came again and gave him a fine wake, each adding to the merriment
whatever he knew in the way of rann, tale, old saw, or quaint rhyme. He
had had his day, had said his prayers and made his confession, and why
should they not give him a hearty send-off? The funeral took place the
next day. A good party of his admirers and friends got into the hearse
with the coffin, for the day was wet and nasty. They had not gone far
when one of them burst out with "It's cruel cowld, isn't it?" "Garra',"
replied another, "we'll all be as stiff as the corpse when we get to
the berrin-ground." "Bad cess to him," said a third; "I wish he'd held
out another month until the weather got dacent." A man called Carroll
thereupon produced a half-pint of whiskey, and they all drank to the
soul of the departed. Unhappily, however, the hearse was over-weighted,
and they had not reached the cemetery before the spring broke, and the
bottle with it.

Moran must have felt strange and out of place in that other kingdom he
was entering, perhaps while his friends were drinking in his honour.
Let us hope that some kindly middle region was found for him, where he
can call dishevelled angels about him with some new and more rhythmical
form of his old


Gather round me, boys, will yez
Gather round me?
And hear what I have to say
Before ould Salley brings me
My bread and jug of tay;


and fling outrageous quips and cranks at cherubim and seraphim.