“The battle was now somewhat abated.  Skulls, and bones, and bricks, and stones, were, however, still flying; so that it might be truly said, the bones of contention were numerous.  The streets presented a woeful spectacle:  men were lying with their bones broken—­others, though not so seriously injured, lappered in their blood—­some were crawling up, but were instantly knocked down by their enemies—­some were leaning against the walls, or groping their way silently along them, endeavoring to escape observation, lest they might be smashed down and altogether murdered.  Wives were sitting with the bloody heads of their husbands in their laps, tearing their hair, weeping and cursing, in all the gall of wrath, those who left them in such a state.  Daughters performed the said offices to their fathers, and sisters to their brothers; not pretermitting those who did not neglect their broken-pated bachelors to whom they paid equal attention.  Yet was the scene not without abundance of mirth.  Many a hat was thrown up by the O’Callaghan side, who certainly gained the day.  Many a song was raised by those who tottered about with trickling sconces, half drunk with whiskey, and half stupid with beating.  Many a ‘whoo,’ and ‘hurroo,’ and ‘huzza,’ was sent forth by the triumphanters; but truth to tell, they were miserably feeble and faint, compared to what they had been in the beginning of the amusement; sufficiently evincing that, although they might boast of the name of victory, they had got a bellyful of beating; still there was hard fighting.

“I mentioned, some time ago, that a man had adopted a scythe.  I wish from my heart there had been no such bloody instrument there that day; but truth must be told.  John O’Callaghan was now engaged against a set of the other O’s, who had rallied for the third time, and attacked him and his party.  Another brother of Rose Galh’s was in this engagement, and him did John O’Callaghan not only knock down, but cut desperately across the temple.  A man, stripped, and covered with blood and dust, at that moment made his appearance, his hand bearing the blade of the aforesaid scythe.  His approach was at once furious and rapid, and I may as well add, fatal; for before John O’Callaghan had time to be forewarned of his danger, he was cut down, the artery of his neck laid open, and he died without a groan.  It was truly dreadful, even to the oldest fighter present, to see the strong rush of red blood that curvated about his neck, until it gurgled, gurgled, gurgled, and lappered, and bubbled out, ending in small red spouts, blackening and blackening, as they became fainter and more faint.  At this criticality, every eye was turned from the corpse to the murderer; but he had been instantly struck down, and a female, with a large stone in her apron, stood over him, her arms stretched out, her face horribly distorted with agony, and her eyes turned backwards, as it were, into her head.  In a few seconds she fell into strong convulsions, and was immediately taken away.  Alas! alas! it was Rose Galh; and when we looked at the man she had struck down, he was found to be her brother! flesh of her flesh, and blood of her blood!  On examining him more closely, we discovered that his under-jaw hung loose, that his limbs were supple; we tried to make him speak, but in vain—­he too was a corpse.