“But, annyhow, no wan iv thim lads come back to holler because he was in th’ war or to war again th’ men that shot him.  They wint to wurruk, carryin’ th’ hod ‘r shovellin’ cindhers at th’ rollin’ mills.  Some iv thim took pinsions because they needed thim; but divvle th’ wan iv thim ye’ll see paradin’ up an’ down Ar-rchey Road with a blue coat on, wantin’ to fight th’ war over with Schwartzmeister’s bar-tinder that niver heerd iv but wan war, an’ that th’ rites iv sivinty-sivin.  Sare a wan.  No, faith.  They’d as lave decorate a confeatherate’s grave as a thrue pathrite’s.  All they want is a chanst to go out to th’ cimitry; an’, faith, who doesn’t enjoy that?  No wan that’s annything iv a spoort.

“I know hundherds iv thim.  Ye know Pat Doherty, th’ little man that lives over be Grove Sthreet.  He inlisted three times, by dad, an’ had to stand on his toes three times to pass.  He was that ager.  Well, he looks to weigh about wan hundherd an’ twinty pounds; an’ he weighs wan fifty be raison iv him havin’ enough lead to stock a plumber in his stomach an’ his legs.  He showed himsilf wanst whin he was feelin’ gay.  He looks like a sponge.  But he ain’t.  He come in here Thursdah night to take his dhrink in quite; an’ says I, ‘Did ye march to-day?’ ‘Faith, no,’ he says, ‘I can get hot enough runnin’ a wheelbarrow without makin’ a monkey iv mesilf dancin’ around th’ sthreets behind a band.’  ‘But didn’t ye go out to decorate th’ graves?’ says I.  ’I hadn’t th’ price,’ says he, ‘Th’ women wint out with a gyranium to put over Sarsfield, the first born,’ he says.

“Just thin Morgan O’Toole come in, an’ laned over th’ ba-ar.  He’s been a dillygate to ivry town convention iv th’ Raypublicans since I dinnaw whin.  ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I see they’re pilin’ it on,’ he says.  ‘On th’ dead?’ says I, be way iv a joke.  ‘No,’ he says; ’but did ye see they’re puttin’ up a monnymint over th’ rebils out here be Oakwoods?’ he says.  ‘By gar,’ he says, ‘’tis a disgrace to th’ mim’ries iv thim devoted dead who died f’r their counthry,’ he says.  ‘If,’ he says, ’I cud get ninety-nine men to go out an’ blow it up, I’d be th’ hundherth,’ he says.  ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘ye wud,’ I says.  ‘Ye’d be th’ last,’ I says.

“Doherty was movin’ up to him.  ‘What rig’mint?’ says he.  ’What’s that?’ says O’Toole.  ‘Did ye inlist in th’ army, brave man?’ says Pat.  ‘I swore him over age,’ says I.  ‘Was ye dhrafted in?’ says th’ little man.  ‘No,’ says O’Toole.  ‘Him an’ me was in th’ same cellar,’ says I.  ’Did ye iver hear iv Ree-saca, ’r Vicksburg, ‘r Lookout Mountain?’ th’ little man wint on.  ’Did anny man iver shoot at ye with annything but a siltzer bottle?  Did ye iver have to lay on ye’er stummick with ye’er nose burrid in th’ Lord knows what while things was whistlin’ over ye that, if they iver stopped whistlin’, ’d make ye’er backbone look like a broom?  Did ye iver see a man that ye’d slept with th’ night before cough, an’ go out with his hands ahead iv his face?