Such were my thoughts, when a dialogue quite near me aroused me from my revery. I was not long in detecting the speakers, who, with their backs turned to us, were seated at the great table discussing a very liberal allowance of pigeon-pie, a flask of champagne standing between them.
"Don't now! don't I tell ye; it's little ye know Galway, or ye wouldn't think to make up to me, squeezing my foot."
"Upon my soul, you're an angel, a regular angel. I never saw a woman suit my fancy before."
"Well, then, Judy, don't be angry; I only meant that a dragoon knows rather more of these matters than a priest."
"Well, then, I'm not so sure of that. But anyhow, I'd have you to remember it ain't a Widow Malone you have beside you."
"Sure, it's a song,--poor creature,--it's a song they made about her in the North Cork, when they were quartered down in our county."
"Anything,--everything; my heart, my life."
"I wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. Give me that old green ring on your finger, then."
"It's yours," said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss Macan's finger; "and now for your promise."
"He'd be delighted," said Power; "he dotes on music."
"Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song has one, and here it is."
"Miss Macan's song!" said Power, tapping the table with his knife.
"Miss Macan's song!" was re-echoed on all sides; and before the luckless general could interfere, she had begun. How to explain the air I know not, for I never heard its name; but at the end of each verse a species of echo followed the last word that rendered it irresistibly ridiculous.
Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone! Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone? Oh, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score, Or more; And fortunes they all had galore, In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'T was known No one ever could see her alone, Ohone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone! So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare, How quare! It's little for blushin' they care Down there; Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste, "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own; Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."