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It was now the sixth or seventh night that Jack and Harry, as usual, kept their lonely watch in the kitchen of the murdered man. A large turf fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and on a bed of straw in the ample chimney-corner was stretched old Moya in a profound sleep. On the hearthstone, between the two friends, stood a small oak table, on which was placed a large decanter of whisky, a jug of boiled water, and a bowl of sugar; and, as if to add an idea of security to that of comfort, on one end of the table were placed in saltier a formidable-looking blunderbuss and a brace of large brass pistols. Jack and his comrade perpetually renewed their acquaintance with the whisky-bottle, and laughed and chatted and recounted the adventures of their young days with as much hilarity as if the house which now witnessed their mirth never echoed to the cry of death or blood. In the course of conversation Jack mentioned the incident of the strange appearance of the banshee, and expressed a hope that she would not come that night to disturb their carouse.

“Banshee the devil!” shouted Harry; “how superstitious you papists are! I would like to see the phiz of any man, dead or alive, who dare make his appearance here to-night.” And, seizing the blunderbuss, and looking wickedly at Jack, he vociferated, “By Hercules, I would drive the contents of this through their sowls who dare annoy us.”

“Better for you to shoot your mother than fire at the banshee, anyhow,” remarked Jack.

“Psha!” said Harry, looking contemptuously at his companion. “I would think no more of riddling the old jade’s hide than I would of throwing off this tumbler;” and, to suit the action to the word, he drained off another bumper of whisky-punch.

“Jack,” says Harry, “now that we are in such prime humour, will you give us a song?”

“With all the veins of my heart,” says Jack. “What will it be?”

“Anything you please; your will must be my pleasure,” answered Harry.

Jack, after coughing and clearing his pipes, chanted forth, in a bold and musical voice, a rude rigmarole called “The Royal Blackbird,” which, although of no intrinsic merit, yet, as it expressed sentiments hostile to British connection and British government and favourable to the house of Stewart, was very popular amongst the Catholic peasantry of Ireland, whilst, on the contrary, it was looked upon by the Protestants as highly offensive and disloyal. Harry, however, wished his companion too well to oppose the song, and he quietly awaited its conclusion.

“Bravo, Jack,” said Harry, as soon as the song was ended; “that you may never lose your wind.”

“In the king’s name now I board you for another song,” says Jack.

Harry, without hesitation, recognised his friend’s right to demand a return, and he instantly trolled forth, in a deep, sweet, and sonorous voice, the following:

SONG.

“Ho, boys, I have a song divine!
Come, let us now in concert join,
And toast the bonny banks of Boyne–The Boyne of ‘Glorious Memory.’

“On Boyne’s famed banks our fathers bled;
Boyne’s surges with their blood ran red;
And from the Boyne our foemen fled–Intolerance, chains, and slavery.

“Dark superstition’s blood-stained sons
Pressed on, but ‘crack’ went William’s guns,
And soon the gloomy monster runs–Fell, hydra-headed bigotry.

“Then fill your glasses high and fair,
Let shouts of triumph rend the air,
Whilst Georgy fills the regal chair
We’ll never bow to Popery.”

Jack, whose countenance had, from the commencement of the song, indicated his aversion to the sentiments it expressed, now lost all patience at hearing his darling “Popery” impugned, and, seizing one of the pistols which lay on the table and whirling it over his comrade’s head, swore vehemently that he would “fracture his skull if he did not instantly drop that blackguard Orange lampoon.”

“Aisy, avhic,” said Harry, quietly pushing away the upraised arm; “I did not oppose your bit of treason awhile ago, and besides, the latter end of my song is more calculated to please you than to irritate your feelings.”