g in them elevating to the spirits.

Barny, who knew their voices, and even the mode of dancing peculiar to
almost every one in the barn, had some joke for each. When a young
man brings out his sweetheart--which he frequently does in a manner
irresistibly ludicrous, sometimes giving a spring from the earth, his
caubeen set with a knowing air on one side of his head, advancing at
a trot on tiptoe, catching her by the ear, leading her out to her
position, which is "to face the fiddler," then ending by a snap of the
fingers, and another spring, in which he brings his heel backwards
in contact with his ham;--we say, when a young man brings out his
sweetheart, and places her facing the fiddler, he asks her what will
she dance; to which, if she as no favorite tune, she uniformly
replies--"Your will is my pleasure." This usually made Barny groan
aloud.

"What ails you, Barny?"

"Oh, thin, murdher alive, how little thruth's in this world! Your will's
my pleassure! _Baithirshin!_ but, sowl, if things goes an, it won't be
long so!"

"Why, Barny," the young man would exclaim, "is the ravin' fit comin'
over you?"

"No, in troth, Jim; _but it's thinkin' of home I am_. Howandiver, do you
go an; but, _naboklish!_ what'll ye have?"

"'Jig Polthouge,' Barny: but on your wrist ma bouchal, or Katty will
lave us both ut o' sight in no time. Whoo! success! clear the coorse.
Well done, Barny! That's the go."

When the youngsters had danced for some time, the fathers and mothers of
the village were called upon "to step out." This was generally the most
amusing scene in the dance. No excuse is ever taken on such occasions,
for when they refuse, about a dozen young fellows place them, will they
will they, upright upon the floor, from whence neither themselves nor
their wives are permitted to move until they dance. No sooner do they
commence, than, they are mischievously pitted against each other by two
sham parties, one encouraging the wife, the other cheering on the good
man; whilst the fiddler, falling in with the frolic, plays in his most
furious style. The simplicity of character, and, perhaps, the lurking
vanity of those who are the butts of the mirth on this occasion,
frequently heighten the jest.

"Why, thin, Paddy, is it strivin' to outdo me you are? Faiks, avourneen,
you never seen that day, any way," the old woman would exclaim, exerting
all her vigor.

"Didn't I? Sowl, I'll sober you before I lave the flure, for all that,