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Updated: May 29, 2025
She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: slainte! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips.
After serving my companion with a glass of peppermint, which she said she preferred to anything else, and me with a glass of ale, both of which I paid for, he retired, and we sat down on two old chairs beneath a window in front of the bar. "Well," said I, "I suppose you have Irish: here's slainte " "Slainte yuit a shaoi," said the girl, tasting her peppermint. "Well: how do you like it?
"Slainte," repeated Brian, and went forth to play his part. When the four men, with Red Murrough at their head, carried him down into the great hall, Brian found it no little changed. Besides these there were a score more of the royalist officers mingled with the Dark Master's men, and it seemed that there would be few sober men in that hall by midnight, from the appearance of things.
So he ordered his ten Scots troopers in from the camp outside the walls, and the Dark Master sent for Brian to be identified. "I'll have you carried down," said Red Murrough on coming for him. "Play the part, ma boucal, and when these royalists get into their cups again they'll forget all that is in their heads. Here's a cup of wine before ye go, and another for myself. Slainte!"
If we throw part of our men on that camp at dawn and the rest upon the castle, the tables may yet be turned." "A good rede, Brian O'Neill," nodded the old Wolf approvingly. At thus hearing his name Brian flung Turlough one lightning-swift glance, then pulled out his Spanish sword and threw it high, and caught it again with a great shout. "Tyr-owen! Slainte!"
I can always be counted on, whatever happens. 'Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn! Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin; Pow'rfulest preacher and tenderest teacher, And kindliest creature in ould Donegal. Alfred Perceval Graves. Coomnageeha Hotel, In Ould Donegal.
Who would ask anything racier in its kind than the former's "Father O'Flynn"? Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety, Still I'd advance you without impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin.
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