"Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

It was sung timidly at first. Nothing daunted, the performer plunged
into the next verse--

"Rest his sowl in the arms uv owld Nick!
For he's gone from the land uv the quick:
But he's still makin' luv
To the leddies above,
An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick,
Avick,
Niver fear but he'll tache 'em the thrick!"

There was no doubt this time. By the spirit of her mad singing, by
some demon that rode upon her full and liquid voice, the whole
company seemed possessed. Miss Limpenny looked furtively towards the
Vicar. He was actually joining in the chorus! And what a chorus!
She put her mittened palms to her ears, such a shout it was that went
up.

"'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore,
And 'ull thrate him to whiskey galore;
For they've only to sip
But the tip uv his lip,
An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more,
Asthore,
By the powers! they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore'!"

It was no longer an assembly of dull and decent citizens: it was a
room full of lunatics yelling the burden of this frantic Irish song.