' "At your honour's sarvice," says my
father (as well as the fright id let him,
for he was more dead than alive), "an'
it's proud I am to see your honour to-
night," says he.

' "Terence," says the squire, "you're
a respectable man" (an' it was thrue for
him), "an industhrious, sober man, an' an
example of inebriety to the whole parish,"
says he.

' "Thank your honour," says my father,
gettin' courage, "you were always a civil
spoken gintleman, God rest your honour."

' "REST my honour?" says the sperit
(fairly gettin' red in the face with the
madness), "Rest my honour?" says he.
"Why, you ignorant spalpeen," says he,
"you mane, niggarly ignoramush," says
he, "where did you lave your manners?"
says he. "If I AM dead, it's no fault iv
mine," says he; "an' it's not to be thrun
in my teeth at every hand's turn, by the
likes iv you," says he, stampin' his foot an
the flure, that you'd think the boords id
smash undther him.