alk. Only mind the bog-holes: for
there's twenty feet of water in some of them, and the sides is so straight,
you'll never get out if you fall in.'

'Drive on, then. I'll remain where I am; but don't bother me with your
talk; and no more questioning.'

'By coorse I won't--why would I? Isn't your honour a gentleman, and haven't
you a right to say what you plaze; and what am I but a poor boy, earning
his bread. Just the way it is all through the world; some has everything
they want and more besides, and others hasn't a stitch to their backs, or
maybe a pinch of tobacco to put in a pipe.'

This appeal was timed by seeing that Walpole had just lighted a fresh
cigar, whose fragrant fumes were wafted across the speaker's nose.

Firm to his determination to maintain silence, Walpole paid no attention
to the speech, nor uttered a word of any kind; and as a light drizzling
rain had now begun to fall, and obliged him to shelter himself under an
umbrella, he was at length saved from his companion's loquacity. Baffled,
but not beaten, the old fellow began to sing, at first in a low, droning
tone; but growing louder as the fire of patriotism warmed him, he shouted,
to a very wild and somewhat irregular tune, a ballad, of which Walpole
could not but hear the words occasionally, while the tramping of the
fellow's feet on the foot-board kept time to his song:--

''Tis our fun they can't forgive us,
Nor our wit so sharp and keen;
But there's nothing that provokes them
Like our wearin' of the green.
They thought Poverty would bate us,
But we'd sell our last "boneen"
And we'll live on cowld paytatees,
All for wearin' of the green.
Oh, the wearin' of the green--the wearin' of the green!
'Tis the colour best becomes us
Is the wearin' of the green!'

'Here's a cigar for you, old fellow, and stop that infernal chant.'

'There's only five verses more, and I'll sing them for your honour before I
light the baccy.'

'If you do, then, you shall never light baccy of mine. Can't you see that
your confounded song is driving me mad?'

'Faix, ye're the first I ever see disliked music,' muttered he, in a tone
almost compassionate.

And now as Walpole raised the collar of his coat to defend his ears, and
prepared, as well as he might, to resist the weather, he muttered, 'And
this is the beautiful land of scenery; and this the climate; and this the
amusing and witty peasant we read of. I have half a mind