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But Nicholas was absorbed in his carving. Again Mr. O'Flynn obliged, roaring with great satisfaction: "'I'm a stout rovin' blade, and what matther my name, For I ahlways was wild, an' I'll niver be tame; An' I'll kiss putty gurrls wheriver I go, An' what's that to annyone whether or no. Chorus. "'Ogedashin, den thashin, come, boys! let us drink; 'Tis madness to sorra, 'tis folly to think.
For we're ahl jolly fellows wheriver we go Ogedashin, den thashin, na boneen sheen lo!" Potts was called on. No, he couldn't sing, but he could show them a trick or two. And with his grimy euchre-deck he kept his word, showing that he was not the mere handy-man, but the magician of the party.
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