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He was apparently in low spirits, and hummed in a species of low, droning voice, the following ballad, at the end of each verse of which came an Irish chorus which, to the erudite in such matters, will suggest the air of Moddirederoo: Then fare ye well, ould Erin dear; To part, my heart does ache well: From Carrickfergus to Cape Clear, I'll never see your equal.
And though to foreign parts we're bound, Where cannibals may ate us, We'll ne'er forget the holy ground Of potteen and potatoes. Moddirederoo aroo, aroo, etc.
By Jove, how you've been coming it, though, in ten days! She ought not to have got to that for a month, at least; and how like a young one it was, to be caught by the poetry. Oh, Master Charley, I thought that the steeple-chaser might have done most with your Galway heart, the girl in the gray habit, that sings 'Moddirederoo, ought to have been the prize!
When good Saint Patrick banished frogs, And shook them from his garment, He never thought we'd go abroad, To live upon such varmint; Nor quit the land where whiskey grew To wear King George's button, Take vinegar for mountain dew, And toads for mountain mutton. Moddirederoo aroo, aroo, etc. "I say, Mike, stop that confounded keen, and tell me where are we?" "Off the ould head of Kinsale, sir."
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