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Veeve lah Republeekh, God save Oirland! Surrender me brave lick-shpittle. What's this? Tare en nouns, if it isn't Tom Shkott. Divil resaive me you'll not get off this time. Lay down your arms, traitors and crown worshippers. Lay thim down. Drop thim in the shnow. There, don't be too nice. Down wid thim. Or will ye foight? But it's meself that would loike a bit of a shindy wid ye."
"We've got thim. Veeve lah Republeekh; God save Oirland," and set out over the plain, followed by a host of little Frenchmen, bristling like porcupines, with their war-like inclinations. "Surround the lick-shpittles, Mounsieurs," shouted the big, red Irishman. "Veeve lah, Veeve lah!" he screamed, and beat the flanks of his horse with his monster feet.
"Boy hivins and airth," he said, "but it's moyself that's itching to get at those lick-shpittle loyalists. Veeve lah Republeekh," he shouted, tossing his filthy hat, "and God save Oirland." "We must return, my men," Major Boulton said. "If these well-armed rebels were to come against us now, they would butcher us like sheep."
O'Donoghue quickly turned his horse around and, with a sudden movement, squirted a jet of tobacco juice in the eyes of the tempestuous little loyalist. "Now, take him up to the fort, my min, wid the rest. Forward, march. Veeve lah Republeekh, and God save Oirland, Major Boulton," delivering the latter part of the sentence close to the ear of the captive leader.
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