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‘Thry the pig-sty,’ says she, ‘mavourneen,’ says she, ‘in the name iv God,’ says she.

‘Well, darlint,’ says he, ‘for your sake,’ says he, ‘I’ll condescend to them animals,’ says he.

An’ wid that he makes a dart to get in; bud, begorra, it was too late–the pigs was all gone home, and the pig-sty was as full as the Burr coach wid six inside.

‘Och! blur-an’-agers,’ says he, ‘there is not room for a suckin’-pig,’ says he, ‘let alone a Christian,’ says he.

‘Well, run into the house, Billy,’ says she, ‘this minute,’ says she, ‘an’ hide yourself antil they’re quiet,’ says she, ‘an’ thin you can steal out,’ says she, ‘anknownst to them all,’ says she.

‘I’ll do your biddin’, says he, ‘Molly asthore,’ says he.

‘Run in thin,’ says she, ‘an’ I’ll go an’ meet them,’ says she.

So wid that away wid her, and in wint Billy, an’ where ‘id he hide himself bud in a little closet that was off iv the room where the ould man and woman slep’. So he closed the doore, and sot down in an ould chair he found there convanient.

Well, he was not well in it when all the rest iv them comes into the kitchen, an’ ould Tim Donovan singin’ the ‘Colleen Rue’ for the bare life, an’ the rest iv them sthrivin’ to humour him, and doin’ exactly everything he bid them, because they seen he was foolish be the manes iv the liquor.

Well, to be sure all this kep’ them long enough, you may be sure, from goin’ to bed, so that Billy could get no manner iv an advantage to get out iv the house, and so he sted sittin’ in the dark closet in state, cursin’ the ‘Colleen Rue,’ and wondherin’ to the divil whin they’d get the ould man into his bed. An’, as if that was not delay enough, who should come in to stop for the night but Father O’Flaherty, of Cahirmore, that was buyin’ a horse at the fair! An’ av course, there was a bed to be med down for his raverence, an’ some other attintions; an’ a long discoorse himself an’ ould Mrs. Donovan had about the slaughter iv Billy Malowney, an’ how he was buried on the field iv battle; an’ his raverence hoped he got a dacent funeral, an’ all the other convaniences iv religion. An’ so you may suppose it was pretty late in the night before all iv them got to their beds.

Well, Tim Donovan could not settle to sleep at all at all, an’ so he kep’ discoorsin’ the wife about the new cows he bought, an’ the stripphers he sould, an’ so an for better than an hour, ontil from one thing to another he kem to talk about the pigs, an’ the poulthry; and at last, having nothing betther to discoorse about, he begun at his daughter Molly, an’ all the heartscald she was to him be raison iv refusin’ the men. An’ at last says he:

‘I onderstand,’ says he, ‘very well how it is,’ says he. ‘It’s how she was in love,’ says he, ‘wid that bliggard, Billy Malowney,’ says he, ‘bad luck to him!’ says he; for by this time he was coming to his raison.

‘Ah!’ says the wife, says she, ‘Tim darlint, don’t be cursin’ them that’s dead an’ buried,’ says she.

‘An’ why would not I,’ says he, ‘if they desarve it?’ says he.

‘Whisht,’ says she, ‘an’ listen to that,’ says she. ‘In the name of the Blessed Vargin,’ says she, ‘what IS it?’ says she.

An’ sure enough what was it but Bill Malowney that was dhroppin’ asleep in the closet, an’ snorin’ like a church organ.

‘Is it a pig,’ says he, ‘or is it a Christian?’

‘Arra! listen to the tune iv it,’ says she; ‘sure a pig never done the like is that,’ says she.

‘Whatever it is,’ says he, ‘it’s in the room wid us,’ says he. ‘The Lord be marciful to us!’ says he.