“More power to you Father M’Cabe; give him the Latin and the Bravery!” (Breviary)

“Success, Mr. Lucre!  Push on, sir, and don’t let the Popish rebel send him out of the world with a bandage on his eyes.  Lay in the Bible, Mr. Lucre!  Protestant and True Blue forever—­hurra!”

“The true Church forever, Father M’Cabe, the jewel that you war!  Give the horse the spurs, avourneen.  Sowl, Paddy, but the bodagh parson has the advantage of him in the cappul.  Push on, your reverence; you have the divil and the parson against you, for the one’s drivin’ on the other.”

“Cross the corner of the Barny Mother’s meadow, Mr. Lucre, and wheel in at the garden ditch; your horse can do it, although you ride the heaviest weight.  Lay on him, sir, and think of Protestant Ascendancy.  King William against Popery and wooden shoes; hurra!”

“Father, achora, keep your shoulder to the wind, and touch up Parra Gastha (* Literally, Paddy Speedy) wid the spurs.  A groan for the Protestant parson, father darlin’!”

“Three groans for the Popish Mass Book.  Bravo, Mr. Lucre!  That ditch was well cleared!”

“Devil a purtier, father jewel!  Parra Gastha’s a darlin’, and brought you over like a bird—­hurra!”

“Have you no whip, Mr. Lucre?  Whip and spur, sir, or the Popish garran will be in before you.  By the great Boyne, I’m afraid the charger’s blown.”

“God enable you, father avilish!  Blown!  Why what would you expect, an’ it the first visit ever the same horse made to a sick-bed’ in his life; he now finds it isn’t on the king’s highway he is—­and I’ll go bail it’s himself that’s cursin’ the same duty in his heart.  Bravo, Father Pat!  Parra Gastha’s the boy that knows his duty—­more power, Parra Gastha!  Divil pursue the hair’s turned on him; but, be me sowl, it wouldn’t be so, if he led the life the Protestant blood did.—­feedin’ high, and doin’ nothin’.”

“Mr. Lucre, pull out; I see you’re hard up, sir, and so is your charger.  Push him, sir, even if he should drop.  Death and Protestantism before Popery and dishonor!  Hurra, well done!”

“Ah, be me sowl, it’s near the last gasp wid him and his masther, and no wondher; they’re both divilish far out of their element.  Faith, if they had Father M’Cabe and Parra Gastha’s practice, they wouldn’t be the show they are this minute.  Well done both! fresh and fair, snug and dry, you do it.  Hurra!”

When the two worthy gentlemen had reached Bob’s house, they dismounted, each in a perspiration, and rushed to the bed of the dying man.  Mr. Lucre sat, of course, at one side, and the priest at the other; Mr. Lucre seized the right hand, and the priest the left:  whilst Bob looked at them both alternately, and gave a cordial squeeze to each.

“You thought, sir,” said Mr. Lucre to the priest haughtily, “that he would have died an idolater.”

Bob squeezed Mr. Lucre’s hand again.