Page:Darby O'Gill and the Good People by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh (1903).djvu/176

Rh “Your Majesty’ll go through no more,” says Tom. With that he went stumping away to call back the wife and childher.

In a few minutes the ruler of the night-time was sitting on Mulligan’s table ating the last petatie and dhrinking the last sup of new milk that was in the house. The King dhrained the cup an’ smacked his lips. “Now sing us a ballad, Tom Mulligan, my lad,” says he, leaning back against the empty milk-crock and crossing his legs like a tailor. Ann Mulligan nodded approvin’ from where she sat, proud and contented on the bed, the childher smiled up from the mud floor. So Tom, who was a most maylodious man, just as his wife was a most harmonious woman, up and sang the ballad of Hugh Reynolds:

There’s most of the time thirty-two varses to that song, and Tom sang them all without skippin’ a word.

“Bate that, King Brian Connors,” he says at last. “I challenge you!” Rh