that many who were petrified in the dust, had their skulls broken in this great battle between the factions.—­God help poor Ireland! when its inhabitants are so pugnacious, that even the grave is no security against getting their crowns cracked, and their bones fractured!  Well, any how, skulls and bones flew in every direction—­stones and brick-bats were also put in motion; spades, shovels, loaded whips, pot-sticks, churn-staffs, flails, and all kinds of available weapons were in hot employment.

“But, perhaps, there was nothing more-truly felicitous or original in its way than the mode of warfare adopted by little Neal Malone, who was tailor for the O’Callaghan side:  for every tradesman is obliged to fight on behalf of his own faction.  Big Frank Farrell, the miller, being on the O’Hallaghan side, had been sent for, and came up from his mill behind the town, quite fresh.  He was never what could be called a good man,* though it was said that he could lift ten hundred weight.  He puffed forward with a great cudgel, determined to commit slaughter out of the face, and the first man he met was the weeshy fraction of a tailor, as nimble as a hare.  He immediately attacked him, and would probably have taken his measure for life had not the tailor’s activity protected him.  Farrell was in a rage, and Neal, taking advantage of his blind fury, slipped round him, and, with a short run, sprung upon the miller’s back, and planted, a foot upon the threshold of each coat pocket, holding by the mealy collar of his waistcoat.  In this position he belabored the miller’s face and eyes with his little hard fist to such purpose, that he had him in the course of a few minutes nearly as blind as a mill-horse.  The’ miller roared for assistance, but the pell-mell was going on too warmly for his cries to be available.  In fact, he resembled an elephant with a monkey on his back.

* A brave man.  He was a man of huge size and prodigious strength, and died in consequence of an injury he received in lifting one of the cathedral bells at Clogher, which is said to be ten hundredweight.

“‘How do you like that, Farrell?’ Neal would say, giving him a cuff—­’and that, and that; but that is best of all.  Take it again, gudgeon (two cuffs more)—­here’s grist for you (half a dozen additional)—­hard fortune to you! (crack, crack.) What! going to lie down!—­by all that’s terrible, if you do, I’ll annigulate* you!  Here’s a dhuragh,** (another half dozen)—­long measure, you savage!—­the baker’s dozen, you baste!—­there’s five-an’-twenty to the score, Sampson! and one or two in’ (crack, whack).

* Annihilate—­Many of the jawbreakers—­and this was one in a double sense—­used by the hedge-schoolmasters, are scattered among the people, by whom they were so twisted that it would be extremely difficult to recognize them.

** Dhuragh—­An additional portion of anything thrown in from a spirit of generosity, after the Measure agreed on is given.  When the miller, for instance, receives his toll, the country-people usually throw in several handfuls of meal as a Dhuragh.

“‘Oh! murther sheery!’ shouted the miller.  ’Murther-an-age, I’m kilt!  Foul play!—­foul play!’