace rapped the razor-edged beak sharply and returned to the other two just in time to hear her maid's answer to some question: "Sergeant O'Rafferty of the Irish Guards, Miss Jill. He demeaned himself by marrying a barmaid, miss."
"Oh, la, la, la! no," said Diana. "Notice that 'la, la, la, Aunt Liberty? Got that from 'Paris by Night' on the roof garden under me. You'll hear that 'la, la, la' at the Café McCann now, along with 'garsong. The bohemian crowd there have become tired of 'garsong' since O'Rafferty, the head waiter, punched three of them for calling him it. Oh, no; the town's strickly on the bum these nights.
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